by B G Denvil
“Whistle Hobb was no sacrifice,” muttered Percy, the only wizard remaining of the Swamp family. “Rotten old show-off, he was. I reckon someone just got fed-up with his show-off clothes and show-off habits.”
Toby looked up. “So you did it? Was that a confession?”
“Now, now, gentlemen,” Alice insisted. “It’s Rosie we’re looking for. I warn you all – no Rosie – no Rookery. I shall close it down.”
Only a moment’s silence followed before everyone spoke again. Maggs sat on the floor in one corner and fumbled into her collar, trying to trace any disappearance over the past five hours. Two of the witches galloped into the back garden to find sufficient peace and air for their spells to work.
Dandy Duckett crawled under the kitchen table and began to count. “One, two, three, four, someone’s knocking on the door. Five, six, seven, eight, it’s already getting late. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve—”
Everybody had their own individual systems.
Leaning almost casually against the door jam, Marmaduke was muttering to himself, and at his feet, crouched and muttering a little louder, Butterfield tapped her fingers on her knees.
Marching up and down Alice was quietly sniffing as the push and shove of others still raced up and down the stairs, until finally Cabbage the owl, who nested in the thatch during the day, poked her head in the back window, wondering what was going on. Peg noticed her at once.
“Cabbage, dear, sorry about the horrid noise. Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. Have you seen Rosie?”
“Quite often,” said the owl, turning her head in something resembling a complete circle. “Why? Has she changed?”
“Of course not,” Peg said, somewhat annoyed. “But she’s disappeared.” And then she thought of something else. “Last night, Cabbage, you were up and about, I’m sure. What happened at Whistle Hobb’s window? Did anyone fly in? Did you hear anything strange?”
“Toowit,” Cabbage decided. “Saw nothing. Heard plenty.”
Peg smiled, and waited, then objected, “Don’t just sit there. Tell me what you heard.”
“You woke me from a deep sleep,” Cabbage pointed out. “Most insensitive. But I shall answer you briefly. I heard a lot of noise. Does that explain enough?”
Peg heaved a sigh. “No, Cabbage. I need details.”
“I heard a small black rat under a bush,” the owl remembered, scratching beneath one wing. “I swooped down to catch it, but a little stray cat dashed out and got it before I did. I heard the kitten meow. That’s what they do, you know. I considered swooping down and taking the kitten too, and would have had two meals in one swoop. But I couldn’t be bothered. Then I heard thunder. I was pleased. I quite like the rain. Most refreshing.”
Managing to hold off the temptation to scream, Peg said softly, “Not all that, Cabbage, dear. I only need to know what you heard coming from Whistle’s room.”
“Absolutely nothing, of course, as usual,” said the owl, and with a bob of irritation, she flew back up to her bed in the thatch.
“Oh, piffle and swish,” Peg muttered, stamping one pointed boot on top of the kitchen table, “I call this a wonky-witted pile of pink pendulums. Nothing makes any sense.”
And then there was suddenly a very non-magical knock, imperious and demanding, on the front door. “Oh, bother, now what?” demanded Alice, and stalked off to answer.
The man waiting there was unmistakably human. “I believe I’ve met you once before, madam,” he said, grey eyes penetrating. “I am Dickon Wald, the assistant sheriff for Wiltshire. And I was just passing, you see, when I saw this young lady and wondered if she needed help. I asked her. But she simply smiled and told me she couldn’t remember what she needed so couldn’t ask. But I can’t believe she should stay where she is.”
Alice looked past him and squeaked.
On the wide doorstep lay Rosie, flat on her back with both hands crossed over her chest as though in holy resignation, her eyes wide and bright while gazing up past the sheriff at the passing clouds. “Oh my goodness, Rosie, darling,” Alice squealed and pushing the young man out of her path, she knelt by her daughter and took one of her hands. “My dearest beloved,” she said, using words she had never before used to her daughter since Rosie turned three. “Tell me, beloved, are you feeling alright? And where the blazes did you go?”
Peg stared. This was definitely an exaggeration, since usually Alice called her daughter a useless and lazy little brat.
Alice then abruptly realised something else, for Rosie no longer wore the clothes she had worn that morning. Indeed, she now wore clothes she had never owned.
Everyone stared. From the doorstep, Rosie smiled back. She wore a high waisted gown of heavy damask in purples and blues, with a deep green silk shift beneath. Her hair had been styled into elaborate long curls with a plethora of ruby and pearl pins, which all seemed authentic, and her feet were clasped into tiny green leather booties over fine black silk stockings.
Such clothes were worn by royalty and the very rich, but they were not worn by Alice’s daughter, who spent most of her life sweeping floors, making beds, wiping up messes and scrubbing tables. Nor was this a costume any sensible witch bothered to climb into, since they were neither young nor pretty, nor did they often go out to the city. Country maidens wore rubbish. Cheaper and easier and didn’t need washing too often.
But when Marmaduke marched outside to see what was going on, he seemed entirely overcome and stood for some minutes with his mouth open. The sheriff’s assistant, meanwhile, marched indoors and looked around with interest. “There’s been another problem, I’m afraid,” he said, not looking in the least afraid of anything. “Several of your neighbours have complained about a recent smell. Decay, death and debauchery, I’ve been told. So I shall have to investigate.”
Peg was already outside, bending over Rosie. “What were you doing?” she demanded. “And where on earth did you get those clothes?”
“Hello, lady,” smiled Rosie. “You have a funny nose. Clothes? Don’t you like them? I think somebody gave them to me.”
“Can you stand up?” Marmaduke peered down, and snapped his mouth shut.
“Why should I?” asked Rosie. “I’m quite comfy down here. Have I been here long?”
“Not on the doorstep,” said Peg with a twitch of her insulted nose.
Having pushed inside after the unexpected and unwanted human, Alice clenched her hands. “Master Sheriff,” she said with an extremely false smile, “this house belongs to me, and I care for twenty aged and infirm poor dears, who have neither the coin nor the ability to look after themselves. You have no right to march in here and disturb them.”
“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 sm
ile, “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.”
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?”
