Raoul roared his approval. “That’s spectacular, Florence. They way you’ve managed to construct the cake and have these little people inside. Absolutely wonderful. I feel bad about eating them.”
“I don’t,” Faery Kerry said. She forked a whole jelly man into her mouth, and promptly brought the house down.
“It turns out there was DNA on the scarf.” George had rung me to fill me in on his latest findings. “Three lots in fact. Janice’s, Bertha’s and Murgatroyde’s. I think Bertha must have gone into the tent after Janice that morning, knowing full well Janice would make checks on the set as she always did before the start of filming. Janice won’t have been unduly alarmed to see Bertha there because it was her job, after all.” He paused. “I’m thinking Bertha pulled out the cake knife and Janice panicked and tried to run away. Bertha caught hold of her by the scarf and yanked her back causing the small friction burn on her neck. When Janice fell to the floor, Bertha stabbed her. Just the once.”
“That’s all it took.” I sighed. Sitting in my office, I leaned back on my chair, pondering on some of the unknowns of the case. “Why keep the scarf though? Some kind of trophy?”
“Maybe, we’ll never know, but my guess is that Bertha didn’t realise she had a hold of it, until she left the marquee. My gut feeling is she was manipulated by her mother to attack Janice. Bertha is no natural murderer. She must have panicked and hidden the scarf. Then worried it might be found, handed it over to her mother at some later date.”
“If Murgatroyde had been a little tidier, I wouldn’t have found the scarf,” I said. “If her room had been clean, I’d have simply straightened the bed, hoovered, and left her to it.”
“Silly mistake,” George agreed. “We’d probably have shaken Murgatroyde down at some stage, her animosity to Patty has been rumoured over the years, but with your help we arrived there a little faster.”
I smiled down the phone. “Always glad to be of service, you know that.”
“Is there any chance at all that you and your inn could stay out of trouble from now on?” George asked. “Stop inviting troublesome guests to your inn? Call a truce with The Hay Loft?”
I was suddenly reminded of the predicament I had with Sally McNab-Martin and the rat Crispin Cavendish. At some stage I’d have to tell Millicent and we’d need to approach Sally carefully. I didn’t want to break her heart.
I puffed out my cheeks. “I sincerely doubt it. Trouble is my middle name, apparently.” George snorted and I changed the subject. “How’s your shoulder?”
“It’s fine, thanks to Millicent. I was certain I’d broken a bone somewhere, but the X-ray said not.”
“Our lovely Millicent is pretty talented,” I confirmed. “In fact—” A knock on the door interrupted my line of thought. “Oh, I have to go, George. I’ll speak to you soon, okay?”
“No problem. Take care.” He rang off and I stood to open the door. Marissa was on the other side waiting for me.
“I’ve come to say goodbye,” she said.
“You’re leaving?” I looked down the hall for Silvan. Wasn’t he saying goodbye too?
“I have to get back to London, but I wanted to say thank you for a lovely stay. I’ve adored every minute and I’ve really enjoyed meeting your friends.”
“I’m sorry about all the disruptions,” I said. “I’d like to say it’s not a common occurrence, but I think that would be a lie.”
Marissa laughed and reached out to hug me. She folded me in the lightest of embraces, her form seemed weightless in comparison to mine, her bones so fragile they could have been made of Florence’s sugar glass. She smelled sweet, of vanilla and honey, and her gossamer hair brushed my cheek and tickled me. “Tell Silvan goodbye from me too,” I said, willing myself not to go and find him and give him the satisfaction of knowing I was thinking of him.
“Oh, he’s staying on here for a little while,” Marissa said, and pulled back to smile up into my eyes.
“Is he?” The cheeky oaf. I wasn’t sure whether to feel pleased or irritated. Didn’t he know I had an inn-load of new guests due in the morning?
Marissa twinkled. “Oh, Alf, you two do make me laugh. I told you, he talks about you all the time. And when he’s not talking about you, he thinks about you.”
“Not good thoughts, I’m sure.” I tried to cover my embarrassment, but she pursed her lips and gave me a knowing look.
I shook my head in confusion. “But you and he—”
“Are friends. Good friends.” She shrugged. “Silvan and I are on markedly different journeys. Our hearts do not beat as one.”
I wasn’t sure how to process what she seemed to be intimating and couldn’t think of how to respond. I studied her for further clues that were not forthcoming.
Instead she folded her hands around mine once more, squeezing them. “Until we meet again, dear Alf.”
The inn was a hive of activity all day.
Outside, the marquee was being dismantled and the equipment stowed away. My lawn beneath the temporary flooring had turned an odd light colour, but with Autumn upon us, and with plenty of rain, I knew the grass would soon return to normal.
Inside, Charity was supervising the stripping of beds and cleaning of guest bedrooms and my Wonky Inn Clean-Up Crew were working flat out to make the inn hospitable for all our new guests due the next day. From downstairs, where order had returned to the kitchen, came the scent of heaven. Monsieur Emietter busily simmered vegetable stock for soups, baked a couple of meat pies, roasted a few chickens, and began making cheesecakes to store in the cold room ready for lunch tomorrow.
For my part, I was a little caked out although I was fairly certain that such a feeling wouldn’t last long. Probably until the next time I had a rumbling tummy and a yearning for a cup of tea.
I worked my way through a pile of correspondence, studiously avoiding one particular envelope that had freshly arrived. A fine quality stained parchment envelope. Cursive handwriting. A foreign stamp.
Sabien.
At twilight I patted my round belly slightly ruefully. I’d managed no exercise at all since breakfast and couldn’t fight a sudden urge to go out for a walk before dinner. I threw my cloak on over my robes and trotted down the front steps. The nights were drawing in and there was a dampness in the air that indicated we were in for a drizzly evening.
Bizarrely, I thought I heard the sound of clucking chickens emanating from somewhere to the rear of the inn, but seeing as I knew we didn’t keep chickens that had to be my imagination.
Right?
I walked in Speckled Wood, as I’d done on many an evening before, but tonight there was something magickal in the air. Tiny sparks of energy lit my way as I trod the ancient path into the forest, my feet instinctively knowing where to tread and how to avoid the roots that might have tripped me or the branches that might catch my hair. On I walked, past the clearing until I could hear the merry sounds of the Devonshire Fellows, their fingers tripping lightly on strings or tapping the drum in Napier’s case with a firm, brash confidence.
I rounded the final bend in the marsh that took me to Vance’s pool, and where the last few times I had ducked into the foliage and sunk among the shadows, tonight I had no need. Robert Wait caught my eye and smiled, and Luppitt beckoned me into their circle.
I took a seat on a large boulder at the water’s edge, Vance’s giant form behind me, swaying gently to the music. Mr Hoo had perched on one of Vance’s lower branches and he hoo’d along to the music, every now and then spreading his wings to aid his balance if Vance was a little too adventurous when waving his huge arms around.
Ned had perfected both his dancing and his singing, and now he serenaded a young woman dressed like a milk maid. I’d never seen her before, but she appeared to be totally smitten with Ned and he with her, for he was solicitous and graceful, and courteous in his advances and beautifully bashful when she—playing at being the reluctant wooee—deigned to address him in return.
I observed this f
ascinating game of courtship from where I perched on my rock, and I thrilled for Ned, sure as I could be that he would win his lady love by night’s end.
And there were other ghosts joining the party. Gwyn and Zephaniah, my father, and of course the whole of the Wonky Inn Ghostly Clean-Up Crew.
Florence danced with gay abandon. The Witchflix bosses couldn’t deny the superiority of her baking prowess and had agreed that the judges could make her runner-up of The Great Witchy Cake Off. It aggrieved me that they wouldn’t award her the crown, but at the end of the day, the viewers could judge for themselves. My housekeeper hauled a less than enthusiastic Ross on to the make-shift dance floor, where Zephaniah was already jigging with a 1920s flapper. It turned out Ross was a half-decent break-dancer who could spin on his head, but I didn’t find that out until much later in the evening, when Elizabethan madrigals gave way to some classic old skool eighties and nineties hip-hop.
I clapped my hands, full of joy to see my friends having such a good time, and when a little later Silvan slipped out of the shadows and joined me, I scooted over on my boulder to give him room. Neither of us said a word for a long while, and for once neither of us seemed to feel the need to tease the other.
Eventually, I cast a sideways glance at him.
Did Marissa really think he and I were on the same journey? This hardly seemed possible to me. He and I were so different.
Surely?
Silvan continued to look forward, but his lips curled at the corners. He seemed inordinately pleased about something, but all he said, was, “Oh those green eyes of yours, Alfhild. See how they shine.”
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Vengeful Vampire at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 8
Vampires are a pain in Alf’s neck.
After hosting a diabolical vampire wedding last Halloween, Alf had imagined that Whittle Inn had seen the last of those long-toothed monsters. She’d pointedly barred them from ever setting foot or fang in her part of the English countryside again.
But since then, one thing has continued to bother our favourite wonkiest witch.
Who killed the handsome young vampire, Thaddeus? And why?
Now Alf will have to grit her teeth, because despite her protestations, her undead foes are breathing down her neck and set to make an unwelcome return to her wonky inn. Is anyone safe? How long before another one of their number bites the dust?
Given their previous escapades, Alf and her friends are keen to provide a sharp reality check. But will Sabien and his coven of fiends have the last laugh? Is Alf a match for these bite-young things?
Find out in Vengeful Vampire at Wonky Inn.
A clean and cozy standalone that complements the series as a whole. If you enjoy chaotic and humorous tales of witches, wizards, ghosts, vampires, ents and owls, the Wonky Inn books will cast their spell on you.
The Wonkiest Witch: Wonky Inn Book 1
* * *
Alfhild Daemonne has inherited an inn.
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And a dead body.
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Estranged from her witch mother, and having committed to little in her thirty years, Alf surprises herself when she decides to start a new life.
* * *
She heads deep into the English countryside intent on making a success of the once popular inn. However, discovering the murder throws her a curve ball. Especially when she suspects dark magick.
* * *
Additionally, a less than warm welcome from several locals, persuades her that a variety of folk – of both the mortal and magickal persuasions – have it in for her.
* * *
The dilapidated inn presents a huge challenge for Alf. Uncertain who to trust, she considers calling time on the venture.
* * *
Should she pack her bags and head back to London?
* * *
Don’t be daft.
* * *
Alf’s magickal powers may be as wonky as the inn, but she’s dead set on finding the murderer.
* * *
Once a witch always a witch, and this one is fighting back.
A clean and cozy witch mystery.
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Take the opportunity to immerse yourself in this fantastic new witch mystery series, from the author of the award-winning novel, Crone.
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Grab Book 1 of the Wonky Inn series, The Wonkiest Witch, on Amazon now.
The Wonkiest Witch: Wonky Inn Book 1
The Ghosts of Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 2
Weird Wedding at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 3
Fearful Fortunes and Terrible Tarot: Wonky Inn Book 4
The Mystery of the Marsh Malaise: Wonky Inn Book 5
The Mysterious Mr Wylie: Wonky Inn Book 6
The Great Witchy Cake Off: Wonky Inn Book 7
The Witch Who Killed Christmas: Wonky Inn Christmas Special
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More Wonky Wonderfulness Coming Soon
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Vengeful Vampire at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 8
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Witching in a Winter Wonklyland: Wonky Inn Christmas Special
Midnight Garden: The Extra Ordinary World Novella Series Book 1
Beyond the Veil
Crone
A Concerto for the Dead and Dying
Deadly Encounters: A collection of short stories
Keepers of the Flame: A love story
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Non-Fiction
Losing my best Friend: Thoughtful support for those affected by dog bereavement or pet loss
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Follow Jeannie Wycherley
Find out more at on the website www.jeanniewycherley.co.uk
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twitter.com/Thecushionlady
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Or visit her on Facebook for her fiction www.facebook.com/jeanniewycherley
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eepurl.com/cN3Q6L
More Dark Fantasy from Jeannie Wycherley
* * *
Crone
A twisted tale of murder, magic and salvation.
* * *
Heather Keynes’ teenage son died in a tragic car accident.
Or so she thinks.
* * *
However, deep in the countryside, an ancient evil has awoken … intent on hunting local residents.
* * *
No-one is safe.
* * *
When Heather takes a closer look at a series of coincidental deaths, she is drawn reluctantly into the company of an odd group of elderly Guardians. Who are they, and what is their connection to the Great Oak?
* * *
Why do they believe only Heather can put an end to centuries of horror?
* * *
Most important of all, who is the mysterious old woman in the forest and what is it that feeds her anger?
* * *
When Heather determines the true cause of her son’s death, she is hell-ben
t on vengeance. Determined to halt the march of the Crone once and for all, hatred becomes Heather’s ultimate weapon and furies collide to devastating effect.
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Crone – winner of a Chill with a Book Readers' Award (February 2018) and an Indie B.R.A.G Medallion (November 2017).
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Praise for Crone
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‘A real page turner, hard to put down.’
The Great Witchy Cake Off: Wonky Inn Book 7 Page 18