A New Witch In Town

by Jenny Bankhead

  Lorna could keenly sense that this speech was going in the wrong direction.

  “In fact,” the police chief continued, “the blood was so voluminous that I was slipping and sliding all about at the scene of the crime. It was as though an entire army had been stabbed to death! Truly, I have watched many horror films in my day, but even that chainsaw massacre film pales when compared with the gruesome display of gore that was found here in Tweed Park today.”

  The crowd was silent. Was Bumblethorn truly going to carry on in this fashion, revealing every last gory detail to all those who had cared to turn up?

  “It would have been a much cleaner crime scene had John not been viciously stabbed.”

  “Ooohh,” the crowd cried in horror and disgust.

  “As those who cared for John, we all could have hoped that when he reached such a terrible demise, it might at least be under a lovely tree, where he could look up and see the birds chirping one last time, but no! John was thrown in a ditch, left to rot. And had his body not been discovered in a timely manner, then you can rest assured that his mangled corpse would be rotting this very moment.”

  Lorna was in utter shock that the police chief continued to speak, and no one tried to stop him.

  “The ditch was on the banks of the Slumber, our beloved river, and John’s blood was free to flow into it. Please note that if you have pets that like to drink from the Slumber, I do hope that they enjoy the taste of blood.”

  It was all so macabre that Lorna didn’t know what to do. For sure, she would not be drinking from the river.

  “I must reiterate how fortunate it was that John’s body was discovered before it could float down the Slumber. I mean, can you imagine? Taking a walk across the bridge and seeing the dead, bloated body of your postman swimming by, like Moses floating down the Nile?”

  Lorna looked over at Muriel who appeared so angry that she might scream at any moment. Thank goodness she wasn’t alone in thinking that the police chief’s speech was a tad overwrought.

  “All of this is to say that thanks to the fast response of Tweed-upon-Slumber’s police force—or rather, me—we don’t have to deal with the horrific ramifications of John Larkin’s body not being found. His body has since been transferred to Whitley Hospital, where he is, at this very moment, being subjected to a gruesome autopsy in which the pathologist begins with a small incision through the—”

  “Bill Bumblethorn, you stop that this instant!” Muriel cried, pushing her way through the crowd.

  Bumblethorn looked at Muriel in confusion.

  “Have I said something wrong?” he asked.

  “You’ve said so much that is wrong that I wouldn’t be surprised if no one in this town could eat again!” Muriel retorted.

  “My apologies,” Bumblethorn replied. “I simply thought it was in the best interest of all who knew him—”

  “I suggest,” Muriel cut in, “that we all reconvene at my café in half an hour’s time in order to discuss this issue like civilized people. And for those of you that still have a stomach, complimentary tea and sandwiches will be made available.”

  “Mmm,” the crowd murmured on cue. Obviously, even Bumblethorn’s speech was not enough to turn the stomachs of Tweed-upon-Slumber, for everyone present seemed hell-bent on taking advantage of the free sandwiches.

  “Oh, Betty!” Lorna cried out once the crowd had dispersed. She finally found her friend seated on a bench, holding her cane.

  “Lorna? Is that you?” Betty called back.

  “Were you here for the entire speech?” Lorna asked.

  “I heard the sordid tale, all right. Someone must tell Chief Bumblethorn that brevity is the soul of wit.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. That whole thing about the blood…” Lorna said.

  “And the bit about Moses floating down the Nile. Unbelievable.”

  “Yes, Charlton Heston would not be pleased,” Lorna added. “Should we make our way to the café, then?” she asked.

  “I suppose we must.”

  Lorna and Betty walked back to Muriel’s, and Lorna couldn’t help but marvel what a busy day it had been—touring the town, seeing so many new faces, shopping for chicken, and now death; and it was only 1:30!

  “This is the first time that I’ve seen you with your cane,” Lorna remarked, hoping it did not come out rude.

  “Yes, I must admit that I was a tad shaken after the phone call. I did not trust the sturdiness of my steps. I begged Sir Eats-A-Lot to do his job and lead me as a guide dog should, but he was more interested in eating lunch.”

  “Seems to me like that dog should be fired,” Lorna said.

  “You’d need a crane to get him from the house.”

  Lorna and Betty waited outside the café with the others. Several of the villagers were peering eagerly through the windows, awaiting the arrival of the free food.

  “I can hardly believe it. To think, he delivered my boxes just yesterday,” Lorna said.

  “Death is a remarkable thing. You’re here one minute and then gone the next,” Betty said lightheartedly.

  “Oh my God, I could just cry!” Lorna heard Evie Ellis’ voice say. “I mean, he was just the BEST.”

  “He was an interesting fellow,” a short, plump woman replied. Betty informed Lorna that that was the landlady of the Golden Bough, Jackie Abrahms. The very presence of the owner of the public house made Lorna crave a beer.

  “Tea is served,” Muriel said, opening the doors to the café.

  “Thank heavens, I’m famished,” Bill Bumblethorn said.

  Truly? Lorna asked herself. After all that talk of slipping and sliding to and fro in blood?

  The villagers piled into the café, and Lorna scarcely knew how they were all going to fit. Folks went straight to the snacks set upon the counter. There were so many different kinds of tea sandwiches that one had to wonder if Muriel had somehow planned ahead.

  The list of fillings included, but was not limited to: cheese and tomato, ham and egg, cucumber, salmon, crab salad, pesto chicken, country pâté, bacon, BLT, and “Asian surprise.”

  No one in attendance touched the Asian surprise, except for Evie Ellis.

  “I think there’s meat in here,” she said while eating it. Famous last words. Her stomach was never the same.

  Chapter 7

  The chatter that ensued amongst the villagers was muddled by mouthfuls of food.

  “I loved John so much,” one voice said.

  “He was such a fine postman,” another added.

  “My post was always delivered on time,” a third commented.

  All of this talk fell upon deaf ears when it came to Maurice Crabtree, who ate his sandwiches in silent disdain.

  The atmosphere was alight with well-wishes and fond memories of John Larkin, but Lorna could sense that there was something unspoken amongst the villagers of Tweed-upon-Slumber. Was it her imagination, or were those crocodile tears being shed? She looked to Betty for clarification.

  “From what’s being said, I gather that John Larkin was a much beloved member of the community,” Lorna said through mouthfuls of her BLT.

  “That’s thanks to the free food. You just wait and see,” Betty replied.

  Sure enough, Betty was right on the mark. Once all the sandwiches were consumed, villagers lingered around the counter, waiting for more food. When nothing more arrived, the vibe within Muriel’s Café began to change.

  Looking at the countertop, Lorna was reminded of Elizabeth Larkin who was seated there just that morning. Where might she be? Was she home grieving the fact that her estranged husband was dead? Was she merely grading papers and had better things to do?

  “We’d be lying if we said he was perfect,” Jackie Abrahms said, finally breaking the food coma-induced silence. “He drank far too much ale on Saturdays.”

  Jackie’s husband, Ralph, nudged her in protestation, but Jackie wouldn’t budge. Even though she was short and round, she was a force to be reckoned with. In fact, aside f
rom owning the Golden Bough with Ralph, she also acted as the bouncer.

  With Jackie’s comment, Lorna could see a number of men in the café look down in shame as their wives turned to them accusatorially. Truly, they were all guilty of drinking too much on Saturdays.

  “He never delivered my post!” Maurice finally said loudly, and the other villagers rolled their eyes. Hard to deliver mail when you’re not allowed near the door.

  “For shame. We’re talking about a dead man!” Evie said. She ran crying from the café, still clutching her Asian Surprise sandwich.

  “I never had any trouble with him,” Bill Bumblethorn said in John’s defense. “No warnings; no arrests.”

  Again, silence. Everyone present knew that the chief inspector had never arrested anyone in his life.

  “All right. Everyone calm down,” Muriel said. She stood in the center of the café, pushing people aside so that she could be seen by all. “First of all, I hope that you all enjoyed your complimentary afternoon tea.”

  Many “thank you”s came from the crowd.

  “Secondly, I should like to note that John Larkin was a fellow not free of controversy.”

  “Oh, dear. Here it comes,” Betty said under her breath.

  “I know that many in this village do not wish to believe scandal exists, but it does,” Muriel went on. “The truth about John Larkin—as most of you are aware but do not wish to say—is that he was a gentleman who had it coming.”

  “He never tipped!” Ralph Abrahms cried. “Not once.”

  Again, many of the villagers looked down in shame, for they were guilty of the same crime.

  “Never…” Ralph added again, seemingly on the verge of tears. Lorna had to admit that there was something humorous about the sight. The landlord of the Golden Bough was a rather large man, just as thick horizontally as his wife, but a great deal taller.

  “I, too, have a bone to pick!” Bill Bumblethorn chimed in. Just as he did so, a teapot fell from the wall display, and a squirrel ran across the counter. An actual squirrel.

  “Speak!” the townsfolk cried.

  “I lent John Larkin my copy of Four Weddings and a Funeral, and to this day the VHS has not been returned,” Bumblethorn said, unable to conjure the man-tears that Ralph shed effortlessly.

  “Why didn’t you arrest him?” Benjamin from the supermarket asked, smirking slightly.

  No response.

  “Stop it with the nonsense and face the facts,” Muriel chimed in, annoyed that attention had been stolen from her. “John Larkin was not only a thief, he also had his hand in other dealings…”

  “What kinds of dealings?” a voice asked.

  “Did anyone, whilst receiving their mail—”

  “I never received my post!” Crabtree cried.

  “—spot the Rolodex watch on John Larkin’s wrist?” Muriel asked, pleased with herself.

  The townsfolk shook their heads.

  “I believe it’s called a Rolex,” Betty chimed in, leaning on her cane. “And I did see it. It was lovely.”

  “Yes, the Submariner,” Ralph said, tears still in his eyes.

  “Precisely!” Muriel said. “And did any of you ever think to wonder where our postman might have obtained such an expensive object?”

  The villagers looked to one another again, nodding furiously.

  “I am of the opinion,” Muriel went on, “that John Larkin was engaged in illegal side projects which made him a wealthy man. If you really want to know; I believe that the entire post office was a front and his postman’s uniform was a disguise.”

  Lorna rolled her eyes. Everyone had to admit that that idea was rather farfetched. The Tweed post office wasn’t like an Italian restaurant from Goodfellas.

  “All right, maybe we’re all overthinking this,” Jackie Abrahms said.

  Someone had to be the voice of reason, and Lorna sure as heck wasn’t going to do it—she hardly knew the guy. She was convinced at that point that Betty was the smartest lady in all of Tweed-upon-Slumber, but her friend was still sitting on the sidelines, taking it all in. It would be the woman in a Guinness-stained polo shirt who came forward.

  Jackie stood on a chair so that she might be seen by all.

  “So what do we know so far? John drank too much. He didn’t tip. He was cheating on his wife, and he had expensive items in his possession that would be unaffordable on a postman’s salary. We know he didn’t return movies that were lent to him, and that he was never once arrested. That’s all that we know. The rest is just speculation and isn’t going to do us a bit of good if we want to get to the bottom of who did this. After all,” the landlady added darkly, “there could be a murderer in our midst. John’s killer could be standing in this very café.”

  The residents of Tweed-upon-Slumber eyed one another with suspicion. Even Lorna felt uneasy. Did someone in the café have blood on their hands? It was spooky to think that someone in this idyllic village—one of her neighbors, no less—could be capable of butchering John Larkin in the vicious manner that Bumblethorn described. And using a blunt object? Who could be so cruel. Have the decency to use a knife, even a meat cleaver would have been more humane…

  Lorna was getting ahead of herself.

  Still, something fishy was going on, and the folks of Tweed-upon-Slumber needed to get to the bottom of it. Lorna felt just as compelled as the rest to bring the murderer to justice. In fact, more so. It was the American spirit coursing through her. The murderer must pay for his crime! An eye for an eye! No one would be innocent until proven guilty! Wait, she messed that one up.

  Lorna rifled through her bag in order to pull out a pen and paper. She was going to have to take notes, clarify her thoughts. If she was to get to the bottom of who killed John Larkin, then she’d need to approach it like a detective. She’d be the Sherlock Holmes of Tweed-upon-Slumber, and Betty would be Watson. Lorna would be okay with Betty being Sherlock and herself being Watson, but the dilemma was that Sherlock always wore the better cape.

  Lorna jotted down her notes discreetly, not wanting the villagers to think that the second she moved there she was hell-bent on solving all their problems. No one likes a fixer.

  “I have something to say,” a woman’s voice said, and everyone turned to the entrance of Muriel’s Café to find Elizabeth Larkin—tall, imposing, and schoolmistress-like.

  It was the parting of the Red Sea, just like Betty with her shopping cart that morning. Everyone stepped back and made way for Elizabeth Larkin to take to the stage. Elizabeth showed no signs of having shed a tear that afternoon. She even looked a tad smug, although Lorna was later informed that she always looked that way.

  Immediately, Lorna noted on her pad that Elizabeth Larkin’s blond hair was utterly perfect. Not a strand out of place. That was an alibi in and of itself.

  “And not one of you saved me a sandwich,” Elizabeth said scornfully. Muriel wished that there was just one more Asian Surprise left. Extra moist.

  “We thought you might be at home,” Muriel said, holding her head up high. “Crying, perhaps.”

  “Ha!” Elizabeth spat. “I have nothing to cry about.”

  The whole crowd starting whispering, and Lorna took note.

  “I didn’t kill my husband,” Elizabeth went on, “but I almost wish to shake the hand of the person that did.”

  Lorna jotted down more notes. This was getting good.

  Chapter 8

  “The American did it!” Flo from the supermarket cried, and Lorna looked towards the blue-eye-shadowed woman in shock. “She’s the only thing that has changed in this village since yesterday. Perhaps she moved here to kill John Larkin.” Flo looked about the café for support.

  “Nonsense,” Betty said aloud. “Lorna Merryweather is a fine addition to this community, and I was walking home with her at the time of the murder.”

  “Lorna Merryweather,” Bill Bumblethorn asked. “What were your reasons for coming to Tweed-upon-Slumber?” He crossed his arms in front of his ches
t. Lorna spotted a bit of cheese on his chin.

  “I inherited the cottage from a long-lost family member!” Lorna called out, hiding her pen and paper behind her back. “And since I have you all here, let me take this opportunity to say just how much I love Tweed-upon-Slumber,” Lorna said with a canned smile. “Go Tweed!” She made an awkward cheer.

  As she spoke, she looked around at a sea of angry, suspicious eyes. Oh, drat. Lorna had never been so uncomfortable in her life. She momentarily thought that perhaps she should explain it all: Tallahassee, the cereal job, her dead parents, Cliff Miller—but that would be overkill (pun not intended).

  Lorna could keenly sense the hostility coming her way, and she decided that the only way to deflect it was to be sincere. To be genuine. Earnest. Oh sod it, British people didn’t believe in that crap.

  “I’m personally going to put my efforts into finding this killer before another innocent person gets hurt. Like you,” Lorna said, pointing to Flo. “Or you,” she added, motioning towards Jackie Abrahms. “And even you.”

  “Are you pointing at me, by any chance?” Betty asked.

  “Yes, it was a joke,” Lorna said flatly.

  It seemed like a strange tactic but it worked. The attention was taken off of Lorna and the villagers became anxious about their own lives and wellbeing. Instilling the fear of death in others was something of a low point for Lorna, but it worked.

  “She’s right,” Elizabeth Larkin said, and the attention was turned back towards her. “We’re all in danger. I have reason to believe that my husband was engaged in a number of illegal side projects. He had connections with all kinds of unseemly folks, and there’s every chance that whoever killed him may return to Tweed at any moment.”

  Blood ran cold in the café from then on. Everyone thought of their own safety, and the sunny spring expanses of Tweed-upon-Slumber suddenly seemed wrought with future evils.

  Lightning struck outside, and the rain came crashing down.