by Tamara Berry
“The only way this night could get any worse would be if the wind were to pick up and the entire roof blow away,” I mutter. “Either that or if Mr. Worthington’s pig runs away again and he comes back to demand a refund.”
I’m not sure who I’m speaking to at this point, but no response is necessary. Now that the idea of a runaway pig stealing the last of my lunch money has taken hold, it’s difficult to exorcise.
Fears are much harder to get rid of than ghosts that way.
Which is why, despite the pelting rain and the fact that it’s nearing eight o’clock, I bundle myself up in a heavy mackintosh and head toward Mr. Worthington’s farm. I grab my handy fence-fixing bag on the way as well as a few flax flowers I keep perennially growing in my garden. It wasn’t just Mr. Worthington I sent to the evergreen crossroads; I make all my clients plant flax seeds in that location as part of their rituals. It totally freaks them out when they pass by to find fully grown flowers where they placed their seeds only a few days previously. Anyone with knowledge of horticulture would be able to tell that the soil is loose and the roots haven’t yet taken hold, but that’s a risk I’m willing to run.
Besides, it makes people happy. To see living proof of magic, to believe wholeheartedly in the power of something miraculous, is more therapeutic than a lot of so-called medical remedies these days.
The evergreen crossroads aren’t located on an actual road, but almost everyone who lives in the village knows where to find the crisscrossing footpaths that wind through the small forest thicket that borders several local farms. After dark, when the cold settles in and the moon slips behind a cloud, it’s quite eerie out here.
As I expect, I arrive to find evidence that more than one person has been doing some impromptu gardening out here. I like to think that in a few months all those seeds I’ve caused to be sown will provide a beautiful—and fully natural—floral backdrop to anyone wishful of enjoying a picturesque sojourn through the woods. Right now, it mostly looks like an energetic puppy tried to hide a favorite bone.
I choose an area off to one side and set my bags down. Cold, rainy, nighttime gardening isn’t my favorite activity, so I make short work of getting the flowers into the soil. The cheerful blue blooms look a little wilted after their brief journey, so I say a quick chant over them just to be sure.
“Keep them strong, will you, Winnie?” I add, since she’s the only real magic I know.
She doesn’t answer. However, a scuttle in the underbrush sounds to my right, so I divert my attention there. I half expect Beast to be sitting in attendance, watching me with her narrow-eyed look of judgment, but the creature moving around the foliage isn’t a cat. It’s a mouse—a fast mouse, which darts between my legs and runs off the other direction with such speed that I lose sight of it almost immediately.
Knowing what I do about Winnie and animals, I peer into the bushes and take a few steps that direction, unable to shake the feeling that it wants me to follow. It’s a feeling that pans out a few feet later when I pick up on a trail of another kind.
“Oh, dear,” I say, recognizing the splatter of blood over the leafy undergrowth in an instant. “This can’t be good.”
Considering my current position as a possible suspect in Sarah Blackthorne’s murder, I’m careful not to touch or displace the blood in any way. I can’t help my footprints or the fact that I just did a little late-night gardening, however. Whether I like it or not, my presence here is now undeniable.
The trail extends some yards away, taking me past the tangle of ferns to a small clearing. As soon as I reach the outer edges, I stop. Not too far from where I’m standing lies a carcass—cracked open and bloodied, devoured as if from the inside out. My first feeling of relief at discovering it’s an animal carcass rather than a human one is quickly replaced by a strong revulsion.
Revulsion and, unfortunately, recognition.
“Regina?” I draw forward with my hand pressed to my nose. The smell isn’t one of decay—the pig hasn’t been dead long enough for that—but the metallic tang of a bloodbath is strong.
Bloodbath, the only word I can think of to describe the scene. Whatever kind of predator killed Mr. Worthington’s pig, it wasn’t a small one. Chunks of the body have been ripped off and scattered all over the ground, the entrails leading off into the underbrush. I recognize a large intestine as the cause of the blood-spattered trail.
“Poor Mr. Worthington!” I cry as I back quickly from the scene. Then, in a more selfish turn of events, “Oh, no. He’s going to want that refund for sure now.”
I hesitate, unsure about the proper authorities to notify for a farm animal’s death. Inspector Piper pops to my mind only to be immediately dismissed. I can already hear the questions on his lips.
Do you ask all your clients to plant flowers in this location, or just the ones with a penchant for porcine company?
Did the mouse talk to you before it led you to the scene?
Would you like to bring in your own counsel or have someone appointed to you by the courts?
No thanks. I like to think I have a healthy respect for the law, but that respect doesn’t extend to making my own life miserable. There are also quite a few farms around these parts I could ask for assistance, but it’s late enough that my visit isn’t likely to be welcomed.
In the end, I cut in the direction of Mr. Worthington’s house. It’s probably too late to be calling on him, too, but the least I can do is notify him of what I found. And apologize in person, though I’m not looking forward to the task in the slightest. Although most of the people who seek my help are in emotional or spiritual distress of some kind, I don’t deal with death directly.
Or, at least, I never used to. Ever since coming to this place, death seems to surround me at every turn. Just ask Inspector Piper.
I’ve developed rather hearty country-walking skills during my time here, so it doesn’t take me long to turn up Mr. Worthington’s drive. I inspect the lines of the fence as I do, searching for the telltale sign of Regina having eaten through the posts and escaped. After Sarah Blackthorne’s death last night, I hadn’t been in the mood to check on the grounds, so I expect to see all kinds of havoc wreaked in my absence.
But there’s nothing. The wire I hung is still firmly in place, all the posts standing erect. Even the gate appears to be fully latched.
“You.” Mr. Worthington bursts through the door with his finger outstretched. I flinch at the look of outrage and accusation in his gaze, but I don’t back down. “How dare you show your face around here. What have you done with my Regina?”
Instead of jumping into my sorry news, I cast an anxious look at that fence. “How did she get out?”
“Your black magic, that’s how. Where did you put her? Where has she gone?”
“You didn’t accidentally leave the gate open?” I ask. “Or on purpose? The binding spell was strong, but physical barriers are also important. Maybe I should have made that part clear.”
“Of course I didn’t leave the gate open,” he says with all the air of one talking down to a child. “She was perfectly happy when I fed her breakfast this morning. I came out at lunchtime to find her missing, and she hasn’t come home all evening. You were supposed to fix this. You promised!”
There’s more anguish than accusation in his voice by this time, causing a flood of guilt to wash through me. Strange as it might seem for a man to be so enamored of what, to me, looked like a tasty side of bacon, Regina was very much his pet.
“Mr. Worthington, I’m afraid I have some bad news. Can I come in?”
He doesn’t want to let me over the threshold, I can tell, but his good manners get me past the door and a cup of tea placed on a tray in front of me. The fortifying brew is welcome after my brisk walk and the horrors of the kill site, though I mostly just clutch the cup between my hands and absorb the warmth.
“What is it?” Mr. Worthington sits perched at the end of his chair, watching me warily. “What did you do?”
“Unpleasant?”
“Your pig. Regina. She’s—” For what might be the first time in my life, I wish I’d gone straight to Inspector Piper with this one. “I’m, uh, afraid she’s dead.”
The blood drains from Mr. Worthington’s face. He leans back in his chair, all of his gaunt angles collapsing in on themselves. Alarmed and still feeling horribly guilty, I crouch next to his chair and start plying him with tea and biscuits, taking his thin hand in mine and giving it a pat.
“She’s in a better place,” I promise. “She’s at rest now. I can feel it.”
At the mention of a world other than the one we inhabit, Mr. Worthington seems to regain some of his color. He bolts upright in his chair and snatches his hand from mine. “She’s dead?” he cries. “You killed her?”
“No, not me. Someone, something . . .” I have no idea how to finish. “A coyote, maybe? A wolf? I don’t know what kind of predators are wandering about Sussex, but some sort of animal got to her. I’d take you there, but it’s awfully gruesome.”
“Get out.” Mr. Worthington’s command is low but strong.
“I’m sorry that the binding spell didn’t work, but in a way, she’ll always be with you now.”
“Out,” he says again, even firmer this time. There’s nothing for it but for me to rise to my feet and heed his command. Grief affects everyone in different ways, and for a man as sensitive as this one, I’m not surprised to find that he’s filled with nothing but loathing for the messenger.
Which is how I find myself standing outside his front door, still with the teacup in my hand. I place it on the doorstep and back carefully away, taking another moment to check the fence while I go. Everything is intact and upright, no sign of escape anywhere.
What I can see, however, is Mr. Worthington twitching the curtains and talking into a telephone handset. Since there’s a good chance he’s currently on the line with Inspector Piper or another member of the village police force, I decide it’s a good time to retreat.
And if I take the long way back, avoiding those crossroads and the gory carcass that lies in wait there?
Hey. I’m only human, after all.
Chapter 4
“The lunch special is bacon pie. The pork chops are decent, too.”
It’s only through supreme force of will that I manage not to gag at this bounty of porcine splendor.
“I’ll just have the soup, please.” Turning to my companion, I add, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll order the same thing. I can’t be held responsible for my actions if anything pork-related wafts past me.”
“With such an offer on the table, how can I refuse?” Nicholas smiles up at our waitress. Catherine is the only waitress in the only pub this village has, so it’s important to stay on her good side. “I’ll have the same. And I’ll pay you five hundred pounds to throw the rest of your special out. When Madame Eleanor has a feeling about something . . .”
Catherine giggles. “I doubt the cook would throw it out for five thousand. You know how he gets about his special recipes. I’ll be right back with your drinks.”
I watch her happily carefree departure with a frown. “Drat. She must have thought you were kidding.”
“That’s because I was kidding. Was it really that bad?”
We’re seated in the deepest, darkest corner of the village pub, the booth so poorly lit that it’s difficult to make out all the features of Nicholas’s face. The lines of him are there, though, familiar and deeply grooved and, in this instance at least, sympathetic. He has to fly out this afternoon to attend to some kind of important business meeting in Spain, which means this date has to serve as both a meal and a good-bye.
Once he leaves, I also intend it to be an opportunity to grill the local residents about Sarah Blackthorne, but that part goes without saying.
“In terms of all the horrible things I’ve seen in my life, no,” I say. “In terms of things I’d like to eat for lunch ever again, yes. What are they going to do with her?”
“You mean, other than serve her at the local pub?” Nicholas takes his napkin from the table and spreads it in his lap. Even in this dingy atmosphere, where the tables are covered with the grease of centuries past and there’s fireplace smoke permanently etched into the walls, he’s one hundred percent refinement. “Take her to the rendering plant, I imagine. Poor Mr. Worthington. He’s had that pig for years—too many, if you ask around. It’s eaten most of every garden within walking distance.”
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say. I don’t need incandescent lighting to tell me I’m being judged. “I fixed the fence. And I checked it as I was leaving his house last night. It’s still intact. There’s no way she escaped on her own.”
“Is this the part where I remind you that pigs can’t fly?”
“No.” I fight the juvenile act of sticking my tongue out at him. The main problem with dating a fancy millionaire is quelling my natural petty urges. “But something feels weird about this whole thing, especially so soon after Sarah’s death. How did the pig get out? What killed her? And why did I find her in the one place where I’ve been sending my clients to plant flax seeds?”
“One might also ask why you’re so obsessed with flax in the first place,” Nicholas not so helpfully adds.
Catherine returns with both our drinks and our food, forestalling my sharp response. By the time I’ve lavishly buttered a roll and started in on a nice vegetable soup, I’m feeling much more conciliatory toward my lunch date.
“Did you know that there are thousands of naturally growing poisonous plants?” I ask by way of conversation. “Several hundred can be found in the United Kingdom alone.”
“Why do I get the feeling you didn’t ask me out for the simple joy of my company?”
“And most of them are just ordinary flowers,” I say, blithely ignoring him. “Flowers, Nicholas—and I’m not just talking poinsettias, which everyone knows you aren’t supposed to taste. Hydrangeas have cyanide in them. If bees make honey from rhododendrons and you eat it, you can throw up for days. And prolonged exposure to daffodils can actually cause headaches and nausea. I love daffodils. They’re one of my favorite flowers.”
“Is that a hint?”
I smother a laugh and lean in, doing my best not to let his charm through my defenses. I also drop my voice, since the last thing I need is the family in the next booth telling everyone they know about Madame Eleanor’s preferred topics of lunch conversation.
“The wonder is that any of us are still alive,” I say. “That number doesn’t include chemical and pharmaceutical poisons, which are also alarmingly prevalent—not to mention ridiculously easy to get. In fact, I think I accidentally bought a dozen cases of elephant tranquilizers online last night. What am I going to do with that many elephant tranquilizers?”
His lips quiver until they reach something approaching a smile. “The real question is why you object more to the quantity you ordered than the fact you made a purchase at all.”
My own lips are tugged in an answering upward direction. I hide the expression by patting my mouth primly with my napkin. “Yes, well, an attractive young woman living alone can never be too safe. Daffodil poisoning takes hours.”
“I shouldn’t find that comforting, but I do.” He shifts, his large, strong hands making their way under the table toward my knees. Since I’m dressed as I usually am, in a flowing, floaty shift dress layered over tights, he doesn’t make direct contact with my skin. Still, there’s reassurance in those hands. There’s warmth. “Eleanor, I know you live in a strange world of your own making, but I promise you that people don’t normally walk around poisoning their neighbors. In fact, most of us—”
I don’t get to discover what most of the populace does because Nicholas cuts himself off with a grimace. I’m understandably alarmed at the sight, however discreet
it might be. This is a man who can face down a waving gun with no more than a blink, a man who meets a fake psychic and thinks, Huh, she seems my type.
In other words, he’s not the sort to ruffle easily.
“Hello, Lewis,” he says, his normally urbane voice strained around the edges. He’s also stiffer than usual as he rises to his feet and extends his hand to greet the man approaching our table. “I wish I could say I’m happy to see you again.”
I stare at my beau, unable to hide the shock from my face. Although I pride myself at having been present at—and the cause of—those delightful occasions where passion drives his normally polite façade away, this hostility is something different, something ominous. Like a total eclipse, it’s impossible not to feel the sudden plunge into darkness.
But the moment passes as quickly as it comes, and I’m forced to wonder if I imagined it.
“That would be inappropriate given the circumstances.” He pauses and nods. “I’m sorry about your loss.”
I stare again, this time at our guest. Although the pig’s death is still forefront on my mind, I can only assume the loss Nicholas refers to is of the human variety. Sarah Blackthorne didn’t have any immediate family—at least, none that I know of—so I’m understandably curious who the newcomer might be.
The man looks almost nothing like her. Sarah had been a robust woman, shaped by her love of a good Sunday roast and long, rambling walks through the countryside. This man isn’t nearly as imposing a physical specimen. He’s stockily built across the shoulders, but his stature is stunted—he’s only about two inches taller than me, and I’m a dab of a woman at five feet three. He’s also a tad on the hirsute side for my tastes. Not only does he sport a shaggy, unkempt head of brown locks, but his facial hair looks as though it could use a good trim. Neck beards are a difficult look for any man to pull off, let alone one wearing the loose, wrinkled suit this one has on.
“Hello,” I say and leave it there. One of the many skills I’ve learned over the course of my career is reticence. Until I know who this man is and his relationship to Nicholas, I’m not committing myself to anything.
