by B G Denvil
“Eighty-five.”
“Don’t you start arguing with me,” snapped the pin. “If I say she’s an eighty-seven, then that’s what she is. Me – I’m a ninety-nine. So let’s get started.”
“At what?” Rosie was even more confused than usual.
“Finding out who killed me – I mean, Whistle Hobb,” said the ruby pin in a hurry.
Having to wait for Peg to return from the kitchen, Rosie went for a rare walk alone around the garden. Long pebbled paths ran between clipped hedges and a few bushes of meadow sweet, lilac and briar roses. Surrounding this were the varied trees, each holding its own collection of rookery bundles, with the nesting crows content within. Many of the birds were pleasant companions, but at present considered themselves far too busy to waste time chatting with wingless people. One crow, however, flew down to Rosie’s shoulder and peered over to stare at the magical pin.
“Red,” observed Tubbs, who was extremely black himself.
“Of course. It’s a ruby,” Rosie pointed out.
Tubbs risked a quick peck. “Interesting.”
The pin was still thinking of something rude to say when Peg returned, trotting down the garden path with a wide smile.
“Your news first,” Rosie said, her own smile equally as wide as Peg’s. “Then I’ll tell you mine.”
“My news?” Peg looked at Rosie and the crow on her shoulder, and her smile turned to a frown. “None, I’m afraid. Just that dinner was nicer than usual. We had pasties and buttery leeks. Quite pleasant.”
“Sit down then,” Rosie told her, “and I’ll be able to relate all mine.” She flicked at Tubbs, who flew off. Then Rosie began. “My dear Peg, let me start with number one.”
Chapter Six
Peg was gapping, and her bright black eyes were luminous. “My dear girl,” she said with a vigorous nod, “You will soon double your fifty. This is most interesting and quite amazing. I’ve tottered this somewhat boring country for some years, and no hat pin has ever spoken to me before.”
“And all for me!” Rosie said, breathy with excitement. “Flitting off yesterday, and the ruby hat pin this morning. And I’m just a below average fifty. I always felt a little ashamed of myself, plodding around with a mop and bucket. People looked at me and asked when supper would be ready, or why hadn’t I washed up the spilled wine in the meeting hall or I should go and clean the moss from the front doorstep because it was slippy.”
“You did that yesterday,” Peg said, and regretted it. “No, no, dear. It was all your idea to find whoever killed Whistle – such a sensible kindness. And so the reward is yours. And besides,” Peg added, “whoever told you about just being a fifty?”
“My mother.” Rosie had been ten, the normal age for the test and the following investiture. With a fifty mother and a lowly father who could claim only twenty, Rosie had not expected much, but had hoped and hoped and hoped, and had even asked the great Whistle to help her increase her score.
‘Not something I can do with a little girl,’ he had told her. ‘Lessons afterwards, perhaps, if your mother doesn’t keep you permanently in the kitchen grating the carrots. But there are often surprises. You may have a higher score than you expect.’
Rosie had never been asked to grate a carrot, but she had certainly been partially glued to the kitchen. As an excited little ten-year-old girl, she had hoped and hoped. But her score had been a lowly fifty, as expected.
“How could you have expected more than me, stupid girl?” spat her mother. So no investiture was to follow.
With the sunshine melting away behind the clouds, Peg took Rosie’s elbow, and followed the pebble path back to The Rookery. The birds were busy, swooping and diving while their babies hollered for food, more food and more food. By now most of the well snuggled eggs had hatched, and so each nest held four or five babies, each convinced it was about to starve to death. Mothers, fathers and older siblings answered the call, and all local insects did a quick run. Some of the witches chucked out their unwanted crusts, the occasional edge of burned pastry and a few fishy skins for the crows to find, and Harry Flash studied a whole new idea and invented what appeared to be uncooked frogs’ legs, even though they had never been worn by a single frog. They had popped out of Harry’s upside-down hat.
Rosie and Peg had just arrived at the back door into the kitchen, when a scruffy little fledgling plopped at their feet, having presumably fallen from its nest.
Looking up, dismayed, Rosie waved. “Mistress crow,” she called, “one of the clutch has left home a little early. It certainly can’t fly yet. Who does it belong to?”
The fledgling might not yet be capable of flying, but it was quite skilled at hopping. It was now pecking at Rosie’s toes. A faint but distracted voice tumbled from above. “I have all mine, dear. Four little brats and one egg still to go.”
Another cawed loudly. “I don’t want any more. I have six. Quite enough.”
The third mother crow flapped, zoomed down and regarded the homeless baby. “No, not mine,” she said. “My poor husband Wolfy has a bad wing after trying to catch one of those big mean spiders, and I have to go hunting while he sits on the nest. It’s exhausting. But there’s just one hatchling left to pop out.”
Scooping up the fledgling from the ground, Peg gazed at the irate piece of uncombed fluff in her hand. “You,” she told it, “seem you have dropped out of nowhere. Perhaps I had better adopt you and feed you myself.”
The fledgling hopped up and down, flapped the few scraggy bits of feather it owned and cawed with approval. Rosie nodded vigorously. “I was about to say the same thing,” she said. “Isn’t it sweet.” And with sudden determination the baby hopped from Peg’s hand and onto Rosie’s shoulder. It then proceeded to peck her ear lobe. She refused to admit that this hurt and turned to Peg. “Do you mind?” she asked. “I’d love to keep him.
Peg didn’t mind. “He’s sweet. But I have enough to do.”
Half in and out of the kitchen already, they hurried indoors. Hoping not to be stopped and scalded by her mother, Rosie stuffed the little squirming lump in her apron pocket and ran up the stairs to her own room. Peg, moaning at the stairs, hobbled behind.
“There’s a reason for this,” Peg blurted, sinking down on the bed. “Just as we said a few moments ago. You – my dear – are getting all the attention. Is it possible that you’re being coached?”
“Someone’s trying to make me cleverer than I really am?” Rosie patted the squirming lump in her white linen apron as Peg smiled at the same little lump. It did not exactly look ready to teach anything to anyone.
“Have you seen your father lately?” Peg asked abruptly.
It was a matter of frequent shame. “No.” Rosie shook her head. “He likes to be left alone, you see. Lives a very solitary life, dear Papa.”
“I have a sudden desire to visit him,” said Peg. “Bring Whatsit with you, and we’ll find a few beetles for him. But it’s your father I need to talk with. Alfred Scaramouch, isn’t it? Good.” She raised both hands, fingers ready to click. “Where does this solitary gentleman live, then?”
“I don’t want to call him Whatsit.”
“What?” Peg hiccupped.
“My little baby crow,” said Rosie,
Peg sat back down on the side of the bed. “I have an idea,” she said. “Beatles first, I suppose.”
“My father doesn’t eat beetles.”
Each gazed at the other in confusion. Finally Peg said, “My dear girl, you, me and the baby crow will now visit your father. I think he’s up to something.”
“My lovely sweet father,” Rosie insisted, “would never do anything as disgusting as killing Whistle Hobb. Besides, he’d never manage it.”
“I would never suspect such a thing. Take me to your father. Now,” sighed Peg, “not another word. Let’s fly immediately.”
“I’ve changed my mind about calling my baby Sam,” Rosie murmured to herself. “I think Splodge is better. More suited. He lives in a t
ree house.”
Peg glared. “So your father has changed his name to Splodge and Sam will live in a treehouse?”
“Try the other way around,” said Rosie. “Look, up there, in the great big ash tree.” She pointed towards the tiny window. “Daddykins built his tree house out there ages ago. I was tiny when father set to and built his house. He’s lived there ever since.”
“Now this,” grinned Peg, “is going to be interesting. I’ve lived here since before the Battle of Agincourt, so why did I never know anything about your father?”
“He’s not very sociable,” Rosie apologised.
“But he’ll let us in?”
Rosie hoped so. “If I remind him that I’m his daughter.”
“Very well,” Peg said. “It’s even higher than most of the crows’ nests, so we might as well leave directly through the window. Can you open it? I’m a little tired of my forehead decorated in purple bruises.”
Rosie obligingly reached outwards, pushing the tiny window wide open on both sides. She stuck her head out, although there was barely enough space, and certainly not enough for her shoulders. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure,” Peg said. “Now take my hand.”
Without time for breath or blink, Rosie discovered herself sitting on the wide branch of a tree, its new fresh springtime greenery burgeoning all around and smelling of rebirth. Rosie had never sat so enclosed by growth as previous visits to her father had involved her calling him down. The floor of the house sat next to their shoulders, strongly slatted and balancing on four ash branches. With a hop as good as Splodge’s, Peg landed on the small porched entrance and knocked on the door.
The knocker was a carved wooden owl, and the porch was held by two carved pillars, a dozen different birds seeming to climb the rigid height. Peg was impressed, lifted the somewhat useless letter box flap and called, “Master Scaramouch, I don’t wish to inconvenience you, but we’ve come for a most important visit. I’m Peg Tipple, and here waiting beside me is your dear daughter Rosie.”
To Rosie’s surprise and relief, the door opened immediately.
Chapter Seven
The house looked marvellous, but Alfred Scaramouch did not. His eyes were bloodshot, and he seemed far more exhausted than any wizard had any right to appear.
“Well, well, well.” He rubbed his hands together and smiled through all the wrinkles. “My little girl and her little friend.” His beard, thick, very white, and reaching a little past his waist, was quivering with evident delight. “You are most welcome indeed. Although,” and his voice partially disappeared into his beard, “I am not at my best. Not that I have any idea what my best might be, but this isn’t it. The nesting season, you see.”
Ushering his guests into the one huge room beyond the porch, the old wizard pointed to several slightly broken and tooth marked chairs, inviting them to sit. Then, with a huge exhale, he also sat, crossing his arms and stretching his legs below his long blue robe.
The slight problem with the interesting room was the generous coating of feathers floating down, claw clippings, bits of scraggy nesting materials, bird seed and spiders’ webs. Looking around, it occurred to Rosie that an equally unexpected quagmire of odds and flickers also adorned her father’s beard. She brushed a couple of feathers and a small white mouse from her chair, and addressed her father. “Hello, Papa. I’m so pleased to see you again. It’s been – ages. I can’t remember how long. But I’m not much good at flying upwards, you see. And I don’t think I’d be much good at climbing either. “
“I brought her,” said Peg with brief practicality.
Splodge, still tucked into Rosie’s apron, managed a plaintive squawk. “Nesting time, of course,” continued Alfred, picking a small piece of fluff down from an eyelash, “is my busiest. I help feeding when I can. I mean, you can’t expect all these poor little birds to do it on their own. And then the babies. They need an occasional cuddle too, you know.”
Splodge proved the point, spoking his knobbly little head and wide eyes up into the light and hopped to Alfred’s lap, as if this had been his intention all along.
“Umm,” said Rosie. “We found him.”
“I thought I’d lost him,” said Alfred. “Thank you for bringing him back.”
“I see you are keeping up the magical practise,” approved Peg.
But Alfred shook his head, which tangled his beard with his hair. “Oh, dear me, no,” he smiled. “I still do a little, of course. I used a good deal back when I built this house. But not since. I can’t even fly, you see, but I manage some things I find necessary. I have an attic bedchamber which I share with the bats,” he pointed to the ceiling, “and just concern myself with the delightful creatures I find around here. Baby crows that get lost. Some of those yellow long-legged spiders are good company naturally, and I have plenty of excellent conversations with the owls. Cabbage is a real charmer, you know. But,” and he leaned back in his chair with a joyous smile, “I’m waiting for the swallows to arrive.”
With no idea what to say in answer to this, Rosie kept quite silent, but Peg was eager, squinty-eyed, and ready to talk. “Yes, yes,” she said. “All very nice for those of us who have nothing better to do. But, for instance, did you know that very recently poor Whistle Hobb was slaughtered? Oh yes, bashed to tiddly bits.”
Alfred raised one very careful eyebrow. “Do I know him?”
“Of course you do,” Peg told him rather crossly. “He was the most powerful wizard in the whole Rookery. And,” she added, “I’m the second.”
“I imagine I’m at the bottom of the steps in the wood chippings and the hen droppings,” smiled Alfred.
Peg was about to be polite, but Rosie cut in. “I expect you’re stronger now, Papa. Talking to the birds and so forth.”
“We all talk to the crows,” he pointed out. “They’re real chatter-boxes. And the owls of course. You can’t get a word in when Cabbage is on a rant.”
“I have never spoken to a yellow spider,” said Rosie, who wasn’t sure if she’d actually ever seen one.
“But on the other hand,” Peg interrupted, raising the other hand, “if you’d felt lately that your magic is – fading. Just a little, perhaps. One point or two on the slide. Twenty down to sixteen, let’s suppose, just as an example.”
“Humph. Possible,” said the magician without evident interest. “I’m quite happy as I am, you know. A visit from my darling daughter is certainly a pleasant little moment to anticipate. Old friends – new friends – and all the beauty of the forest. That’s all I need. Oh, just enough magic for a vegetarian pottage every now and again of course.”
“Just a small point,” Peg leaned forwards, nose twitching, “but you never answered the question about Whistle Hobb. Did you know he was dead? Not just dead, but actually killed?”
The beard wobbled as Alfred shook his head. “I can’t even remember the man,” he said. “But sorry to hear about it. Killing just isn’t nice. I tell the crows not to kill the poor little rats. People call them vermin, but they’re just sweet little animals like everything else.”
“You’ve been most helpful,” said Peg at once, standing up. “Thank you, Master Alfred. I shall visit again one day.”
“Not too often,” added Alfred in alarm.
Staring at Peg, Rosie sat where she was. “We’ve only just arrived.” She turned back to her father. “Look at all those pretty tapestries. Look at the dear little steps, all made of crows’ nests, leading up to the attic bedroom. And the best must be looking out of that great big window at the tree tops. That’s just glorious. I’d love to live here myself.”
“Oh, dear me, no,” said her father in a hurry. “I’m sure you wouldn’t like it, dear. There’s no kitchen, you know.”
Trying to remember, Rosie realised she actually couldn’t remember much at all. “How long have you lived here?” she asked. “Always? Forever? Or just a couple of years? I thought I could remember you building here when I was a baby, but how can I remem
ber being just a few months old?”
“Neither forever – a difficult concept since I haven’t been alive forever. But a lot more than a few years.” Alfred smiled.
“Don’t worry, Daddykins,” Rosie assured him, and stood beside Peg. “I suppose we should be leaving, and you can go back to the peace you love. Say hello to Cabbage for me.” And she patted Splodge, who turned his back. Rosie decided she wouldn’t miss him after all.
He saw them out, his beard now parting slightly as a bright yellow spider peeped out, saw Peg and darted back amongst the thick white hair. “Be careful, and do enjoy whatever it is you usually enjoy,” Alfred called after them. “Come again in a year or so. And now I shall get my trumpet ready to frighten away any eagles that think of taking a chick for dinner.”
This time Peg flew herself and Rosie down to the back garden, and Peg stared over at Whistle Hobb’s grave. “I wonder,” she said.
“You wonder what?”
“I had an idea, but your father didn’t confirm it.” Yet Peg pulled a face and screwed up her long, hooked nose. “Well, not willingly. But in a way, he did. Why in the name of all that’s wiccan, did he pretend he never knew Whistle? Everybody did. I wish to speak to your mother. I need a few more facts.”
“I don’t see how any of this helps us find out who killed poor Whistle,” Rosie objected.
“We take the ladder one titchy step at a time,” Peg told her, the smug smile of knowing more than she was yet inclined to explain was sitting wide. “Come along. We’ve done Daddykins. Now let’s chat with Mummykins.”
“I’ve never called her that,” Rosie muttered. “She’s not the type.”
Alice Scaramouch sat, one eye shut, on a kitchen stool with her back resting against the wall where various pots and pans were hanging higher up. Her one eye shut meant she was sleeping, and her one eye open indicated that she still knew what was going on around her.
