Silenced by a Spell

by Fiona Grace

  “Perfect!” Lacey said. “I’ll go check with Ash and see if he knows how to make Apple Cider Mimosas. They’re a family tradition.”

  She flashed Lucia an easygoing grin and headed off toward the Drawing Room.

  Her forced smile fell as soon as she was out of sight. She hated fibbing, especially to someone who’d only ever been kind to her, but it wasn’t the worst lie she’d ever told. Besides, she quite liked the idea of hosting a Thanksgiving soiree with her English friends, now that she’d thought of it. She was always learning about their traditions, so maybe it would be nice to introduce them to some of her own. Perhaps if she managed to get this case sewn up in time, she’d actually hold a Thanksgiving celebration.

  Chester kept close to Lacey’s legs as she entered the Drawing Room. It was more or less empty, with just a couple of older guests sitting in the big red leather armchairs beside the fireplace sipping tea while they quietly read newspapers.

  Ash the mixologist was behind the big wooden bar, cleaning glasses. He smiled cordially as Lacey approached.

  “Good afternoon,” he said politely, slinging the cloth over his shoulder. “Did you come back for that Diabolical Daiquiri you weren’t able to drink the other night?”

  “I wish,” Lacey replied. “But I think it might be a tad too early in the day for hard liquor.”

  Ash chuckled. “So what can I do for you? Coffee? Tea?”

  “Actually, I have a slightly odd request,” Lacey said, resting her elbows on the polished mahogany. “I’m thinking about organizing a Thanksgiving soiree. I was considering hosting it here and wanted to know whether I could make a special drinks menu for the night.”

  The Thanksgiving cover story had worked so well with Lucia, Lacey figured she may as well keep running with it.

  It was a good call on her part; Ash’s eyes sparked with excitement. He seemed as enthusiastic about cocktails as she was about antiques.

  “Sounds great,” he said with a grin. “I’d love to help. What did you have in mind?”

  “Errr… Apple Cider Mimosas,” Lacey blurted, choosing the first thing that popped into her mind, since her family didn’t actually have a traditional Thanksgiving cocktail. “Do you know how to make them?”

  “Nope,” Ash replied. “But I can learn.” He twiddled the ends of his waxed moustache. “When will it be?”

  “So, Lucia said there might be some quiet time before the people from Utah arrive and after the goths check out.” She lowered her voice. “Not that I have anything against the goths being here, I just don’t think there’d be enough space for all of us, you know? I’m assuming they drink in here.”

  Ash laughed. “Only from noon till night.”

  “Is that so…” Lacey said. “Except for last night, though, right? I distinctly remember them saying they were going to go on the ghost tour the night of my auction. You know, the one on the island with the medieval ruins?”

  Ash just shrugged. “They were here, so I guess they changed their mind about the ghost tour. And good thing, too.” He leaned across the bar and spoke conspiratorially. “One of them was murdered.”

  “I heard,” Lacey whispered back. “I’m surprised they didn’t all check out and flee the second the news broke. I don’t think I’d want to stick around in the town my friend got killed in.”

  Ash opened his mouth to continue gossiping, but instead his eyes went over Lacey’s shoulder and he coughed in his throat.

  Immediately, the hairs on the back of Lacey’s neck stood up. She straightened up, turning slowly to see none other than Eldritch Von Raven himself standing in the doorway.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Lacey gulped. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the elderly couple on the couch flashing wary looks at the willowy man in his silky black suit standing in the doorway, before quickly folding up their papers and swiftly exiting the room. Lacey half wished she could scarper too.

  If their behavior caused Eldritch any level of discomfort, he didn’t show it in his demeanor. Without hesitation, he crossed the Drawing Room to the bar, his black shiny brogue clicking on the floorboards. Chester emitted a low growl as Eldritch halted beside Lacey and rested his pale hands on top of the bar, spreading his long, knobby fingers. His skin, Lacey noted, was exceptionally pale.

  “Whiskey on the rocks,” he said to Ash.

  The mixologist gave him a meek nod and scurried away to make his drink, leaving Lacey and Eldritch alone at the bar together. Eldritch’s gaze slid over to Lacey. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

  A bolt of anxiety went straight through her. She raised her gaze to meet his, and a chill went up her spine.

  “You were expecting me?” she asked with a gulp.

  “Of course,” Eldritch replied. “I tried to warn you about the grimoire, but you didn’t listen. You were greedy and chose to profit from it. Your greed unleashed the grimoire’s curse. A man is dead. Now here you are, like a lost little lamb seeking my guidance.”

  Lacey’s mouth dropped open. Of all the arrogant, rude things to say!

  “Are you suggesting the curse only struck because I didn’t sell it to you?” she exclaimed.

  “I’m more than suggesting it,” Eldritch said, haughtily. “I am outright saying it. Your audacity at trying to profit from the grimoire has angered the spirits.”

  Lacey raised an eyebrow. “So put another way… if I’d sold the grimoire to you on the cheap when you’d offered, a man wouldn’t have been murdered? Do you have any idea how suspicious that makes you sound?”

  It was almost laughable. If Superintendent Turner was here, he’d probably find a way to twist that into a confession and arrest him on the spot.

  “I’ve no need to worry about your suspicions,” he replied haughtily. “I was at the Lodge the night Alaric died and there are plenty of witnesses to vouch for me.” He nodded his head at Ash.

  The mixologist had been watching the encounter out of one eye as he prepared Eldritch’s drink. He passed it across the bar to him.

  “It’s true,” he said, looking slightly meek to be siding with the strange gothic man over his actual acquaintance. “He was here drinking with the others all night.”

  “See,” Eldritch said triumphantly.

  “There’s nothing to be so smug about,” Lacey contested. “A man is dead. Murdered.”

  “Actually, I don’t believe he was murdered,” Eldritch replied. “Murder can only be committed by corporeal beings. It is a physical act one man does unto another. What happened to Alaric was supernatural.”

  “If you say so,” Lacey replied. She was getting annoyed with all this stuff now. All this silly talk.

  “You don’t believe me?” Eldritch said, with an arrogant smirk on his lips. “This isn’t the first time someone’s been harmed by the grimoire. History is littered with examples of prior encounters ending disastrously. Broken bones.”

  Lacey thought about the pawnbroker and his broken foot. No. It was just a coincidence.

  “Well, Alaric got a whole lot more than a broken bone, didn’t he?” she challenged.

  “Quite,” Eldritch replied thinly. “He got a broken neck.”

  Lacey winced.

  “It’s the first life the grimoire has taken, as far as I am aware,” Eldritch added.

  “So whatever ghostly spirit is haunting it, they’re escalating?” Lacey replied.

  Eldritch looked nonplussed as her quip. “You don’t believe in the curse, do you?”

  Lacey shook her head. “No. I don’t. I believe Alaric was killed by a real person. A flesh and blood killer.”

  “How can you be so sure? Who knows what hex your colleague said when she read from the book?”

  Lacey had reached the end of her patience. She’d got what she came here for anyway—Eldritch had an alibi for the night of the murder. He wasn’t her killer.

  But who was?

  Or was the actual question… what was?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

 
With Eldritch Von Raven alibied up, Lacey returned to the store. She found Finnbar at the laptop where she’d left him, only now he was surrounded by scribbled notes.

  “What happened to you?” she asked.

  He startled. “Lacey! I’ve been reading all about the grimoire. It’s fascinating.”

  “And when was the last time you looked away from the computer screen?” she asked.

  He turned his eyes up to her. They were bloodshot. “Now.”

  Clearly he’d taken the task she’d set him very seriously.

  She went around to the counter to join him.

  “What happened with Eldritch?” he asked.

  “Another dead end,” Lacey said with a shake of the head. “But maybe let’s not tell Gina that just yet.”

  “Don’t worry, she’s in the greenhouse singing to the zucchini.”

  “Of course she is,” Lacey replied. “So, what did you find out about the grimoire?”

  She’d already researched the grimoire once in her attempt to value it for the auction, but she knew Finnbar, as a PhD student, was far more adept at research than she.

  “It was tough, but I did manage to find mention of it in a few medieval history journals,” Finnbar began. “These are scholarly articles. Reputable ones. Peer reviewed.”

  “I trust your sources,” Lacey said, giving him the floor.

  “So the book was written in medieval France, as we know,” Finnbar said. “He sounded like he was giving a presentation in a lecture theater. “Its precise actual origins aren’t known, but it’s unanimously attributed to the Ouvrière family. Ouvrière is an occupational surname. It means day laborer. We’re talking dirt poor, odd job workers, right at the bottom of the societal ladder.”

  “Social misfits?” Lacey offered.

  “Right. The sort of people who got scapegoated as witches.”

  “Laborers by day, witches by night,” Lacey said.

  He nodded. “Pretty much. The Ouvrière daughters were all herbalists, purported to be able to treat infertility problems. The grimoire is thought to be a collaborative effort between them. Some theorize it’s essentially just a bunch of aphrodisiac potions, others say it’s a spell book full of prayers to the devil.”

  “I think we know which one the goths believe,” Lacey said. “Seventy thousand pounds is an awful lot to spend on a book of aphrodisiacs. Oysters are much cheaper.”

  Finnbar smiled at her joke. “Anyway, I couldn’t find any actual records of what happened to the Ouvrière family, but the two most commonly held opinions are that they were either all executed during the witch trials, or that they managed to flee France in time. The fact the grimoire turned up here in England seems to suggest the latter, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Lacey nodded as she let the information sink in. No wonder the grimoire had been such a lure to Alaric, Eldritch, and their esoteric entourage. And no wonder she’d felt such a pull to it herself. She’d practically felt the grimoire’s complex history when she’d first held it in her hands. Now she knew why. It had been smuggled across the channel on a rickety old medieval boat by young women fleeing persecution. The thought made Lacey tingle all over. To be poor and persecuted to the point you’re forced to flee your home country was chilling.

  “Did you find out anything about the… curse?” She whispered the final word, just in case Gina had happened to finish singing to her zucchinis and had come up behind her without her knowledge.

  “Nothing concrete,” Finnbar replied. He checked his notes and read from them. “Suspected to contain long-lost secrets of witchcraft. Considered a collaborative effort between several witches. Potentially imbued with their powers.” He peered back at her. “Blah blah blah.”

  “Eldritch said that word of the book had spread around their inner circle quickly,” Lacey said ponderously. “How do you think they passed the message on to one another? How do people in a really niche subgroup even talk about this stuff?”

  Finnbar was a bit of a geek. His interests were pretty niche in Lacey’s opinion. If anyone would know, it would be him.

  “Forums,” Finnbar said. “Chat rooms. There’ll be some obscure little pocket of the internet somewhere where they all congregate.”

  “Any idea where?” Lacey asked. If she could find out which dark corner of the internet the group occupied, maybe she could find some incriminating conversations between them, and broaden her suspect list.

  “There are millions of host sites,” Finnbar said. “For all we know, they could have their own private forum.”

  “Darn,” Lacey said. “I’m guessing a private forum wouldn’t be possible to trace?”

  Finnbar shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. And I’ve already searched for all their names from the auction list. The only hits I got were social media profiles and business profiles. If they’re posting publicly anywhere, they’re using nom de plums.”

  “That’s a shame,” Lacey said. She let out a sigh. “But thanks for all this, Finnbar. It’s really helpful. I can take it from here.”

  She headed into her office and began her own research. She combined different key words from the information Finnbar had accumulated and hit the jackpot with Jourdemayne + curse + grimoire.

  Maybe I should be the PhD student, she thought, clicking the link.

  It was an article, or opinion piece might be a better description, on a rudimentary website entitled Pagan Ponderings. The article was all about the trial of Violet Jourdemayne for witchcraft. Right at the end, Lacey saw the following:

  The key piece of evidence—a spell book supposedly full of incantations to the devil—was never, in fact, found. Scholars have long since debated whether spell books like the one that damned Violet Jourdemayne to her gruesome execution ever really existed, or whether they were merely workbooks, mis-attributed by sexist prosecutors who refused to believe women could be intelligent.

  The article was signed off with: Madeleine Jourdemayne.

  Lacey thought about what Finnbar had said about the goths using nom de plums. The Jourdemayne part of the author’s signature was clearly chosen in homage to her favorite witch. But if Madeleine was her actual first name, what were the chances it was the same Madeleine who’d won the ram’s skull at the auction, the polite goth girl with the purple lips and hair, whom Gina had been so taken with?

  Lacey scrolled down to the comments section. There was a space for visitors to add a comment. She quickly typed.

  Are you the same Madeleine I met the other day at the auction in Wilfordshire? I have some questions about curses. I’d love to talk to you about this fascinating subject.

  She hit send, and the message posted itself at the top of the comments section.

  Suddenly, a voice came from behind her shoulder, making her jump.

  “You DO believe in the curse!” Gina cried.

  She was as shrill as a banshee. Lacey spun in her chair, her heart catapulting into her throat.

  “Jeez! Gina! You scared the living daylights out of me,” Lacey said to her friend, clutching her chest.

  Gina ignored her and pointed at the screen. Lacey’s message about the curse was displayed in stark black and white.

  “You do think I unleashed a curse,” she said in a small voice.

  “No I don’t,” Lacey said firmly. “I’m just using this as a way to break the ice. To lure her in.”

  “Lure in who?” Gina asked, squinting. When she saw the name Madeleine Jourdemayne, she drew back and looked perplexed. “Madeleine? From the auction?”

  “I think so,” Lacey said. She turned back to the screen and scrolled back up the article. “I think she might be the author of this. It’s attributed to Madeleine Jourdemayne. Seems pretty likely it’s her, don’t you think? There can’t be many Violet Jourdemayne fans named Madeleine in existence.”

  “Oh, it’s definitely her,” Gina replied, with a nod. “We spoke at the auction. Jourdemayne is her real, legal surname. She’s a living relative of Violet’s.”

 
; Lacey’s eyebrows shot up her forehead.

  “You’re kidding me,” she said. “That’s kind of crazy. Are you sure?”

  Gina shrugged. “That’s what she told me. But then again, who knows who to trust anymore.”

  She walked away, worrying her hands in front of her as she went, her mind quite clearly consumed with thoughts of curses and evil spirits. And Lacey had to admit that she, too, was starting to lose the ability to shake off her spooky feelings. This whole case was getting to her. If she didn’t solve it soon, she might just lose her mind.

  She needed support, someone to make her feel better. And there was only one person who could soothe Lacey in her times of distress. Tom. She stood up from the computer and left.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Lacey opened the door into Tom’s patisserie, finding the place as busy as usual, packed with happy children munching on spooky-shaped gingerbread cookies. Their happiness seemed jarring with just how on edge she was feeling.

  Chester kept close to her legs as she went to the counter, where Tom’s assistant, Emmanuel, was on duty.

  “Hello, Lacey,” he said when he spotted her. “Tom’s out back.”

  “Thanks,” she said, heading for the kitchen.

  “Oh, Lacey,” Emmanuel said, making her pause in her tracks. “Just for the record, I don’t believe what people are saying. I believe you had nothing to do with that man’s death.”

  He put a hand on his heart and smiled his pearly-toothed smile. He was obviously trying to comfort her, but the reminder that people were whispering behind her back and pointing the finger of blame in her direction was not a welcome one.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled.

  The patisserie’s kitchen was bright and warm, and smelled deliciously of almonds. Lacey sniffed the gorgeous scent as she glanced around for Tom. Chester ran ahead through the metal shelves searching for him, before they discovered him in the middle of creating a large fruit basket out of marzipan.