by B G Denvil
“Who by?” Edna whispered.
“Alice, naturally,” said Rosie.
Peg ran from the room and slithered down the stairs. Edna clapped loudly, bringing Rosie out of the trance, and taking her hand, flew with her down to the room normally occupied by Boris.
His door was open, and already Peg stood there in silent horror. Parts of Boris were scattered across the floor and huge streams of blood were running from one part to another, oozing between the floor boards and collecting around the head. The head itself, face down, was cracked and a number of black globules had leaked out. Where pieces of his body had been removed, it seemed not only unnecessary, but frenzied.
“The shadow side?” Edna whispered. “But clearly not of Boris himself.”
“Alice,” muttered Peg.
Which is when Alice strode from the kitchen and surveyed the stinking mess on the floor. With both arms upraised and hands fluttering, she began to scream. The echoing cry continued for some moments, and everybody from every room in The Rookery came running, flying or creeping to see what on earth had happened now.
“Oh, not again,” sighed Montague.
“Well, this one won’t be missed,’ said Mandrake.
Nan Quake, who rarely left her bedroom in spite of her respectable seventy-five, stared down at the ghastly sight, and her scream joined Alice’s. Inky and Julia both pushed through the growing crowd and stood in absolute disgust. Inky dropped the pair of shoes she had been holding and screamed too, although with a higher tone. Nan’s scream was much deeper. Julia Frost simply burst into tears. Inky’s shoes had landed in a pool of blood, and she refused to ever to wear them again.
Toby stepped backwards into Dandy, and both swore at each other. Harry Flash started crying as well, while Ethelred got the hiccups and hurried off.
In the middle of this, Rosie sat on the bottom step of the nearby stairs and tried to remember and make sense of what had been happening up in Edna’s room. Edna herself leaned back against the wall without expression, while Peg rounded on Alice.
“It was you,” she accused. “We know it was you.”
“How dare you,” Alice screeched. “Indeed, I know who it was. Not me, of course. This was Alfred. My wicked husband. I know it, he murdered them all. He was looking for something though I’ve no idea what that was.”
“A silver cup?” suggested Peg.
Alice turned as red as the blood on the floor. “What nonsense. I’m telling you; Alfred did this. I’ve had to live separately from my husband for years since he was so vicious. I forced him to live as far away as possible, or I knew he might hurt our little Rosie. Indeed, have you seen what he did to her bedroom? He had some idea about precious objects he could sell, so he killed Whistle. Then Kate and now this. I am so frightened of him.” She finished with a gulp, pointed at the pieces of Boris and returned to the scream.
One or two of the more sympathetic witches rallied around to comfort Alice, giving her a slight hug or two. Nothing really affectionate, since no one actually liked her.
Looking up at the still fussing crowd, Rosie said, “Not my father. It was him who came to me three nights ago. Poor darling, he can’t fly, but he managed to scramble through my window to warn me I was in danger. He never said who from, but obviously it wasn’t him or he would have killed me there and then. He helped me hide, and then he disappeared.”
“There you are, then,” Alice roared. ‘He got rid of you – knowing exactly where you were, in case he wanted to come back and kill you off. But in the meantime, your room was unoccupied and ready for him to go in and search for valuables and take as long as he liked. Then he did the same to his own room, just to make him seem more innocent.”
“Pooh,” said Rosie. But she had no proper answer.
Edna answered for her. She pointed one very long finger, and everyone saw as a huge blue flash exploded from the end. “Tell the truth,” she ordered. “Who killed Boris Barnacle?”
Alice went white. She swayed, but was unable to escape the spell. She gulped, croaked about a sore throat and then suddenly blurted out, “Me!” and shuddered. “But only this one,” she shrieked. “Not Kate. Not Whistle. Those weren’t me. I think they were him.” She waved a cold hand at Boris’s pieces. “That’s why I killed him.”
“Then why on earth say it was all my father?”
Alice stared around, wiped her nose on her apron and shouted out, “I have to go. Nearly time for supper.” And she ran towards the kitchen.
Montague had wandered off, but Mandrake marched to the front door. “This is a job for the sheriff,” he said, and slammed the door behind him.
“Oh, bother,” said Peg.
“No matter,” said Rosie, remembering Dickon Wald.
Rosie was asleep again when the sheriff’s assistant arrived. Clearly he was quite pleased to be back and knocked politely on the front door even though it was open. Mandrake beckoned him inside and led him to the chaos in Boris Barnacle’s bedchamber. With one brief glance, Dickon turned away, fisted his hands and shut his mouth with a snap. Clearly Dickon felt quite sick, and heaved, but managed to hold it in.
“No need to investigate the remains,” Dickon said quickly with a gulp. “A nasty brutal death. Someone must have hated him indeed. Clearly male, clearly strongly built with a vile temper. Now, which of your residents would you say fits that picture?”
“None of them,” said Mandrake. “Possibly the owner, who is definitely female.”
“No, impossible, no delicate lady could do such a thing.”
“I suppose you’re not married,” sighed Mandrake.
“I should like to speak with Mistress Rosie,” Dickon said, avoiding any view of the mess on the floor. “She’ll be able to tell me everything I need to know.”
Mandrake laughed. “I’ll get her,” he said, “but she’s already accused her mother.”
“Nonsense,” declared Dickon. “I shall wait in your meeting hall.” And, remembering where this was, he strode off in the opposite direction to Mandrake.
It was quite some time before Rosie joined him, and she looked glassy-eyed and still half asleep. “You want to know about Boris?” she asked.
“You must not, under any circumstances,” Dickon told her, his hands on her shoulders in protective fashion, “go anywhere near Master Barnacle’s bedchamber,” and stared earnestly into her eyes. “You must not even go close. It is a crime of the worst sort. Now, my dear, if you’ll forgive me for calling you that,” and he led her to a couple of the more comfortable looking chairs, “who do you suppose is capable of such an evil and brutal murder?”
“My mother,” said Rosie, retrieving her arm from Dickon’s grasp.
“No, no,” Dickon said, a little concerned. “I presume you’ve recently had an argument with your mother, and so you feel a little cross with her. But this is the ugly work of a malicious male. So can you help me with a possible culprit?”
Regarding him with little remaining sympathy, Rosie sighed. “I have no idea,” she said. “We’re all very nice people here. It must have been someone from the village.”
“And have you any reason why this gentleman might have been killed? Was he wealthy?”
“Oh, yes,” lied Rosie with a faint smile. “He had a large wooden chest full of coins. He’s been collecting it for years, working so hard for that reason. If you find someone with a chest like that, then it’s obviously the killer. But the chest might be rather hard to open.”
“Locked, I assume,” Dickon asked. “We should discuss the situation a little more fully, mistress. Would you care to come to the Juggler and Goat with me for a light meal and some ale? I’m sure it would be a great help to me.”
“Umm,” said Rosie again, “trouble is, I’ve promised to spend the evening with two friends here. Old ladies, you know, who get rather lonely. But I think you should do a search for the money chest. Perhaps start under my mother’s bed.”
“Dear, dear, you really have had a strong disagreement
with your poor mother today,” Dicken said, trying to reach for Rosie’s hand again. “But I promise, no female, especially past a certain age, could ever have committed such a horrible act.”
Pulling her hand away again, Rosie managed a smile, meanwhile wondering what on earth she had found attractive about him before. She decided that the attraction must have been for the tavern and not the man. “This isn’t the first murder here,” she said as he nodded. “So have you got any rough and greedy men wandering around in Little Piddleton? Or perhaps already in gaol? Or someone who used to be poor but has got suddenly rich?”
“Perhaps if you’re not free today, then what about tomorrow at the tavern for a chat?” Dickon pressed.
“Maybe tomorrow. If you can think of possible killers in the village.” He was thinking deeply as she stood. “Well, sorry, but I’m going back to my friends upstairs. Are you going to question everyone like you did last time? In that case, don’t forget my mother.”
Dickon stood as she did, pushing back his chair and clutching her hand. “Tomorrow at the Juggler and Goat, then. At five of the clock? May I come and collect you?”
“Oh, I suppose so,” Rosie said, pulling away but relishing the thought of good ale and a sumptuous supper. “Good luck with the interviews.”
Edna and Peg were waiting for her in Edna’s pleasant second room, and Rosie flopped down beside them on a rather stiff little wooden chair. Edna patted her hand. “The sheriff’s assistant is rather stupid, my dear, but that’s a very good thing. It means we can all get on with our own lives without the law interfering. I have no idea what the actual sheriff is like.”
“He sleeps a lot,” said Peg.
“What a blessing.” Edna turned to Rosie. “Now, you may remember what was going on before we were called down to see what was left of Boris. I do hope you realised what was going on.”
Rosie remembered a dozen completely crazed questions, and her own completely crazed answers. “Then I remember you asking me about the shadow people,” she said softly. “I know I said quite a lot, but you had me under a special spell, didn’t you, because there’s no way I actually knew any of that. But I said Boris was one of those very weak little wizards who got infected with shadows by someone horrible. The weak ones can’t resist, can they? I was so scared for my father.”
“No strong magic,” Peg said, “but clearly he cares for you very much. That would save him from the shadows, even if nothing else could.”
“But Boris didn’t escape. And what about my mother?”
“Ah, yes.” Both Edna and Peg leaned back in their more comfy and cushioned chairs and smiled, hands in their laps. “Your mother is clearly another split wiccan, just like Boris. Not quite as weak on the good side, and a good deal stronger on the darker. She must have been turned some years back, but not before you were born, because I cannot believe Whistle would have chosen her as your adopted mother if she was heavily shadowed. And he would have known, you know.”
“The me under your spell,” Rosie said, “was quite sure. She knew it was my mother.”
“Your adopted mother.”
Rosie was shaking her head as she tried to remember everything else. “The spell, and what you were doing, and those funny questions,” she said, “that was all strangely familiar. But how can it be?”
“Quite simple, my dear,” Edna said. “What you vaguely remember happened around fourteen years ago when you were tested. I was there, you see. I helped with the test. Whistle was also there, taking an interest, of course. We all expected a high score. But sadly, it came out only as a fifty. That puzzled us, but we had to accept what came up, or we would have been accused of cheating. But I have always wondered if someone blocked you, someone very strong indeed who might have put a spell – even a curse – on you as a very young child. That would have smothered your skills and made you appear far weaker.”
With a blank stare, Rosie swallowed meekly, not understanding. “What on earth for?”
“That’s the one thing we just don’t know,” said Peg. “And it must have been such a strong wizard, which doesn’t really fit in with the rest of the story. But never mind about that. We know enough, for clearly your mother employed someone to do it for her.”
Rosie didn’t know why that would have happened either. “If she wanted me as a baby, why make me stupid?”
“That’s something else we do know now,” smiled Edna. “We know almost everything, since I had some information from Whistle a long, long time ago.”
“And now I’ve been able to read a lot of Whistle’s papers,” nodded Peg.
“But in the meantime,” Edna continued, “wouldn’t you like to know what score you earned in the wizarding Wiccan Test?”
“Not really. Fifty-one, fifty-two? Even fifty-five? Not forty-five I hope, though I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Oh, dear me no,” said Edna. “You’ve scored ninety-eight.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Rosie’s sigh was both anticipation and boredom. She was well aware accepting Dickon Wald’s invitation had been absurd and even greedy. He was not a revolting person for a plain human, but like most humans, he spoke more nonsense than sense. However, she had grown to enjoy the food and atmosphere on offer at the Juggler and Goat, and after years of her mother’s cooking, a mixture of magical manifestation along with genuine production, anything else was preferable. She also liked knowing what sort of official clues this sheriff’s assistant might have discovered.
Rosie was therefore ready for Dickon when he turned up, and they walked together down Kettle Lane towards the village and its colourful tavern. As summer approached, the days had grown steadily longer, and now the sky was a huge blue blanket of warmth, although the bliss of blossom had long finished and blown away. Bluebells still followed the paths and banks, but the delicate froth of the lilac had hidden and dropped as new leaf crowded trees and bushes.
Feeding their young, the crows were more aggressive than usual and had no time for chats on the fence, and with no wish for interruptions that would be extremely difficult to explain to a human, Rosie walked more quickly than Dickon had expected.
“You must be hungry, Rosie, dear,” he said. “Longing to get a cup of ale, perhaps?”
Trying not to sound scornful, Rosie nodded. “Thirsty – yes. And I thank you for the kind invitation. But you really shouldn’t call me ‘dear’, you know.”
“The second special meeting?” Dickon grabbed her hand and thrust it through the crook of his arm. “We are quite a little pair, you know.”
Uncertain as to the practices of humans, Rosie accepted this but still pulled her hand away. “Business meetings,” she insisted. “After these shocking murders, a discussion with an expert is simply sensible.”
Clearly, Dickon was disappointed, but knew females had the reputation of saying ‘no’ when they meant ‘yes’, so he pushed open the tavern door, and pulled out a stool for Rosie to sit. From the peaceful twitter and sunny breezes outside, they had suddenly entered the raucous laughter and clank of cup to jug, the deep dark shadows and the reflections of candle flicker in the rich red wine.
The dark shadows reminded Rosie of her recent education in the shadow side of magic, and she shivered. More importantly she continued to ponder on the absolutely unbelievable number of ninety-eight that she had been given.
Knowing it as a mistake and utterly wrong, it did not bother her too much. But how had it come up, and what did such a ludicrous test reveal? Even accepting the test as the right way to judge a witch, it made no sense. If she had been suffocated of power when young, how could a crazy number like ninety-eight pop up?
“Dreaming, my dear?” asked Dickon, carrying over the two brimming cups of ale. “Now, I know you were quite fixed on the odd idea that your mother had been involved in some way with that last shocking death at your home, but I do trust by now you’ve realised that is unjust. As you know, I interviewed everyone at the residence, and I have come to a tentative conclus
ion. Would you like to know?”
Since he had chucked the whole idea of privacy, Rosie nodded immediately. “I need to know, to keep myself safe,” she said with conspiratorial appreciation.
“Your gardener,” smiled Dickon. “Quite obvious really. He’s very large and wide-shouldered, he must be strong for the work he does, and he has many weapons at hand, such as a spade and an axe amongst others. I also gather he is paid almost nothing beyond his keep, so is bound to be somewhat sulky, of course, being the one working so hard for so little, when many of your inmates are wealthy folk who do nothing to help.”
“I don’t think anyone would commit such a brutal crime because of simple sulks,” Rosie said. “Besides, I like Dipper. He’s a nice and generous man. And it’s true, he earns very little, but he only works when he feels like it and has his own room and food supplied. Kate, the maid who was killed, she lived next to him, and they were close friends.”
“Ah,” said Dickon, clearly thinking of himself, “but men often have an idea of what they’d like to do with a female friend, and if she says no, then he may get angry.”
“Is that a warning?” Rosie blinked.
“What a shocking thought,” said Dickon at once. “Certainly not. But—” and he watched her carefully over the brim of his cup, “I am certainly hoping that we can become better acquainted.”
Luckily, the platters of food arrived at this moment, and Rosie was able to escape answering. Instead she hurried to fill her own platter with the three dishes on offer, drained her cup and concentrated, eyes down. Earlier that day she had already explained the situation to Peg, and there was a solid arrangement for Peg to turn up and save her. But Peg had not yet come.
As the thick sliced lamb’s liver soaked in Burgundy and stuffed with smoked bacon, onions and a variety of herbs was quickly finished, and both Rosie and Dickon had started on the dried figs boiled in milk with sliced apple baked in pastry, Dickon abruptly leaned across the table and, gazing into her eyes, said, “Indeed, my dearest Rosie, I would like you to be my wife.” His mouth was full so he was spitting apple juice as he spoke, but none of it reached Rosie as she had quickly pulled away, almost falling backwards off her stool.
