by B G Denvil
Peg shook her matted white topknot. "No, dear. I don't think even Whistle Hob could do that. But I could fly us into the village so quickly that we wouldn't get wet."
Looking from her ice-tipped fingers to the dark hanging shadows, Rosie nodded with delight. "Brilliant idea”.
Not so large but a good deal warmer, the Juggler and Goat was Little Piddleton’s one and only tavern, and with a whoosh unseen by the locals since everyone was indoors avoiding the rain, Peg and Rosie arrived at the front door and hurried inside. Sitting at a vacant table amongst the other vacant tables, they felt safe from eavesdroppers. Then, over large pewter tankers of strong ale, Rosie and Peg settled to discuss their plans.
“Well,” Peg announced, “The future begins now, my dear,” and she buried her nose in her cup.
"Humph,” said Rosie. "This may mean just a bit of plain investigation with a bit of magic mixed in. I like the sound of that. But where do we start?"
Peg was snuffling into her ale. "Trouble is," she said with a sniff, "I do tend to get my magic back to front these days. You just have to put up with some spells going topsy-turvy. Upside down. Under the eiderdown. And don't forget, my dear, I am quite an old lady now. Yesterday I celebrated, rather privately, my two hundredth and one years. So not too much exercise please."
"Not even a quick whizz around on the broomstick at night?" Rosie asked.
"Oh, goodness gracious me," scoffed Peg. "I'm not interested in anything that old-fashioned. If I wish to exercise, rare as that is, I shall ride one of the bats. I'm very friendly with most of the bats, you know. After all, I live in the attic, and they live in the beams or the broken chimney. So we know each other quite well."
"I can't imagine the bats are going to help us very much in this sort of situation," Rosie said. "What can such a little furry thing do? I don't think even the crows will be able to help. Besides the crows are nesting and tending their eggs. April is baby time. Perhaps the bats are having their babies now too."
Sniffing down her nose, which was long with just a tiny twist on the end, was an easy expression for Peg. “Stuff and beetle-brained hog’s tails,” she said. “Now, let’s get to work. Actually, we have three possible categories of criminal to investigate. There’s the wizard – be he necromancer, small-time magician, or powerful sorcerer. There’s also the human species. Not usually very interesting, but they can do a lot of damage when they try. And not to be forgotten – are the ghosts.”
“Oh bother,” Rosie sighed. “I had forgotten them.”
“I think I shall change to wine,” Peg smiled, which puzzled Rosie since this had nothing to do with what they had been talking about.
“Wine for what?”
“For me to drink, silly.” Peg tapped her fingers on the table top, and immediately the landlord appeared, looking somewhat startled.
“Did you call, mistress?” he asked, voice flustered. “Not quite sure how I got here. I were just doing the washing up.”
“We need two nice big cups of best Burgundy,” Peg grinned. “And no doubt when you get back to your bucket, you’ll discover all the cups and platters clean as a duckling feather.” She looked up at Rosie across the tiny wooden table and its beer stains and ale puddles. “A little lubrication, my dear, is the trick that makes all magic work better. Now – what were we saying?”
“Ghosts,” Rosie reminded her once the landlord had gone. “Now I have to admit, I’ve never seen one. Are you sure we have to consider them?”
“One day maybe I will introduce you to some of mine,” Peg told her. “A couple are quite sweet, but there’s one that can be rather brackish. In the meantime, we should compare notes. Any wizards you don’t trust? Although this was a brutal crime, a witch might be just as capable.”
The tavern was small and dark, but since it was raining, the barman had lit a couple of candles to make it all seem more welcoming. The rain seeped under the door and was creating an elongated stream, urged on by the draught. The main room wasn’t full, but Little Piddleton was a small village, and on a rainy day few people felt the need to rush outside, even those from The Rookery. A few sat with their noses in their cups. Since Rosie and Peg sat in one of the darker corners, they could not be overheard, but several of the men peeped over their tankards to see the rare arrival of females, one old, wizened, liver-spotted, small and quite ravishingly unattractive. The other female, however, was young and extremely pretty. Girl and Granny, the men assumed, as Rosie sipped her wine, and Peg quickly drained her cup.
As Peg waved imperiously for a refill, Rosie said, “That’s actually quite easy. Starting with the wizards – first, there’s my father. Dearest Daddy. He’s only a twenty, he’s awfully sweet, but he likes sitting out with the crows, or if it’s raining, he sits in the chicken shed. He can manage a few things, but not much. As a twenty, he can hardly do up his doublet.”
“Not on my list, then.”
“Number two, little Boris Barnacle. He’s a bit of a tadpole, and has some bodily strength but not much else. He’s a twenty-four. He likes pretending he could be a wrestler when they get invented.”
Peg drained her cup a second time. The barman was watching now so she didn’t have to wave. Recognising a good customer with a usefully eager appetite for booze, he came over at once with the jug.
“Number three, Toby Tuckleberry, is a sixty, and number four, Mandrake Karp, is a seventy-one. Toby’s nice but Mandrake is an arrogant pig. Whereas my number five, Montague – well,” she lowered her voice, “I admit I rather like him. And he’s a seventy-eight.”
Now Peg was draining another cupful. “Tell me about old Emmeline Brimstone. I can’t stand the woman. She’s capable of murderous coshing, I’d wager. She definitely tried to kill me off once. Poison. Probably jealous. Not that I ever talk to her.”
Just a little confused once again, Rosie said, “But I like her. She conjured up chocolate smarties for me, and since chocolate hasn’t been discovered yet, I was quite impressed.”
“Woman’s never given me anything except once she left a melting mess of dark brown poisonous stuff on my pillow, which even my magic couldn’t clean up and I had to use a real cloth to clean it. Took ages, and smelled disgusting.”
“I think,” Rosie was cautious, “that might have been a gift of chocolate.”
“Enough.” Peg slurped her last dregs of wine, held up one hand and stood abruptly with a slight quiver of one knee. “Poison doesn’t count as a gift.”
With a hurried slurp of her own remaining cup of wine, Rosie looked up. “Where are you going?”
“This is getting us nowhere. We need to watch and wait. In the meantime, it’s stopped raining so we ought to be getting home.”
“How do you know it’s stopped raining?” enquired Rosie, staring at the encroaching river beneath the closed door.
“Oh, dear, don’t be silly,” Peg croaked, wrapped her scarf around her neck a little too tightly. “Kindly remember I’m an eighty-five. Indeed, I’m probably an eighty-six by now.”
There seemed little point in arguing, so Rosie slapped down the required coins on the table, nodded to the barman, and followed Peg outside. She had been correct, of course, the rain had stopped. It was chilly for a spring evening, but well wrapped, both women trotted out and headed for the village outskirts and the fork in the road which led to Kettle Lane.
Peg was in the middle of talking when she disappeared. “Oh dear, dear, dear,” she was saying, “the wind is growing str–” and with a shudder, she was gone.
Staring in agitation, Rosie stood and called. She began to wonder what had happened and made a mental list as she always did. “One, she could have been swept off her feet by the wind. Two, she could have decided to fly herself home and forgot to take me with her. Three, she could have been abducted by wicked magicians, such as the one who killed Whistle. Four, the crows? No, surely not the crows. I would have noticed.”
Amidst the bluster and howl of the gale, Peg abruptly reappeared. She was o
bviously disconcerted and apologised as she grabbed her scarf and her cloak collar, pulled her hat over her ears and held onto the feather, while wiping her nose on the back of her other hand.
“What happened?”
“Dear, oh dear,” Peg sniffed. “That was a mess. The wind, you know. Most uncomfortable. So I decided no one was about to see us, and I’d fly us both home.”
“So what happened?”
“My fingers got mixed up,” Peg confessed. “A touch of arthritis, you see. I ended up in Mongolia. The Gobi Desert. I don’t recommend it, dear. Not a nice place at all at this time in history. Strange animals and things with lumps on their backs, and people playing with eagles. Most unpleasant. And deserts are supposed to be hot, you know. At least, that’s what I read in Ye Olde Lonely Planet. But the Gobi was freezing. Haunted too.”
“I thought you liked ghosts?”
“Only when they speak English and don’t stare from the shadows.”
Trudging the last few steps home, neither spoke. Nor did either attempt to fly back home. One mistake was enough. Clutching cloaks and hats, they stumbled over wet cobbles and finally arrived within sight of the old cottage, and were met, as usual, by the chattering and squawking of the crows. Some were comparing eggs and squabbling over who had the prettiest.
But then Peg turned to ask Rosie whether she wished to walk in the front door, or fly straight up to Peg’s bedchamber window, when the next inconvenient loss became obvious.
For now, it was Rosie who had disappeared.
Chapter Four
Scrabbling with fingers and thumbs, Peg sailed through the kitchen window of The Rookery and stared belligerently at Alice. “Quick, quick,” she demanded. “What’s the spell for getting someone back without knowing where they are? I’ve forgotten.”
“I have no idea. You’re supposed to be the eighty-five.” Alice tried to look haughty. Then she got the point. “Where’s my Rosie?”
“Disappeared,” said Peg, both thumbs in a tangle.
Alice rushed immediately to the kitchen bell and rang it over so many times she gave herself a headache. “My little girl,” she shrieked. “Come find my Rosie.”
Jumbling and flapping, the entire Rookery flew, ran, slid the balustrade, jumped and generally pushed downstairs, cloaks tangled together and everyone shouting at the same time.
“Our little Rosie?” yelled Harry Flash. “Who took her?”
Emmeline appeared through the window. “My favourite little fifty,” she wailed. “How did she disappear?”
“And where did she go?” Marmaduke demanded.
Peg, despite the humped shoulders and crooked back, hopped onto the kitchen table and gazed down at the entire collection of The Rookery inhabitants. “You lot just listen to me,” she waved a carving knife discovered on the table. “She may not have the strongest magic amongst us, but she’s the nicest. So get moving. We need to find her now.”
“You lost her?” Marmaduke frowned.
“Just be careful,” Peg glared. “I’m stronger than you, twiddle-top. Rosie was with me when she just upped and blinked out.” She refrained from admitting her own brief visit to the Gobi Desert. “And we have a murderer in our midst. We need to find Rosie and double quick, before she’s the second sacrifice.”
“Whistle Hobb was no sacrifice,” muttered Percy, the only wizard remaining of the Swamp family. “Rotten old show-off, he was. I reckon someone just got fed-up with his show-off clothes and show-off habits.”
Toby looked up. “So you did it? Was that a confession?”
“Now, now, gentlemen,” Alice insisted. “It’s Rosie we’re looking for. I warn you all – no Rosie – no Rookery. I shall close it down.”
Only a moment’s silence followed before everyone spoke again. Maggs sat on the floor in one corner and fumbled into her collar, trying to trace any disappearance over the past five hours. Two of the witches galloped into the back garden to find sufficient peace and air for their spells to work.
Dandy Duckett crawled under the kitchen table and began to count. “One, two, three, four, someone’s knocking on the door. Five, six, seven, eight, it’s already getting late. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve—”
Everybody had their own individual systems.
Leaning almost casually against the door jam, Marmaduke was muttering to himself, and at his feet, crouched and muttering a little louder, Butterfield tapped her fingers on her knees.
Marching up and down Alice was quietly sniffing as the push and shove of others still raced up and down the stairs, until finally Cabbage the owl, who nested in the thatch during the day, poked her head in the back window, wondering what was going on. Peg noticed her at once.
“Cabbage, dear, sorry about the horrid noise. Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. Have you seen Rosie?”
“Quite often,” said the owl, turning her head in something resembling a complete circle. “Why? Has she changed?”
“Of course not,” Peg said, somewhat annoyed. “But she’s disappeared.” And then she thought of something else. “Last night, Cabbage, you were up and about, I’m sure. What happened at Whistle Hobb’s window? Did anyone fly in? Did you hear anything strange?”
“Toowit,” Cabbage decided. “Saw nothing. Heard plenty.”
Peg smiled, and waited, then objected, “Don’t just sit there. Tell me what you heard.”
“You woke me from a deep sleep,” Cabbage pointed out. “Most insensitive. But I shall answer you briefly. I heard a lot of noise. Does that explain enough?”
Peg heaved a sigh. “No, Cabbage. I need details.”
“I heard a small black rat under a bush,” the owl remembered, scratching beneath one wing. “I swooped down to catch it, but a little stray cat dashed out and got it before I did. I heard the kitten meow. That’s what they do, you know. I considered swooping down and taking the kitten too, and would have had two meals in one swoop. But I couldn’t be bothered. Then I heard thunder. I was pleased. I quite like the rain. Most refreshing.”
Managing to hold off the temptation to scream, Peg said softly, “Not all that, Cabbage, dear. I only need to know what you heard coming from Whistle’s room.”
“Absolutely nothing, of course, as usual,” said the owl, and with a bob of irritation, she flew back up to her bed in the thatch.
“Oh, piffle and swish,” Peg muttered, stamping one pointed boot on top of the kitchen table, “I call this a wonky-witted pile of pink pendulums. Nothing makes any sense.”
And then there was suddenly a very non-magical knock, imperious and demanding, on the front door. “Oh, bother, now what?” demanded Alice, and stalked off to answer.
The man waiting there was unmistakably human. “I believe I’ve met you once before, madam,” he said, grey eyes penetrating. “I am Dickon Wald, the assistant sheriff for Wiltshire. And I was just passing, you see, when I saw this young lady and wondered if she needed help. I asked her. But she simply smiled and told me she couldn’t remember what she needed so couldn’t ask. But I can’t believe she should stay where she is.”
Alice looked past him and squeaked.
On the wide doorstep lay Rosie, flat on her back with both hands crossed over her chest as though in holy resignation, her eyes wide and bright while gazing up past the sheriff at the passing clouds. “Oh my goodness, Rosie, darling,” Alice squealed and pushing the young man out of her path, she knelt by her daughter and took one of her hands. “My dearest beloved,” she said, using words she had never before used to her daughter since Rosie turned three. “Tell me, beloved, are you feeling alright? And where the blazes did you go?”
Peg stared. This was definitely an exaggeration, since usually Alice called her daughter a useless and lazy little brat.
Alice then abruptly realised something else, for Rosie no longer wore the clothes she had worn that morning. Indeed, she now wore clothes she had never owned.
Everyone stared. From the doorstep, Rosie smiled back. She wore a high waisted gown of heavy damask i
n purples and blues, with a deep green silk shift beneath. Her hair had been styled into elaborate long curls with a plethora of ruby and pearl pins, which all seemed authentic, and her feet were clasped into tiny green leather booties over fine black silk stockings.
Such clothes were worn by royalty and the very rich, but they were not worn by Alice’s daughter, who spent most of her life sweeping floors, making beds, wiping up messes and scrubbing tables. Nor was this a costume any sensible witch bothered to climb into, since they were neither young nor pretty, nor did they often go out to the city. Country maidens wore rubbish. Cheaper and easier and didn’t need washing too often.
But when Marmaduke marched outside to see what was going on, he seemed entirely overcome and stood for some minutes with his mouth open. The sheriff’s assistant, meanwhile, marched indoors and looked around with interest. “There’s been another problem, I’m afraid,” he said, not looking in the least afraid of anything. “Several of your neighbours have complained about a recent smell. Decay, death and debauchery, I’ve been told. So I shall have to investigate.”
Peg was already outside, bending over Rosie. “What were you doing?” she demanded. “And where on earth did you get those clothes?”
“Hello, lady,” smiled Rosie. “You have a funny nose. Clothes? Don’t you like them? I think somebody gave them to me.”
“Can you stand up?” Marmaduke peered down, and snapped his mouth shut.
“Why should I?” asked Rosie. “I’m quite comfy down here. Have I been here long?”
“Not on the doorstep,” said Peg with a twitch of her insulted nose.
Having pushed inside after the unexpected and unwanted human, Alice clenched her hands. “Master Sheriff,” she said with an extremely false smile, “this house belongs to me, and I care for twenty aged and infirm poor dears, who have neither the coin nor the ability to look after themselves. You have no right to march in here and disturb them.”
