by B G Denvil
“Even those lying on your doorstep in clothes that the queen might not be able to afford?”
“The dear queen died a month ago,” Alice said with careful patience. “Or didn’t you know such an important tragedy had occurred? Perhaps you’re only interested in funny smells.”
With reluctance, Rosie hauled herself into a sitting position, her back resting against the open door. “What a strange old place,” she said. “But it looks – just faintly – familiar. How do you do, madam? Do you live here?”
Peg managed to bend over far enough to plop herself down on the doorstep beside Rosie. “Your name, girl?” she insisted. “Come on, tell me.”
The doorstep was not the cleanest in the country. The wide stone slabs were ingrained with moss, damp grit, crawling beetles, and a number of muddy footsteps. Rosie appeared entirely unconcerned. “My name?” she smiled. “I can’t really remember. It’s an interesting question. Now, I wonder, did I ever have a name? Peggy, perhaps? I seem to remember a Peggy.”
“That’s me.”
“Really? How quaint,” Rosie said. “Perhaps we could share.”
“I’ll give you three names,” Peg frowned. “You pick the right one. Ready? Alice. Rosie. Butterfield.” She paused. “Go on, then. Pick one.”
The oddly dressed girl on the doorstep continued to smile, “I really like the name Butterfield,’ she said. “But it’s Alice, isn’t it? I’m quite sure now. My name’s Alice.”
“Oh, I give up.” Peg sniffed, climbed up and walked back indoors. Finding Alice, she sniffed again. “Your idiot girl has been worked over.”
Having discovered the back window in the kitchen, which, although mullioned, gave a wide view of the grounds in The Rookery’s rear, the sheriff’s assistant had gone rigid. He gazed out at the destruction of an old man lying on the grass, seemingly dressed with similar eccentricity to the girl on the front doorstep, but unlike the girl on the front doorstep, this body was quite dead.
“His head,” Dickon said with faint nausea, “has been smashed in with a force akin to a battering ram. Who is that person? What happened to him?”
Having now reappeared, Peg sighed. “We know who he is, poor Whistle. Used to live here. A friend to us all. The clothes were his own choice. He was a little odd, you know. Anyway, not being a good Christian, we had no intention of taking him to the local church for burial. But who did this? We’ve no idea. Somewhat upsetting.”
“You intended burying this poor man in your own back garden?”
Alice pushed in. “Why not?” she demanded with strident insistence. “It’s what he would have liked. But discovering the killer is uppermost. Now, since you’re a sheriff, why don’t you give a suggestion?”
Rosie had finally floated from the doorstep and now stood beside her mother. “Hello,” she said with a vague friendliness. “Who are you? Are you another Butterfield?”
“We shall all be dragged off to Bedlam within the hour,’ muttered Montague on his way up the stairs. “Call me for supper.”
Alice was trying to hug Rosie, but Rosie was trying very hard to extricate herself. Neither took much notice of the human, but Peg managed to interrupt, saying, “You can help if you like, So, who slaughtered Whistle Hobb? He was clever, rather old, could be bossy, but was never mean, and couldn’t have been killed by any of our residents. They’re all far too old.”
Dickon looked down on her since he was roughly double her height. “I have every intention of investigating the matter,” he said, frowning. “You can start by burying the poor old gentleman, if you’re sure he wouldn’t want a Christian ceremony.” He glanced over his shoulder at Rosie, who smiled back. “Perhaps I could attend the burial and say a few words. Ashes to ashes and so forth. I mean, I’m not a priest, but I do know what to say.”
“Wonderful,” Peg glowed, clapping her hands. “Bless you, or whatever it is they say. We might do it tomorrow morning.”
But Dickon shook his head. “Your neighbours have complained of the stench,” he pointed out, with another quick smile over his shoulder at Rosie. “I believe you should do it now. I shall give you a hand.”
Everyone stared back, wondering how they could get out of it. But again, Peg spoke. “Spades,” she said softly, “are stacked in the old shed outside. Our gardener Dipper will help, naturally. And then we can bury this poor soul in peace.”
“I take it,” continued the sheriff’s assistant, “no last rights were spoken. In these shocking cases of illegal killing, there’s no time to call a priest. So he will, sad wretch, be fated to walk forever in purgatory.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” Peg grinned. “I expect he’ll go somewhere entirely different. But he won’t object.”
Looking around, puzzled but seemingly searching for truth, Rosie stared from toes to ceiling and window to door. “I have an idea I’ve been here before,” she said softly. “Do I have a bed?” She caught her mother’s quick nod. “Good,” she said. “Then I shall go and lie down. Call me when it’s time for the visit to court. I believe the king is waiting for me.”
Chapter Five
Being a member of staff and not an honoured resident, Rosie did not live in two large and beautifully decorated rooms. However, as daughter of the owner, her bedchamber was larger than many. Without help, she scrambled from her clothes, flung them to the stool in the corner, but missed, so that most ended on the floor. She then clambered beneath the nice linen sheet, which she had originally ironed herself, the two woolly blankets, and the eiderdown emblazoned with pictures of crows, which she had embroidered herself many years ago. Then Rosie snuggled up, head on pillow, shut her eyes and slept without movement for thirteen hours.
Meanwhile Dickon, Dipper Jaws the gardener, Bert Cackle and Harry Flash gathered outside and dug holes. Having rained, the ground was soft. The spades, however, were mostly cracked due to long disuse. Dipper, it seemed, did not do as much gardening as he was paid for. Yet, the digging continued, and soon a grave-sized hole sat mid-lawn. Between them, they collected the parts of the body still sufficiently connected, and dropped them in the grave.
They then slung all the mud back on top and patted down the end result. It was a bit of a mess, but they assumed it would tidy itself up in time. Lemony stuck a lilac twig at the head and waved a cheerful cheerio.
With dutiful reverence, Dickon managed the words he’d promised. “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,” he said, but had forgotten the rest.
“Have a nice sleep,” Peg added.
“And don’t take a wrong turning and end up in purgatory,” Emmaline recommended. “You wouldn’t like it. Make sure you read the proper sign posts.”
“Oh, gracious no.” Alice advised. “Don’t go getting lost.” And then she thought of something else. “And don’t come back.”
Believing his work done for the day, Dickon marched off, sorry only that he had not been able to say goodbye to the gorgeous girl in satin who evidently liked to lay down on doorsteps.
Life tick-tocked back almost to normal that night. The moon made a brief appearance but then went off behind the clouds in private, the stars glittered and stayed there, not having been given any choice, Cabbage the owl flew off to discover a few mice, the crows nestled down into their big bundled black beds, some with eggs, some with chicks and some comfy just for themselves. The bats flew from the holes under the roof and flapped into the night, and the occupants of The Rookery climbed into their own beds, ready to snore until morning.
When Rosie woke the following dawn, she had a slight headache and hurried downstairs for breakfast. Having wandered into the kitchen, she grabbed one of the empty buckets, said good morning to her mother, and asked if she should go off to the well.
Somewhat surprised when her mother turned in startled amazement, Rosie asked. “What’s the matter? Have I grown a third eye?”
“What did you say first?” Alice demanded.
Now thoroughly perturbed, Rosie muttered, “I only said good morning, Mamma. What’s
wrong with that?”
Peg had been standing, her back to the kitchen, staring out at the garden through the window, contemplating Whistle’s grave. Now she turned in a hurry. “What’s your name?” she asked at once.
Now even more confused and definitely worried, Rosie answered, “Why, Rosie, of course. Have you gone mad?”
“I have always been mad,” Peg replied with dignity. “But I was concerned that you might be going the same way.”
“And who am I?” Alice asked, her voice trembling.
“Who? What? I don’t understand,” Rosie trembled. “You’re my mother, and your name is Alice. What on earth is wrong with you all this morning?” And she put down the bucket, having remembered something. “And there’s a crumpled old heap of rags on my bedroom floor. Where did that come from?”
Everyone stared at everyone else.
The pile of rags on Rosie’s bedchamber floor did not contain the lush extravagance of clothes that Rosie had been wearing the day before. Rags were rags, and these were rags. Most appeared to be torn pieces of old mops, some ripped corners of shift or shirt. Unravelling threads of wool and a ribbon cut into many tiny pieces completed the heap.
“This,” Peg announced, “has changed considerably in the night. Now what I’d like to know is whatever you can remember.”
“So would I.” Rosie shook her head. “I would never have gone collecting this sort of rubbish, so surely someone else had put it there while I was asleep. A bit worrying, I suppose, but nothing urgent.”
Peg regarded her younger friend. “I do believe,” she said, fumbling with her fingers, “Something is missing. You may feel normal, my dear, but a few events have fallen out of the basket. We shall discuss this later.”
“Down at the Juggler and Goat?”
“Well, you certainly remember some things,” Peg nodded. “But today I do believe we should stay in and not drink quite so much.”
Rosie frowned. “I only had an ale and a small Burgundy. It was you who drank half the cellar dry.”
“So, you do remember some of the evening.” Peg smiled without shame. “But there’s something a good deal more important to dredge up.”
The sun had risen in pink pastels, and now a mild warmth was drying off the garden. Having finished breakfast, a rather dreary one of porridge without added milk, bread without butter or marmalade, and mugs of ale without any taste at all since Alice had been far too distracted to produce any decent cooking, nor decent magic either, Peg led Rosie out to the old wooden bench outside, overlooking the newly dug grave.
Peg then explained what, as yet unexplained, had happened yesterday. “I never believe what clocks try to tell me,” Peg finished, “so I don’t know how long you were away. But a long time, that’s for sure. And when you came back, you were dafter than I am.”
But Rosie did not at first remember a single moment, and they both sat in puzzled silence, watching the sun flourish and fly upwards, soon proclaiming midday.
“I suppose,” said Rosie at last, “it might just have been your magic going wrong again?”
Peg was not amused. “I wasn’t doing magic at that moment – not a single flick. And besides, my spells are never quite that ridiculous. Now look at Whistle,” and she pointed to the muddy brown lumps in the grass. “He was undoubtedly killed by a complete stranger. I am perfectly sure the same complete stranger, with considerable magical power, swooped down to take you on a strange journey, then completely wiped it from your memory. Not only do we not have the faintest idea who he is, but why bash poor Whistle, and then take you on a fun trip?”
“Maybe he likes me. He didn’t like Whistle.”
“Then undoubtedly this freak is male,” Peg decided. “But what has your pleasant evening got to do with Whistle’s death?” Then, after a very brief pause, she added, “I shall have to use my own magic, dear, and do what one day in the future they’ll call hypnotism.”
Rosie was dubious. “And what does hipnotodism do? I refuse to stand on my head or bury myself with Whistle or anything else horrible.”
“You just sit there quietly, like the sweet little child you are.” Peg grinned at her. She stood, flapped both arms beyond the confines of her cape, stared up for a moment into the clouds and their golden linings, clicked her fingers on both hands and looked down on Rosie’s questioning expression. The crows were squawking, and one, interested, swept down to sit on Peg’s shoulder. She pushed it away and pointed one finger at Rosie.
Immediately, Rosie closed her eyes.
“Now what,” Peg asked in a dulcet command, “happened to you yesterday evening between leaving the Juggler and Goat and arriving back to sleep in your bedchamber? Please explain. I wish to hear a nice long story.” When complete silence followed, Peg added, “Please start from the beginning, and please speak aloud.” One final thought occurred. “And what did you do with all those lovely ruby and pearl hair pins?”
Flopping a little sideways, Rosie spoke as though chanting a lesson from the bible. “I found myself walking through a forest. Nice green trees and a warm breeze. I stepped on bluebells. Down the slope, there was a stream. A frog looked at me and made a funny noise. Then it splashed back into the water. I walked on. A stag watched me, but no one else was around. So I took off my smock and walked into the stream. It was chilly but felt nice, so I sat down, and the ripples came over my shoulders. The stag came over, but I told it to go away. Then it told me I was pretty, and I said, thank you! The frog was on my knee. It said it was a prince in disguise, and promised to give me pretty new clothes.
“When I climbed out of the water, the stag blew all over me with his nice warm breath until I was dry, and the frog hopped over to a neat folded pile of clothes. I started to put them on, and they were very pretty and special. I thanked the frog and the stag most politely. ‘Now you’re a princess,’ the frog told me. ‘Go and sit on your throne.’ So I did. The clothes were lovely, and as I got dressed, the frog leapt around whistling at me. I walked away into the forest until I saw the nice stone doorstep and recognised it as my throne. So I sat there and felt very comfy.”
Looking up, Peg realised she had an audience. Standing behind the bench, and listening avidly, were Mandrake, Emmeline and Montague, with Harry peeping from behind. On the other side stood Alice and Lemony, whilst staring down from the windows above were every other member of The Rookery. There were a few crows poking their beaks down as well.
Peg clapped her hands, Rosie woke and sat up, and Alice said, “Make her remember. I want to know more.”
“I remember everything now,” Rosie said, smiling into the sunshine. “It was fun. I must have looked so nice with my hair all specially done and those pretty hairpins. But it got all messed up again in the night. And all the clothes have gone.”
“And the pins?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“But,” frowned Mandrake, “you mentioned the frog whistling. I wonder if that means anything.”
“But Whistle never whistled,” Peg murmured.
Rosie shook her now unpinned hair. “And why would Whistle’s ghost give me a nice afternoon out in a place that doesn’t exist?”
It was Kate who found the one remaining hairpin that afternoon. Being the maid, a small drooping female parented by a witch and a wizard many centuries past, but who had unfortunately been born with virtually no magical skills whatsoever, she worked in The Rookery as maid and washer-upper, even though Rosie did most of it anyway. But Kate was making Rosie’s bed, and there, under the pillow, was a bright shining ruby stuck on the end of a silver pin. Sharp, glittery and gorgeous. Kate paused, wondering whether she should steal it, but decided that a household of folk who could read your mind and turn you into a tadpole would not make stealing a safe business after all the mystery, murder and mayhem.
So she trotted off to where Rosie still sat in the garden with Peg and presented it to her. “Under your pillow, mistress.”
Between them Peg and Rosie prodded this unexpect
ed find, dug it into each other with various squeaks and other complaints, pointed it at Whistle’s grave, imbedded it into the grass and finally clutched it while muttering spells. Nothing interesting eventuated from any of the practises, and Peg sighed. “Pretty, my dear, and all yours. Valuable, too, I should think. But it is just an ordinary jewel and offers no unusual insights.”
“Unexpected, though,” decided Rosie. “How many did I have yesterday? Ten? Fifteen? And only this one managed to survive. I feel it has to be special.” She tucked the silver spike through the neck of her smock. “I’ll wait and see if anything happens.”
When Peg trotted into the kitchen for a hot dinner, Rosie ignored her appetite, knowing the dinner would be fairly disgusting anyway, and sat stroking the hat pin stuck into her smock beneath her chin. “I wonder if you could tell me something,” she said aloud. “Tell me – if you have one, your name?”
It had only been one of many possibilities, and she had expected no reply. She was exceedingly startled when a gruff little voice said, “Oswald.”
Jerking around, Rosie quickly saw that she sat alone, and no one else could have supplied that voice, except the ruby pin. So she tingled with excitement and murmured, “And number two, did you come from that forest and that stream where I went yesterday?”
“Of course,” said the voice with an impatient rasp. “What else, for goodness sake. I couldn’t have floated from your chimney, now, could I?”
Magic, Rosie acknowledged, was invariably impatient and fairly bad tempered. She asked, “So number three, why did you stay when all the other pins disappeared?”
“They weren’t real,” said Oswald. “But I’m real, and I came on loan. Loaned, remember! Not a gift.”
“Oh.” Somewhat disappointed, Rosie asked, “And so number four, borrowed from who?”
“Wait and see,” muttered the little gruff voice under her chin. “Now, I’m not here for fun, you know. There’s motive and mystery, and we have to get into it together. Yes, yes, I know, you’re only a fifty, but your friend Peg is an eighty-seven.”
