Slow Poison

by Helen Slavin

  “No. We won’t be moving any of that. Those bottles are not ours and neither are the kegs. They are the property of another brewery and nothing to do with Drawbridge. We won’t touch them.”

  Michael rolled his sleeve down and then licking his finger rubbed at the cider stain on his trouser, making it worse. There was a waft of sickly, stale cider.

  “You will take them away.” The voice was cold and hard and sharp. Once more Charlie thought she could see thorns waving in the breeze at the edges of the stable yard but she didn’t move her gaze.

  “We will not. They are not our property. There has been a mix-up. We will take our property and we will leave.” Charlie was pleased that all her temper was funnelling into the timbre of her voice.

  “You will take them away.” The thinnish, tallish black clad woman’s voice sank a little lower, her gaze unblinking. Charlie unblinked back. Those eyes stared out from the glasses and Charlie had a not very pleasant glimpse of the veins that crackled around the eyeballs. Ugh. It was like a map in there, the red veins like roads or paths. As she stared harder the woman blinked.

  “Penny for them?” the woman’s voice was unpleasant. Charlie had a sensation as if an unwelcome dog had licked her.

  “Who are you?” she asked. The thinnish woman stared at her, very hard, as if this was not the answer she required. Charlie pushed onwards. “Does Winn know you’re here?” Charlie realised she could not keep the threat out of her voice. The googly eyes wobbled just slightly and Charlie’s own gaze held them, rigid.

  “I’m the new tenant.” The woman seemed to have to squeeze out the information. Charlie doubted it for a second and then recalled a passing comment from Emz about Winn letting the house.

  “Well… it was delightful to make your acquaintance.” Michael was fawning his way back along the van, still bowing very slightly and now, it seemed, offering his hand. The thinnish woman offered her thin, white claw in an elegant gesture.

  “Charmed,” she smiled, and Charlie let her gaze fall, turned to close up the van with a heavy bang. The sound seemed to wake Michael out of his charm offensive.

  “I’m driving,” Michael insisted and getting inside he gunned the engine so hard that Charlie had to jump in and had no further time to quiz Winn’s horrid tenant.

  * * *

  It was not funny when he pranged the van on the fence post at the end of the drive at Hartfield. They both got out to examine the damage; the front wing was crimped slightly at the bumper.

  “The paint’s scrawked. That’s all.” Charlie played it down. “It’s cosmetic… look.” She pulled at the mangled bumper and pushed it back into its rightful place. “Not a problem.”

  “You should drive.” Michael raised his hands in surrender. “Seriously, I don’t know what I was thinking.” He looked a bit green.

  “You feeling alright?”

  “Bit sick.” He was definitely a lovely shade of celadon, but Charlie was cruel.

  “Nope. Back on the horse.” She pushed him into the driving seat. He wound down the window and took a deep breath.

  Back at the brewery Charlie made her rounds of the brewhouse but the small tweaks and tasks could not distract her from the memory of the map of veins in the woman’s eyes. At the foot of the office stairs she took a moment, closed her eyes to concentrate on the mental image. It was pushed out of her head by the sound of raised voices above. Charlie took the steps two at a time.

  Mr Hillman, father of the bride, was berating Michael. Mr Hillman was red-faced with little flecks of spittle spuming at the corner of his mouth.

  “Well I don’t know Mr Chance, you brewed the beer, you must be able to find out how it was contaminated or… I don’t know… tampered with.”

  Michael tried to cut in to the diatribe.

  “Mr Hillman that’s my point. All our barrels are full. Untouched. No one drank any of the Drawbridge wedding beer.”

  Mr Hillman was not listening.

  “…and if you think I won’t be putting out the word of mouth about this, this, debacle, well, then you are a deluded and sorry individual.” Mr Hillman’s finger was pointing now, quite as jabby and dangerous as a spear. Michael stood his ground, although the blush rising up his neck gave away his true feelings.

  “Deluded? No… I don’t think you heard me Mr Hillman… no one drank any of our beer, all our kegs are still full and untouched. I have no idea what beer you did drink.”

  Mr Hillman’s redness gave off a heat and Charlie could see the veins in his eyeballs like thin red wires of anger. She was reminded of the veins in the screechy woman’s eyes. Mr Hillman’s eyes had an odd look, grey, tinny.

  “Cider. We drank your cider. I am going to my solicitor today to find out what further action can be taken against your company.”

  “None.” Charlie’s voice cut like a blade across the conversation. Mr Hillman was silenced, his head turning to look at her, his finger still threatening Michael started to waver a little and he looked more uncertain of his territory. “Whatever happened it wasn’t our beer. I’m sorry Mr Hillman but…”

  “No. No, I don’t understand. It was bad… the beer… our guests...” his voice halted, and he began to cry. “It was terrible. So terrible.”

  Charlie was swift to move a chair under him as his legs gave way, his head falling into his hands. He looked as if he might faint. Charlie darted to her desk and poured a shot of Blackberry Ferment.

  “Oh, no, no I couldn’t.” Mr Hillman looked at the small shot glass.

  “For medicinal purposes,” Charlie suggested. Mr Hillman breathed out and took the glass. He sipped at the alcohol and looked up at Charlie before knocking it back and leaning back into the chair with a sigh. Mr Hillman looked pink and deflated suddenly; sweat was breaking out on his forehead and he looked very tired. He ran a shaking hand through his hair as he gave a heavy sigh.

  “Oh. Oh my. Oh goodness me… I,” he looked tearful and a little bewildered. Michael was conciliatory.

  “I am sorry, Mr Hillman. I don’t know what happened yesterday, perhaps the caterers brought the other alcohol, the cider and champagne?”

  Mr Hillman looked flushed.

  “Oh. I do apologise, Mr Chance.” His voice was breathy and faint. “I don’t know what on earth has come over me.”

  Michael offered him a glass of water to chase the Ferment. He sipped at it, the colour coming back into his face, his eyes brightening.

  “Never again,” he said, tearfully. “I’d never go through that again.”

  He wiped at his eyes and it was some time later before he was recovered enough to let Michael run him home.

  17

  Witch Wednesday

  The idea of Lella’s ‘Witch Wednesday’ had been to promote chic Halloween fun and the consumption of cakes but the Historical Society group that had arrived were not into fun or cakes or fancy dress. Dressed in a scruffy selection of jeans, hiking trousers, and sweatshirts, they were currently engaged in a discussion of Cromwell and the siege of Woodcastle Castle and the role played by Lady Antonia Hartfield in said siege.

  “Lady Antonia faced down Cromwell himself. I’ve been in the archive… I’ve read the documentation,” one stern-faced woman insisted, the palm of her hand coming down on the white cloth draped table with a certainty that rattled every piece of crockery.

  “Documentation? A poxy little pamphlet written ten years after the event,” one of her colleagues argued. There were other grumbling noises which were difficult to interpret. Anna wasn’t sure if the other women were agreeing, disagreeing or hedging their bets.

  “By a witness.” The stern-faced lady lifted her hand once again, once again brought it down with a chinkle of trembling china.

  “A witness? Piffle.” Again, there were the rumblings and grunts from the rest of the group. “And what was Cromwell doing in Woodcastle? Hmm?”

  The grumblings and rumblings grew more intense, but the stern-faced woman simply smiled and presented her case.


  “His horse threw a shoe and he was forced to call in at the smithy.”

  This crowd of ladies were not interested in the Halloween and witch themed cakes and dainties on offer, nor in trying on the velvet cloaks and pointed hats that Lella had provided. It was an odd scene, Anna thought, all the stern ladies intent upon their history surrounded by, and ignoring, the trappings of witchcraft.

  Anna was feeling uneasy. She had never paid much attention to witches’ hats and werewolf masks on previous Halloweens other than to be mildly annoyed by the fuss created. Today, the pointed hats that Lella had provided were screaming out at her; she thought them trite and stupid and they made her feel uneasy. Twice she had come into the dining room with a stand of sandwiches and felt the hats were a message of some kind, like pointy black pennants. They seemed to lurk behind the guests as if they were distant peaked hills in a magical landscape that the women had no idea they were sitting in.

  It grew worse as the afternoon moved on and the Historical Society left, determined on moving their squabble to the actual Castle grounds, and were replaced by the local book club.

  These women were more Halloween minded and had come dressed; most wore black dresses and striped tights, and several had bought besoms from the local hardware shop. As their event progressed they passed Lella’s elegant black hats around their circle and participants could only speak if they were wearing one of the pointed hats.

  “Oooh, these are beautifully made,” one lady admired the workmanship and Lella handed her a card from her milliner friend.

  “Hats by Hollie, ladies. I’ve got to have one. That one I think.” She pointed to one with a tall slender crown. “Or maybe that one actually.” She picked off another with a more flattened crown and a larger curved brim which she began to model. “I can’t go into her shop with my credit card.” Lella sold hard but was charming. “Oh, that looks fab on you,” she pointed to the last hat, the one with the widest brim and a twisting point. “Did I tell you she did trilbies for my brother and Dad for a Sinatra stag do?” As Lella posed and passed around more hats even the most reluctant head was eventually adorned. “And she did these amazing fascinators for me and my girlfriends for Ascot this year.” She pulled out her tablet, “I’ve got pics somewhere.” With a couple of swipes the hat pictures were revealed, racked up and ready. Everyone began to crowd round the tablet and little cooing noises filled the room as Lella held court, giving directions to the chi-chi hat boutique. Several ladies were planning visits as there were a lot of weddings in the offing and with that turn in the conversation Lella began handing out wedding brochures too. Anna liked to watch Lella in action sometimes, it was as though she switched on a different self, a twinkling fairy with the skill of offering you a good bargain.

  But the hats loomed, worse still, in their progress around the heads of the group, moving and shifting each time Anna glanced up. It gave them animus, and, what seemed very significant to Anna on this particular Wednesday, there were three of them.

  Anna had an hour for her break and, to get away from the hats as much as anything, she took a walk up Dark Gate Street. At the corner she was pleased to see Seren putting out the street sign that declared her new shop was ‘Now Open’.

  “Hey.” Seren hugged her. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine. Good. You look busy.” Anna turned to distract herself with the shopfront. The display was stunning, three mannequins, elegant in linen and wood and displaying three of the most beautiful red ball gowns that Anna had ever seen.

  “Wow.” It was the only word she could find; she was choked with emotion. She looked back at Seren and was pleased to see how bright and happy she looked. Her face lit up at Anna’s reaction.

  “Come in for a minute.” It was not a question, it was a kind command and Seren’s hand tugged lightly at Anna’s sleeve.

  Inside, the main body of the shop had plain wood floors and a gilded velvet junk shop sofa for ‘clients’, as Seren called them, to sit upon. At the back was the work room, the bones of it showing clearly, machines and fabrics making an appealing jumble of craftsmanship and skill. There was a single rack beside the stairs that led up to the floor above. This rack held a collection of dresses. Silk. Satin. Pearls. Silver. Ruffles. Elegant. Frivolous. Chic.

  “You’ve been busy.”

  “I certainly have. Villette sent a whole van of my things from home but it’s still been mad.” Seren laughed, “I love it. I can’t seem to sew enough.”

  Anna felt the shop held a warmth and a cool pleasing scent of fabrics.

  “Time for some tea?” Seren asked moving towards the small sink at the side of the workroom. Anna sat on the chaise.

  “I have. What about you?”

  “I think I can squeeze you into my schedule.” Seren laughed as she took two mugs and some teabags from a small cupboard.

  “No champagne then for your opening day?” Anna asked. Seren shook her head.

  “I wish. I’ve been so busy this week it doesn’t feel like an opening.” She laughed again and raised her eyes to the sky. “Although after yesterday at the wedding… Trust me, champagne cocktails for breakfast are a no-go.”

  Seren offered Anna a biscuit, one of the ones from the local baker’s pop up market stall, Anna was pleased to note.

  “I’ll remember that advice.” Anna chinked her tea mug to Seren’s.

  “I just have my fingers crossed I stay busy.” Seren looked a little uncertain for the first time and Anna rushed to reassure her.

  “Well, if Cinderella is stuck she knows where to come,” Anna joked. Seren pointed to the window.

  “That’s what inspired the window. Lella mentioned the idea of a Crimson Ball the other day and I just… went mad!”

  The dresses were three differing shades of red, a rich deep velvet, a lighter crimson lace, and the final one, almost black blood red.

  “I have so much to thank you for,” Seren began tearing up a little. “So much.” She reached for Anna’s hand. “You and your sisters, you’re like my fairy godmothers.”

  And for the first time in a while Anna laughed.

  Taking her leave of Seren, she wandered back towards the Castle Inn the long way round and found herself at the foot of Top Lane looking towards the old chapel.

  The ‘SOLD’ sign was still in evidence but so was a large skip, parked in the lane that ran up the side of the chapel. The doors and windows stood open; plaster dust and radio music filtered out into the cool October air with the sound of hammering and rending wood. Anna paused on the opposite side of the road to watch the activity. She thought, briefly, of her own long-gone plans for the place and she wished that whoever had bought the place would treat it kindly. She had a sudden dread that it might be converted into flats. There was a planning notice flapping against the lamp post outside and with a glance to the traffic, she crossed.

  “Renovation not demolition,” the voice was low and serious, “… if you were worried?”

  Anna looked away from the planning notice. Matt Woodhill was covered in grime and plaster dust and was scratching his nose with his wrist, his hands hindered by thick leather work gloves.

  “I was,” she confessed. “Not being converted into flats I see.”

  “Was that what you were hoping for?” he asked.

  “No. Not at all. The opposite actually.”

  He nodded and looked back at the building for a moment, considering.

  “You religious?” he asked.

  “No,” Anna confessed. “I just like the building. Didn’t want to see it spoiled.”

  He nodded agreement and then made a sweeping gesture with his gloved hand.

  “Want to take a look? See what we’re doing?”

  Anna hesitated. She had been with Calum the last time she had been inside the chapel. The memory prickled at her, bringing the desire to remember, to hold him close and not forget, tainted with the deep black well of grief she was struggling not to fall into.

  For a moment she thought it woul
d be a bad idea to enter the chapel, that it might be as dangerous as walking over the ill-fated and newly repaired Knightstone Bridge. Then she saw the witches’ hats in her head, saw Ailith smiling, recalled the warrior’s head rolling onto the rug, and thought it might be a moment for some exorcism.

  She noticed, as they walked up the path, that the grass had been cut around the gravestones.

  Inside, the building was filled with light, yellow and gold and white, and the loftier panes of the stained-glass cast carousels of colour onto the floor. Two young men worked on a scaffold platform chipping at plaster.

  “We’re stripping out the rotten stuff ready to replace with like for like…” Matt Woodhill indicated the bare patches of plaster stripped back to the wooden lath. “It’s a history lesson,” he smiled. There were dust sheets over some of the pews; plaster dust lay everywhere, like icing sugar, Anna thought. She felt light inside. Matt was observing her. She found her smile stretching a little, making her face ache. He nodded and as he did she felt her face relax.

  “Do you approve then?” he asked.

  Anna was troubled momentarily by a torrent of memory and she felt unsteady on her feet. Speech seemed just too much to cope with, so she smiled again, less frantically, and nodded. This was going to be very embarrassing. She was going to faint. Or cry. Maybe both. She took in a shallow little breath. Black butterflies crowded at once. Matt offered his gloved hand.

  “Sorry, but I’ve forgotten which Way you are. Charlie?” he smiled, and Anna found they were shaking hands, the glove rough and textured, his grip strong so that their hands were almost bouncing up and down with the energy of it. The energy spooked the black butterflies and her heart rate steadied itself.

  “I’m Anna,” Anna replied.

  “Anna — at the Castle Inn, right?” he gave a nod and Anna smiled.

  “Thanks for the tour.”

  “Any time.” Matt gave a wave as he turned back to his workbench.