by B G Denvil
“Since she’s even forgotten my birthday.”
“So carry on.”
“I remember being flown to some sort of hall where the magician lived, I think, and being given a special cup of cold water, which was rather nice. Then I was told to sit still on a very high stool and – well – the rest is awfully hazy. But there was a strange woman, and then I remember getting home afterwards being absolutely exhausted and having to go to bed.”
“A strange woman?” Peg mused. “Maybe Edna after all.”
There was a brief interruption, a loud plop and then a screech. Rosie sat up and opened her eyes. Peg was running around in a circle with her cloak swirling in the opposite direction its own panic, both Peg’s hands rummaging in her hair, before trotting down to the rippled edge of the water and scooping up handfuls to once again wipe into the straight white streaks on her head.
She eventually returned looking extremely bedraggled. Water dripped from the front of her head onto her nose, rolling on both sides of her nose down to her chin. The top of her head was soaked, but also seemed decorated by small plops of a sticky white substance. Her voluminous black cloak was clearly annoyed and continued to twitch and swish.
“What on earth?” asked Rosie.
“Piffle-down gliffle,” mumbled Peg. “Wretched birds. Now, let’s get on.”
“There’s nothing to get on with,’ Rosie said at once. “That’s all I remember.”
“Impossible.” Peg sat on the sand, salt water still dripping from her hair now landing in her lap. “Firstly, hold up both hands, palms outwards, and try to spread your fingers, making them as separate from each other as possible. Starting with the little finger on your right hand, mentally number them one to ten.”
“One, two, I like numbers,” Rosie said, dutifully obeying. “Seven, eight. Alright. Done.”
“So point with number six. Quick,” Peg told her. “Now eight. Now three. Well done.”
“Does that make me magic?” Rosie asked. “Surely not. But I like numbers, and I do head-lists every morning. Number one, I have to fetch a bucket of water from the well. Number two, I have to make my bed and Mamma’s. Number three—”
“I don’t think we need any more,” said Peg, waving her own fingers in the placid air. “It’s not the numbers that matter. But never mind. Now, second question. You say you can’t fly alone. Twaddle. Someone has put silly ideas in your head. Even a fifty can fly a little. So stand up. Good. Now jump up and down.”
Feeling rather silly, Rosie did as she was told and jumped. “I feel ridiculous.”
“You look it too,” said Peg, “so carry on, but close your eyes and say after me, ‘One cloud.’ ‘Second cloud.’” Peg sniggered faintly, but then clapped her hands. “Well done, now open your eyes.”
Having obeyed all instructions, Rosie opened her eyes, but was both amazed and extremely frightened when she discovered herself floating inside a damp white cloud, with a gull’s feather stuck behind one ear and another in her shoe buckle. She tumbled down to earth immediately and landed with an unpleasant jolt. Standing quickly, she rubbed her backside.
“You could have warned me.”
“Warned you that you have more powers than you think? And more than your mother told you?” Peg was now grinning. “But I have all I need to know, my girl. Excellent. So now we can go home. How about a short flight?”
Chapter Nine
“None of your business, my girl,” Alice informed her daughter. “Now go and get on with your work. Have you made my bed yet?”
“Hours ago.”
“Filled all three buckets?”
“Yes, of course. I do that every morning. But, Mamma, I only asked you what the human sheriff said.” Rosie regarded her mother with fixed antagonism. “And while I’m asking one thing, I could ask another. How did you get my birthday wrong? Surely you remember the right day. You were there, after all.”
“Stupid child.” Alice had begun to produce a cauldron full of lamb and swede pottage, and a separate dish of lemon tart. Neither looked particularly appetising, although Alice worked hard enough, clicking her fingers and muttering into the little red sparks that appeared in the food. But the lemon tart, although looking quite smart, smelled of cow droppings and the pottage looked like unravelling wool.
Watching these procedures, Rosie asked, “Who did my coming of age test, Mother, when I was ten? And was it just a straight fifty?”
Whirling from pot to daughter, Alice glared. “Some old wizard did the test,” she snapped. “I can’t remember her name, Eleven Es or something, but she was very thorough and said it was a straight fifty without any extras. At least you weren’t as low as your father. Then we just flew home.”
The cauldron was bubbling and hubbling, but nothing smelled very nice. The fire beneath the trivet was energetic with huge golden flames, but it gave off very little heat. As a fifty as well, Alice did not produce miracles.
“And you forgot my birthday after all this time.”
Alice turned back to stirring the pot. “Yes, yes, first of July, I do remember, silly girl. But, umm, it was the next year on the ninth of June when your father moved into his tree house. So both dates stay in my memory.”
Accepting this, Rosie left the kitchen in a hurry, escaping the smell of a dinner she didn’t think she was going to enjoy.
It was outside the meeting hall, door now fully open, that Dickon Wald bumped into Rosie. As he had only just emerged from the inner shadows, it seemed suspiciously as though he had been waiting for her, and the bumping accident was no accident at all. However, finding herself falling backwards, Rosie accepted the two solid arms which rescued her from the fall and supported her upright once again.
“Dear, dear,” said Dickon. “My fault. I am dreadfully sorry.” She smiled, and he leaned a little closer. “Can I make it up to you, Mistress Rosie? I should love to invite you out for a drink or a meal.”
Remembering the smells wafting from the kitchen, Rosie said, “Well, perhaps a meal. I’d be grateful.”
His narrow face stretched into a wide smile. “We could go to the Ordinary on the Green,” Dickon said, opening the door for her as she stretched up and grabbed her cloak from the peg. “They do excellent pork pies.”
“Or,” said Rosie, wondering just how much of an idiot she was being, “we could go to the Juggler and Goat, I’ve heard they offer excellent food.”
So they set off for the Juggler and Goat. Unfortunately, there was no way they could fly. However, it was a fine day, and the sun had not yet hidden for the night. Late spring meant long evenings, so it was already supper time. The tavern sounded a little noisy as they came closer, striding down Kettle Lane into the heart of Little Piddleton.
On his best behaviour, Dickon opened the tavern door for Rosie to hurry inside, and immediately the noise boomed out even louder, and the wave of heat was overpowering. But the couple sat at a tiny table in one corner, and Dickon waved a hand, managing to order two full suppers.
In order to fill in the wait without sitting there smiling inanely at each other, Rosie said, “I don’t suppose you’ve managed to work out who our murderer is yet?
“Not something I should discuss with you, I’m afraid,” said Dickon, sounding important.
“Well,” Rosie said, smile in place, “just tell me which of our residents was most interesting to interview.”
Evidently this invitation appealed. “One of your gentlemen borders,” he confided, “is most impressive. Dandy Duckett, a most aged man but highly intelligent. Quite grand. I assume he comes from an excellent family who perhaps lost power during one of the past battles. I considered him quite a rare personality.”
“A seventy-nine,” Rosie remembered.
“Is that his age?” Dicken asked. “I knew he must be quite old, but that’s a great age.”
She hadn’t been talking of his age, but she wasn’t going to admit that now, especially since Dandy was probably two hundred and fifty years of age, or there
abouts. “He’s – quite a nice old man,” said Rosie. She’d never liked him.
“But Master Mandrake Karp, now he was a very different pond of fish. I found him highly suspicious.”
“Ah,” said Rosie, more interested and more in accord. “He’s very arrogant. I don’t like him either. But why did you find him suspicious?”
“I shouldn’t say.” Dickon leaned forwards over the table and lowered his voice to the point that Rosie could hardly hear him. “You really mustn’t tell this to anyone else. But Master Karp admitted he was out on the night of the murder, but he refused to tell me where he’d gone. He said it was a private matter. So immediately I smelled the clue.”
“Ah, interesting,” said Rosie, guessing Mandrake had probably been out flying, and could hardly say so. “But it’s not actual proof, is it.”
Their supper was carried out to them, and since it looked and smelled delicious, they stopped talking in order to eat. Rosie’s mouth was stuffed with roast lamb, when, looking up, she saw Mandrake himself entering the tavern, with Peg at his side. Rosie nearly choked on her lamb.
Peg walked over. “Well, well, what a delightful surprise,” she said, pulling off the hood of her cloak. She still had the white blob of seagull dropping on the top of her head, attached to her equally white hair. It looked almost intentional.
“I was discussing the weather with the sheriff’s assistant,” Rosie said, attempting dignity. “And we were both – hungry.”
“So am I. Starving,” Peg grinned. “And I wanted to talk to Mandrake. But not about the weather.” Without being invited, she sat beside Rosie, squashing up a bit since the table was tiny, and Mandrake squeezed in beside Dickon, which made him quite irritated.
“Hardly polite,” he said.
“I forgive you,” said Mandrake. “No need to apologise. Now, Master Wald, you’re just the right person to ask. We want to know how your investigation is going.”
Dicken swallowed his last slice of roast lamb and shook his head. “Out of the question,” he said. “I cannot discuss such a matter with anyone except the sheriff. Utterly private. So no questions, please.”
“I quite understand,” said Mandrake. “I wouldn’t dream of putting you in a difficult position. So what do you actually need as some sort of proof to arrest someone and put them up for trial?”
“Well,” Dickon relented, “whatever seems convincing. Knowing he did it. If they confess, of course, and you can wallop them a bit to encourage a confession.”
“I thought the new king was against that sort of corruption,” interrupted Peg.
“That’s not corruption,” Dickon frowned. “It’s common sense. Very few folk will confess without encouragement. And if we already know they did it, whatever it is, then that’s fair enough.”
“So tell me,” continued Mandrake, “how can you tell when someone was killed if no one saw it happen.”
“Very simple,” Dickon sniffed. “If someone was seen alive at midday, as an example, and did not come home again even at supper time, then they were killed sometime between midday and supper time.”
Everybody stared at everybody else. “Fascinating,” smiled Peg with a faint gulp. “And forgive me for changing the subject, but what do you and the sheriff generally think of The Rookery? We believe we are a very quiet and law-abiding home for old people, who would have trouble looking after themselves, including me, of course. And we never interfere with village business. So is that how you see us too? As law abiding citizens? No complaints, for instance?”
“Oh, gracious indeed,” Dickon hurried to answer, and gulped down his ale, “never a complaint, mistress. The village people see The Rookery as a home of great generosity. To open a place where old folk can live peacefully, and be cared for until the inevitable end, is a very moral idea, mistress. The sheriff and I approve.” He finished the last slurp of ale. “Until, of course,” he said as an after-thought, “a rather nasty murder takes place on the premises.”
“Naturally,” smiled Mandrake. “And of course we value your interest in that particular shocking affair. Got any clues?”
“Someone from the same home, I suppose,” Dickon mumbled. “But no special ideas, sadly. Old folk aren’t usually strong enough to do so much damage. Perhaps it could have been a witch.”
Everyone again stared, heads jerking up from their cups.
“A witch?”
“I’m not serious, of course.” Dickon smiled. “That was a joke. We all know there aren’t any witches or wizards around here.”
Three gentle sighs answered him.
“But you may remember,” Rosie said softly, “when you first visited The Rookery, it was because people had complained about the smell from the murdered man’s corpse. So people did complain.”
“Well, yes, indeed,” huffed Dickon. “But a very understandable problem, you know, considering that smell. Folk walking by, you see. But I myself am quite grateful, since it brought me to your home and has introduced you to me.” He gazed at Rosie with wide-eyed appreciation.
“You’re grateful someone got murdered?” asked Peg, managing a very sober voice.
“Oh, no, no, no, no,” hiccupped Dickon, but Rosie patted his arm, assuring him they all understood.
It was soon after that Dickon put down his cup and pushed back his stool, smiling at Rosie. “Well, mistress,” he said, “I think it’s time I saw you back home.”
“Oh no, don’t worry,” grinned Rosie. “Peg and Mandrake will see me back. We all live in the same house, as you know.”
“But—” managed Dickon.
Peg shook her head. “We shan’t be here long, Master Wald,” she said. “It would make no sense for you to walk all that way when we shall be right behind you.”
“And I shall be there in the middle,” Mandrake added, “ready to protect the ladies should we meet up with a witch or wizard.”
With a highly disappointed smile, Dickon nodded, said goodbye with a particular little wave at Rosie and wandered out of the tavern into the outside twilight. Immediately Rosie flopped back against the wall, Peg flopped forwards against the table, and Mandrake smirked.
“Well, no need to worry about him,” he said softly.
“The man is a complete idiot,” exclaimed Peg, turning to Rosie. “Typical human. And you actually left The Rookery with him to come here. Why on earth did you do that?”
“Because my mother’s supper smelled disgusting,” confessed Rosie. “And besides, I wanted to know if he’d found out anything of importance.”
“He’d not notice it, even if someone told him in detail that he’d done it,” said Mandrake. “I doubt the boy has any more brain than Cabbage.”
“I’ll have you know that Cabbage is quite bright,” complained Peg. “But you’re right. We’ll get no useful information out of that idiot.”
“But it was useful,” Rosie pointed out. “Now we know he hasn’t any idea about anything.”
“Which is why we followed you,” Mandrake said. “We wanted to check him out.”
Rosie scowled and continued, “And it’s equally clear that Little Piddleton thinks we are just lovely old people in need of care.”
“In need of wine,” Peg contradicted her. “Let’s have a decent drink, and then we can fly home.”
Chapter Ten
Three crows sat at the end of Rosie’s bed. She woke and blinked. “Gracious,” she muttered, “am I that late?”
“We aren’t an alarm clock,” one crow objected. “This is a personal visit. May I introduce myself? I am Wolfy, and this is my partner Cuddles. “
“I’m Lucky,” said the third Crow. “I wanted to come too. This is my mum and dad.”
“We couldn’t get rid of her,” Wolfy explained. “But we came for a very specific reason.”
“I even left little Wobbles and Fips and Jolly and Tiger behind in their nest,” said Cuddles. “No one’s even sitting on them, let alone feeding them. They’ll be squawking their little bony heads off. W
e have to hurry back with a few strips of something or other. So we have to be quick.”
Lucky was looking very pleased with herself. “I’m the grown-up daughter,” she said proudly. “I help with the new little brats. They’ve all broken out of their shells now, and just think of food, food, food. I like Fips best. She makes a racket like the others, but at least she says thank you once she’s swallowed everything.”
“What’s so urgent?” Rosie pulled the sheet up under her chin. “I might have a few strips of something myself under the bed, if you hop down and have a look. The bread was so over baked for yesterday’s breakfast, I stuffed it away. Help yourselves.”
Wolfy and Cuddles sent Lucky to hop beneath and find it while they spoke of other matters.
As she watched, Rosie asked, “Do you know how Splodge is getting on? My father was looking after him. Or her. I can’t tell the difference at that age.”
“Her,” said Cuddles, “and she’s getting on very well. I won’t say your father makes a very realistic crow, but he’s a good father.”
“I know,” Rosie sighed.
“We were especially friendly with poor Whistle,” Wolfy said. “Not only do we miss him dreadfully, but we hoped to find some of his special belongings. Useful stuff, you know. Not money or boring things like that. But a bit of helpful magic.”
“Did you want a reminder? A souvenir? Then you don’t want me,” Rosie pointed out. “It was Kate who cleaned the room. By the time I went back in there, nothing of Whistle’s was left.” Then she thought of what Peg had bought from Kate. “However,” she admitted, “there are two of Whistle’s magical belongings Peg got from Kate, and paid too, so I can’t give them to you. I can only tell you about them. Anything else important, I’d bet my mother has it.”
“But I believe that you have – ?” asked Cuddles.
