“I’m hungry,” he whined.
“I have some of Star’s biscuits here for you,” Dom said and reached into his pocket for some marrowbone crunchy treats. They weren’t a particular favourite of Toby’s but, as the saying goes, any port in a storm.
Clarissa settled back onto the sofa and sipped her tea. Her attention drifted as she took in Dom’s belongings. This room, while colourful and artistic in the choice of textiles and decoration used—the walls were a deep burgundy, for example, the throws on the three-piece suite were a bright sunny yellow, and a chandelier made of rainbow-coloured glass decorated the ceiling—had a mellow and cosier feel. There were fewer possessions dotted about. Less clutter. A double wood-burning stove dominated one side of the room with an interesting clock, created in the shape of the sun, hanging above the fireplace. Everything was clean and tidy. Perhaps Dom’s wife had more of a hand in this than he did.
Clarissa decided it would be wiser not to ask.
Her attention was drawn to a number of framed photos adorning the wall. One in particular caught her eye, the frame decorated as it was with coloured glass beads. She focused on it, imagining she might be seeing things. A woman with a cascade of unruly curly hair, a grey streak sprouting from her temple.
And an eye patch.
Clarissa extricated herself with some difficulty from the well of the sofa. Dom watched her as she advanced across the carpet to scrutinise the image more closely. The woman wore a formal jacket with a pressed white shirt. A heavy necklace with a large green leaf-shaped pendant hung at her neck. She dazzled the camera with a broad, happy smile.
“Winifred Breazeazy?” she asked.
“My Aunt,” Dom confirmed.
Clarissa whirled around in surprise. “Your Aunt?”
“Yes.” He shrugged. “Do you know her?”
“Know her? No! I mean, I wish I did. She’s my absolute hero. I used to love reading about her exploits when I was younger.”
“Yes, she was always in the papers, wasn’t she?” Dom nodded. “Well, the Celestine Times and its ilk at any rate.”
“She must have had a huge influence on the way you think.” Clarissa studied the image once more. Now that he’d mentioned it, she could see a family resemblance in the smile and the apple-shaped cheeks.
“Oh, undoubtedly! She didn’t give two hoots for the old ways. Always pressing the Ministry of Witches to move forward and modernise. You know they threw her in prison for insubordination when she was in her early twenties?”
Clarissa nodded. She’d found that out while researching the story she’d sent to out to the witchpapers and magazines.
“A true radical,” Dom continued.
“Oh! I would really love to interview you about your memories of her.”
Dom curled his lip, doubtfully.
“I told you I’m a journalist, right?” Clarissa pleaded with her eyes. “You must know so many little stories that have never been made part of the public record.”
“I’m pretty sure Winifred would prefer it to remain that way, if I’m honest.”
Clarissa sighed. “I completely understand. Of course. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
Toby watched the interchange with interest. He could sense Clarissa’s sudden sadness. One look at her downcast face and he knew she was thinking about the job she’d lost, the money they needed.
He jumped to his feet and sashayed over to Dom. “Clarissa is a good journalist, you know.”
“I don’t doubt she is,” Dom smiled and reached out to stroke Toby’s head.
Toby dodged his hand, unwilling to give out his favours so easily. “She lost her job and it wasn’t her fault. We don’t have any money left. So, she needs to get another job to keep me in dog treats and sammiches.”
Clarissa flushed. “Ignore him,” she said.
Dom glanced from one to the other, his brow furrowed.
Toby, seemingly oblivious to Clarissa’s discomfort, continued, “You could help her if you gave her a World Exclusive about Winifred Breazeazy. Then someone would pay her Big Money and I could have a salmon sammich on focaccia instead of plain processed ham on McLoll’s essential white bread.”
“Toby!” Clarissa growled at him.
For his part, Dom seemed more confused than anything. “I thought you came here looking for some kind of stone?”
“We did.” Clarissa dropped her head in her hands. “I’m sorry. This is so embarrassing.” She peeked through her fingers. “I thought you were a Secret Agent from the Ministry of Witches. I was supposed to meet someone in the park who could tell me something about a missing gemstone. Nobody showed up except you. I need to find that stone. Badly.” She sighed. “There is no connection between that and me being a fan of Winifred Breazeazy, I can assure you.”
“I see.” Dom tapped the arms of his chair and thought about what she’d said. “I wish I could help you with the stone. Genuinely. If you need it that badly—”
“Oh, we do,” Clarissa said quietly.
“I wish I knew where it was. But I’m no Secret Agent and would never work for the Ministry of Witches in any case.”
Clarissa grimaced. “I think we’ve established that beyond a shadow of a doubt.”
“But if it is really going to make a huge difference to Toby’s culinary experience, I’m sure I can set up an interview with my Aunt.”
Clarissa blinked in surprise. “She’s alive?”
“And kicking.” Dom pulled at his goatee beard and flashed an uncertain smile. “Literally.”
“But she must be—”
“In her eighties,” Dom agreed. “You wouldn’t know it.”
“Wow.” Clarissa couldn’t think of what to say. She rubbed her suddenly clammy hands against her towel.
“She travels a lot. She has friends all across the globe, but she bases herself here. We keep all of her belongings in the little tin shed on the side of the house. Bit of an eyesore but she built it herself, years ago. The next time she’s here I’ll ask her to get in touch, if you like?”
Clarissa experienced a sharp pang of disappointment. When might that be?
Perhaps Dom read her mind, or her face gave her away. “Or maybe you can Skype? She’s down with all the mod-cons. Better than me, really. Leave your details with me and I’ll pass them on.”
Clarissa breathed deeply, allowing herself to hope.
Toby rubbed himself against Dom’s legs. “Thank you,” he said.
This time when Dom reached down to stroke him, Toby responded. “You’re very welcome, young fellow,” said Dom, and smiled at Clarissa. “I’m only sorry that I can’t help with the stone.”
“Never mind. I’m really grateful for the promise to ask Winifred if she’ll talk to me, and for your time today and,” she jutted her chin in the direction of Dom’s study, “all you’ve shown us. It’s been an eye-opener.”
She cast off her towel; her clothes were a little drier but she could do with changing them. “I guess we’d better go,” she said to Toby.
“We haven’t changed the tyre yet,” Toby reminded her.
“Don’t worry.” Dom stood, and escorted them into the kitchen. Leaning over the sink, he peered through the window. “Looks like Star’s taken care of it for you.”
Clarissa followed his gaze. The car stood ready and waiting for them, freshly washed and no sign of a flat tyre in sight. “Amazing,” said Clarissa.
“Stupendous,” said Toby, pondering on the possibility of being able to do that himself.
The following morning brought another two rejection emails. Clarissa’s heart began to beat a little harder as she anxiously scanned her inbox for good news and found nothing. Her fingers hovered over her online banking app. Should she check her finances?
She opted against it, knowing their situation was precarious, and not wanting to rub salt in the wound. Instead, she opened up a stupid little game and glumly began to blast cartoon fruit to smithereens. She didn’t hear the letterbox clang.
He lifted his head and listened, his eyes shining brightly. How had the post-person—he could never be quite sure whether it would be a lady or a gentleman as they seemed to arbitrarily take it in turns—made it to the door without him hearing? Normally he would have advance warning. The sound of letterboxes clanging down the street acted as notice. That and the chain effect of all the local dogs going ballistic, because if they’d told the postie once, they’d told him or her a million times: don’t come near my house!
But today he’d heard nothing, not even the stomp of feet up the path.
So, if it hadn’t been a postie, who had been delivering to Silverwinds?
He slunk from the room, Clarissa paying him no attention, and trotted along the hall. A small, pale yellow envelope lay on the mat in front of the door. He could see Clarissa’s name neatly handwritten on it, and an address, but no stamp.
Delivered by hand?
He whirled about, ran along the hallway into the kitchen and threw himself through the dog flap. It clanged closed after him, but by then he was already halfway down the path. He exploded into the front garden. Whoever had delivered the letter had neglected to close the front gate, and this despite the polite little sign which hung over it, requesting that people do so.
Honestly. Nobody had any manners anymore.
Toby sidled out of the gate, glancing up and down Chamberlain Drive. Further down, towards the junction, a couple of teenagers were playfighting. Up the other way, a young woman was coaxing her toddler to walk a little faster.
“Everything alright, Toby?” Mrs Crouch, wearing a pretty floral sunhat to protect her from the heat of the morning, peered over the top of the wall that separated his garden from hers. She had a pair of pruning shears in her gloved hand.
“Are you trimming your roses, Mrs Crouch?”
“I am, darling, yes.”
“Are you well enough to do that? Clarissa said she’d help you, if you wanted her to.”
Mrs Crouch smiled. “I know. But I like to do it myself. Besides… Clarissa and I…” She looked sadly at his front door, then lowered her voice, “Clarissa’s a bit of a novice in the garden, don’t you think?”
Toby chortled. “She’s not Old Joe, that’s for sure.”
“That she isn’t. But what she doesn’t yet have in experience, she makes up for in enthusiasm.” Simultaneously they glanced at a bush Clarissa had cut back to within an inch of its life. It might flower again, but Toby doubted it. Mrs Crouch winked at him and reached into her pocket for a treat.
“Did you see anyone in our garden just now, Mrs Crouch?” he asked, as she held the snack out to him.
“In your garden?”
“Delivering a letter.”
Mrs Crouch examined his front door as though that might jog her memory. “Hmm. No, my darling. I didn’t see anyone. Do you mean very recently?”
“Not even five minutes ago,” Toby confirmed.
Mrs Crouch shook her head. “No.”
“You’ve been here all that time?”
“I have. I’ve been out here for the past twenty minutes or so.”
Sheesh, thought Toby. That’s weird. He delicately pulled the dog-bone shaped treat from Mrs Crouch’s fingers. “Fank you, Mrs Crouch,” he said, without dropping it, “see you later!” and scuttled away.
He bombed back along the side passage and into the house, depositing the treat next to his water bowl. He loved treats, especially cheesy biscuit treats—Mrs Crouch made the best ones—but he wanted to get to the bottom of the strange missive. He darted down the hall and sniffed the envelope.
“What is it, Toby?” Clarissa, hearing the clattering of the dog flap, had come to investigate what he was up to.
“I’m getting a strong aroma of petrol and diesel and soot and carbon monoxide.”
“What?”
“From this envelope. And a faint trace of coffee and burger bars. A dash of men’s perfume. Aftershave. Not the kind Old Joe used.”
“What are you talking about?” Clarissa’s bare feet slapped quietly against the wooden floorboards as she moved towards him.
“A slight whiff of mintiness, hiding a touch of halitosis, I reckon. Also laundry detergent. The same as Mrs Crouch uses. But the biological version.”
“You can tell all that just from sniffing the envelope?” Clarissa knelt down next to him and reached for it.
“Oh yes. There’s more there besides.” He cocked his head and considered his final thoughts on the matter. “It doesn’t smell like Devon. Whoever deposited this in our letterbox came from somewhere else.”
“It sounds like a town or a city, I would have thought. Petrol. Diesel and carbon monoxide, did you say?”
“Almost overwhelmingly.”
“And a burger bar? There’s not a burger bar within fifteen miles of us.”
Toby wiggled his eyebrows. “I’d love to try a burger.”
Clarissa grimaced. “Maybe one day.”
She turned the envelope over. Nothing written on the back. She carefully slit the top with her nail and peered inside. It looked like a single piece of paper. She drew it out.
There was no message, only an address. Clarissa gawped at the paper in her hand in surprise.
Sue Mitchelmore
32 Priory Avenue
Thatcher’s Combe
East Devon
“Someone’s given us Sue Mitchelmore’s address,” Clarissa said.
“Who?”
“It’s signed ‘A Friend’.” Clarissa flipped the piece of paper around so that Toby could get a look at it.
“Some friend,” Toby said. “They might have knocked.”
Clarissa smiled at him. “Hey? Maybe it was the Secret Agent. The one that didn’t show up the other day? Perhaps they were held up, and rather than give the game away about who they are, they’ve travelled down from the Ministry of Witches specially to deposit this with us.” She waved the piece of paper around excitedly. “Toby! This could be the break we’ve been waiting for.”
Toby looked doubtful. “Sue Mitchelmore won’t have The Four Stone.”
“Well, no.” Clarissa sounded slightly taken aback, as though someone had popped her balloon. “But she may know where we can find The Pointy Woman.”
Toby cast his mind back to the six months he’d spent in the pound, considering the nature of the woman he’d known there. She hadn’t been the most pleasant of people. “I doubt very much she’ll tell us anything.”
Clarissa regarded him, her gloom descending like a thick black blanket once more. “Maybe not. But it has to be worth a try, doesn’t it?”
The mostly picturesque village of Thatcher’s Combe was a mere stone’s throw from Chamberlain Drive. Clarissa clipped Toby into his harness and seatbelt in the back of her car and off they went for a short jaunt around East Devon’s cheerful lanes.
Priory Avenue sounded like the kind of road that might have existed a thousand years ago. In Clarissa’s mind, the street name conjured images of small picture-perfect thatched cottages where those who serviced the local Church in some way lived with their happy families amongst community-minded neighbours.
While the latter may well have applied, Priory Avenue turned out to be a row of post-war council-built semi-detached houses whose glory days were far behind them. The buildings had been neglected; the gardens left to run down. Mangled trampolines had been upended against walls, and plastic playground apparatus lay fading under the hot sun.
The road in front of the house was rutted with deep potholes, and Clarissa had to take care. She gingerly dodged around them, unwilling to risk another flat tyre.
She pulled up in front of number 32. There was no sign of life. It stood locked up and silent, drab net curtains at the windows, the paint of the doors and window frames chipped and peeling. The guttering hung from the roof in several places, and large watermarks stained the once-cream façade.
Clarissa sucked wind through her teeth. “I can’
t see Sue Mitchelmore living in a place like this, can you?”
Toby sat up and peered out of the side window. The garden, with its long, tangled grass and overgrown bushes, looked as though it might have some interesting smells to explore, but he couldn’t quite reconcile the wreckage of the exterior of this house with the chiselled and glamorous appearance of the woman who had once managed the Sunshine Valley Pet Sanctuary.
Clarissa also found herself staring in dumbstruck confusion. She’d never understood why Sue Mitchelmore had been employed as the manager in any case. In her experience, people who worked with animals had to be prepared for anything, and to that end they wore scrubs, or overalls, or scruffy clothes, not minding if they were filthy or a bit smelly. That was all part of the job.
But Sue Mitchelmore, while not quite in Miranda Dervish’s league when it came to glamour, had flaunted her painted nails, her overly-bleached hair, her face full of make-up and her smart skirt suits. While it was feasible the manager of a pet rescue might have little to do with the actual animals, that did seem a long shot.
Clarissa had exposed her for the fraud she was. She’d taken the role at the sanctuary only because it allowed her to continue her little side-hustle of selling on pedigree dogs who made their way to the rescue through a series of unfortunate incidents, such as straying or the loss of an owner for genuine reasons. Sue had been an important part of a criminal ring who would sell those dogs—and any designer crosses—to unsuspecting new owners willing to pay a good price for them.
Unfortunately, it had transpired that Sue had friends in high places, including The Pointy Woman, and Clarissa had lost her job as a direct result of going ahead and running the story in the Sun Valley Tribune.
“Why would someone have given you this address for her if she didn’t live here?” Toby asked.
Clarissa shrugged. “Maybe whoever does live here knows her or where we can find her.” She opened the car door. “Do you want to come? I’ll only be a moment. It really doesn’t look like anyone’s at home.”
Bark Side of the Moon: A Paranormal Animal Cozy Mystery (Spellbound Hound Magic and Mystery Book 3) Page 6
