Stitches and Witches: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery (Vampire Knitting Club Book 2)

by Nancy Warren

  “Oh, he’s very rich, but tight as a tick. Poor Elspeth has always had a struggle to get any money out of him. If she had more gumption I’d suspect her of poisoning him herself.”

  Sylvia said, “Do you think she did? She was sitting across from him, so could easily have slipped poison into his tea. And she’s likely the one who gains the most from his death.”

  Gran said, “They have two children. He was miserly and harsh with them, too. He was a thoroughly unlovable man.”

  Rafe said, “Any idea who his solicitor would be?”

  “Yes. He used the same firm I did. Elliot, Tate and Mills. I know, because it was the colonel who recommended them to me. He might have been a dreadful man, but he was very astute about business.”

  Rafe stretched out his long legs in front of him. “I think I’ll pay an after hours visit to the offices. Have a look at his will and see who benefits most from the man’s death.”

  I felt this line of enquiry was preposterous. Children and wives didn’t kill their husbands and fathers for money. And nice Irish ladies didn’t go for tea with murder on their minds. And yet, of course, they did.

  Sylvia said, “They say poison is a woman’s crime.” She smiled in reminiscence. “I played a woman like that once. In a play. She used rat poison to do away with her husband.” She tilted her head as though accepting a bouquet of flowers. “I was very well reviewed.”

  “Was the woman in your play caught?”

  “Yes. She was hanged for murder.” She sighed and looked wistful. “My final scene brought down the house.”

  Rafe said, “Lucy suggested Colonel Montague might not even have been the intended victim. That waitress was hopeless and kept mixing up orders. She might have brought the poison to the wrong table.”

  Gran nodded. “But that assumes the poison was added to his food or drink in the kitchen. It seems to me that any number of people walking past a table in a busy restaurant could easily slip something into a man’s tea, or his food. I don’t suppose we know what sort of poison it was?”

  It was Rafe who answered. “No. Could have been Cyanide or Strychnine, something that acts quickly. We won’t know that until the post-mortem is completed.”

  Normally, of course, the police wouldn’t share those results with a layperson but Rafe had the most incredible network of friends, informers, and the kind of creatures who can sneak in and out of locked buildings late at night without leaving a trace. I had no doubt we would have the results of the autopsy as soon as they were completed. Possibly before the police themselves.

  “Who else was there?”

  “I wish you’d been there, Gran. You’d have known everyone. There were some tourists, but lots of locals. Let me think. Bessie Yang, the yoga teacher was having tea with a doctor in her forties who attended to Colonel Montague when he became ill. Amanda Silvester.

  “The Irish woman who had tea by herself and acted so strangely when the colonel’s body went by. I’m convinced it was she who put the article in my bag.

  “Miss Watt and Gerald Pettigrew were there, of course.” I was ashamed that I’d only been in the tea shop myself in order to snoop on how the romance was going.

  Gran shook her head. “Her behavior was shocking. She obviously hadn’t warned Mary that she’d be a customer this afternoon. The sisters need to stick together in this terrible time.”

  “Maybe they will, but before the colonel died, there was definitely a fight brewing.”

  “What a shame that Gerald Pettigrew has caused friction between the sisters.” She looked off into the distance. “Though I suppose it was to be expected.”

  “Do you remember him, Gran?”

  “Oh, yes. Back then he was very good-looking and so charming. Neither of the Watt girls were ever much to look at, and I don’t remember either of them having much of a social life. Then Gerald came along.

  “Florence was like a woman transformed for the few months she and Gerald were together. I never found out what happened. Both sisters were very tight-lipped about the whole affair, but I do know that they didn’t speak to each other for years after he left. If one came into the room the other would leave it. But, eventually, they buried the hatchet.”

  “I think the hatchet is back.” I wondered if it would cleave them apart again.

  Sylvia had said that poison was a woman’s weapon and, while it’s one of those old clichés of murder mysteries that I don’t actually believe, I wondered. “Could the poison have been intended for Miss Watt’s boyfriend? If Mary Watt really wanted to get rid of him…” I couldn’t finish the thought. I flapped my hands in front of my mouth as though I could wave the words away. “Don’t listen to me. It’s a crazy idea.”

  “It’s a perfectly valid theory, my dear. They all are at this stage. When we know so little. This murder is a puzzle with very few pieces and far too many blanks. But, if Mary Watt had set out to poison Gerald, I hardly think she would have left the delivery to an incompetent waitress. She’s a very capable woman. If she’d intended him to die, the man would be dead.”

  It was rather a grim analysis of one of her dearest friends, but had a ring of truth to it. Mary Watt was certainly an efficient woman.

  Rafe reminded us that Florence Watt and Gerald Pettigrew had swapped teapots and it was as likely that Florence was the intended victim. At that point my brain gave out. My thoughts were like a piece of my own knitting—a tangle of false starts and inexplicable knots making a shape that bore no resemblance to anything.

  I went on trying to remember who was there. I said, “Oh, the table of ladies. One of them was called Miss Everly. She had three friends with her. They all went to St. Hilda’s College and they were here for the funeral of a mutual friend. One of them was the verger for St. John’s and she let us into the church hall.

  Gran smoothed her skirt. “Sarah Everly?”

  “I don’t think we got her fist name,” I said.

  “It was Sarah,” Rafe said. “I overheard the widow call her Sarah.” Of course, his hearing was particularly acute.

  “My goodness. Sarah Everly was once engaged to the colonel. That would have been in the late 1950s or the early 1960s, I imagine. They were both very young. She’d finished her degree and he was back from military college. Sandhurst, I believe.”

  “What happened?” She’d been introduced as Miss Everly, so presumably if she hadn’t married the colonel, she hadn’t married anyone.

  “He jilted her. For his current wife.”

  I recalled the attractive, blonde woman who had seemed a much more lively woman than the mousy colonel’s wife. “But why?”

  “Because Elspeth had a great deal of money. Oh, yes, it was a marriage based entirely on greed on his side and, poor soul, I believe genuine affection on hers.”

  “And Miss Everly never married?”

  “No. She never did. She was better off without him, of course, but perhaps she didn’t see being jilted as very good fortune.”

  The four women had seemed jolly and almost girlish discussing their old college days over glasses of sherry. “What did she study at school, do you know?”

  “Biochemistry I believe.”

  We all stared at Gran and no one bothered to voice the obvious thought we all shared. A woman who had studied biochemistry would certainly know how to poison a man.

  CHAPTER 8

  G ran had been too preoccupied with all the news of the murder to question me about my progress with magic, but I knew my reprieve wouldn’t last. I fully intended that by the time we met for the vampire knitting club that evening I would have something to report.

  I thought I might as well use my powers, such as they were, for good and see if I could help solve the murder.

  Katie and her boyfriend were the clear front-runners as suspects, given that they’d lied about so much. Had they killed the colonel?

  But why? I couldn’t focus on a spell, but I thought I might give the scrying mirror a try. It seemed to operate simply enough. I cou
ld ask to be shown a location, or what someone was doing, and the mirror would offer up that information. I think witches invented it so they could keep track of each other, before social media came along.

  I tried to empty my mind, which was virtually impossible. I suspected that my abilities as a witch were on a par with Katie’s as a waitress. Not a comforting thought. I tried to put it aside, along with all the others that were crowding into my brain.

  I looked at the mirror. It was so old the surface looked more like pewter than mirror. However, it was a beautiful piece, with a heavy gold frame studded with symbols and jewels that might actually be real. It had never been stolen, which made me believe there was a powerful spell on it.

  Gran had taught me to focus on one question. I recited the brief incantation that opened the magic, rather the way a password might open a computer file, and the surface began to ripple. I was in. Allowing myself a moment to enjoy the euphoria of having completed step one in using the scrying mirror, I asked the question that was obsessing me.

  “Show me Jim and Katie in their flat.” I had no idea what their last name was or where this flat might be located and I was sure there were plenty of Jims and Katies in the world.

  But, it turned out that scrying mirrors had much more powerful magic than computer search engines. I began to see a shape, almost like a very old photograph faded by light and time so that the outlines were only barely visible. As I watched, focusing and repeating the question in my mind, the picture became clearer and sharper. And soon I recognized the very Katie and Jim that I wanted. Katie was in Jim’s arms and she was crying.

  He had his arms wrapped around her and, I could see what Katie could not, helpless bafflement on his face. He patted her back awkwardly. There was no audio, only visual, but I imagined he was saying the kind of pointless platitudes a man says to a crying woman. “There, there. Don’t cry. Everything’s going to be okay.” And so on.

  His words had the same effect that most men’s have on crying women. None at all. She continued to cry and he continued to pat her back awkwardly.

  The flat itself looked nondescript and uninteresting. It was like student digs anywhere. There was an old kitchen with a pile of dishes on the counter that needed washing, and behind that a sitting room with shabby furniture that probably came with the rental. The window was shuttered so I couldn’t see what was outside. In fact, although I could see what they were doing, I had no idea where they were. I watched them for a few more minutes until I began to feel like a voyeur and then the image faded back to mirror.

  Still, I was mildly triumphant. This was the second time I had got the scrying mirror to work. The first time, I believed, was beginner’s luck but this time I’d definitely done it properly.

  I glanced at my watch and saw that I had less than thirty minutes before the vampire knitting club started. I tidied my hair, changed into a fresh pair of jeans and put on one of the sweaters my grandmother had knit me. Then I went downstairs.

  There were normally about ten or twelve vampires who came to the biweekly knitting circle but instinct told me that now there’d been a murder we’d have a larger crowd.

  I had learned a few things about vampires in the time I’d known the knitting group. I appreciated that they used to be terrifying creatures of the night who would pounce on anyone unwitting enough to stray alone down a dark alley at night, particularly sweet young virgins, but times had changed. Of course, there were still rogue vampires who killed for the sport, but most of them found it much easier and more convenient to use blood banks. Certainly the private blood bank run by Doctor Weaver kept the local vamps well supplied. The biggest problem for vampires was not getting their next meal. It was boredom. So, I knew perfectly well, that given the challenge of helping solve a murder, a larger number of our local group than usual would be in my knitting shop this evening.

  I set up twenty chairs in a large ragged circle. It was quiet with only the sound of the chairs scraping on the wooden floor as I arranged them. Nyx sat in the corner of the room keeping a managerial eye on things and licking her paws to pass the time.

  Even without her suddenly widening her eyes and looking past me, I knew I wasn’t alone from the cold prickling on the back of my neck. I turned, and there was Rafe. “I thought you might need help setting up. I should warn you there will be a larger than usual turnout tonight.”

  Then he saw the number of chairs I had laid out. “You worked that out for yourself.”

  He began to neaten the chairs into a more perfect circle while I went into the front and made sure the blinds were fully closed so as to prevent anyone on the outside from seeing lights on in the shop.

  Gran and Sylvia arrived first as they usually did. I was so excited by my adventures with the scrying mirror that I rushed up to my grandmother and told her of my success.

  “That’s wonderful, dear. I was hoping you hadn’t let your training lapse.”

  “No, of course not. I worked with the scrying mirror and I was able to see Jim and Katie in their flat.”

  “That’s very promising. What were they doing?” I wasn’t sure if she was asking me to gauge my magic powers or because she wondered what the two possible murderers had been doing when no one was watching. I suspected the latter.

  “They had their arms around each other and Katie was crying,” I reported.

  Gran said how proud she was of me. “But I do wish we knew more. Whoever murdered the colonel may strike again. In fact, I’ve been thinking, the funeral those women from St. Hilda’s attended, do we know how their friend died?”

  I hadn’t thought to connect the death of an old college friend with that of Colonel Montague, but Rafe had. He said, “I checked. The friend died of natural causes. She was in her eighties and suffered a massive heart attack. With her obesity and her smoking habit I’m surprised she lasted that long.”

  “Well that is a relief. So we’re only looking at one murder, not a serial killer.”

  I could’ve sworn my grandmother sounded disappointed at only having a single murder to solve. But I was tired, perhaps I was imagining things.

  There was a low rap on the front door and I jumped. I’d just finished making sure not a chink of light could show from the street. Who could be knocking on the door? Rafe said, “I’ll get that.”

  “Ignore it. They’ll go away,” I said.

  “I don’t want them to go away. I asked this person to stop by.”

  We all watched him tread slowly toward the front door. In truth, it was no hardship watching Rafe walk. The only other person I’ve ever seen with that walk is Colin Firth. It’s long-limbed. He leads with his hips and swings his shoulders in a very attractive fashion. From the way the other women were watching him, I did not think I was the only person who thought so.

  He peered briefly between the slats of the blinds and then unlocked the door and opened it. In walked a man I had seen him briefly greet outside the tea shop. They’d spoken briefly, and then the man had continued on his way while the rest of us were herded to the church hall.

  Rafe brought him all the way through to the back room and he glanced around with interest. He nodded to all of us in a very courtly way. “Good evening, ladies.”

  Rafe said, “This is a friend of mine. Anthony Billing. Did you find anything?”

  “Oh yes. It was easy enough to follow them.” He had a very pleasant Scottish burr. “After the police officer took the pair to the station, I had a wee snoop.”

  “And what did you find?” My grandmother asked eagerly.

  “Well, dear lady, they are exactly who they say they are. Their names are Katherine Ainsley and James Walker. They met in acting school in Melbourne. After they graduated, neither of them achieved much success. He was in a couple of commercials and has done a lot of community theatre, while she very nearly had a big break being cast in a pilot for a show that sadly was never picked up by a network. I get the feeling they thought they might have better opportunities here.”
/>   “And was he a chef?” I had to ask. I’d eaten his scones and they were certainly tasty.

  “Oh yes, yes, indeed. In fact, it’s my belief he should stick to cooking. I think it’s a more viable career than this acting business.”

  “Could you find any connection at all to Colonel Montague?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. There’s one interesting thing though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “According to her diary, he wants to marry her as soon as they are on a better footing, financially. They’re living hand to mouth, those two.”

  “Could someone have paid them to kill the colonel?” I asked. I was clutching at straws, I knew.

  He appeared to consider my question seriously. “As hired assassins, you mean? Well, I suppose it’s possible. It will depend on the will. And what happens to the colonel’s estate, and whether this pair suddenly come into money.”

  I had no doubt at all that Rafe and his vampire network would keep tabs on Katie and Jim’s bank accounts. Rafe and his friend had done better than I had with my scrying mirror.

  “Do you knit, sir?” My grandmother asked him. “Our little knitting circle meets in a few moments and you’d be most welcome to join us.”

  “Oh thank you very much. But no, I’ve got papers to grade tonight.”

  “I quite understand,” said my grandmother at her most gracious. “We meet every Tuesday and Thursday at ten o’clock at night. You’d always be welcome.”

  He thanked her and then walked back to the front door. I let him out and firmly locked and bolted the door behind him.

  Papers to grade? “Is your friend a professor at one of the colleges?” I asked Rafe in a whisper.

  “Oh, yes. You’d be amazed how many of the dons are undead.”

  CHAPTER 9

  We had so many people at the vampire knitting club that night that I needed more chairs. There were twenty-three of us altogether. We conducted our meeting on the usual lines, beginning with the show and tell, where everyone displayed the project they were currently working on and asked for any advice that was needed. Then, we all settled to work.