by B G Denvil
“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 remember 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.
“Ah,” Peg said, very loudly as she marched into the kitchen from the garden. “What a pleasant surprise. Just who I wanted to talk to.”
Opening the other eye, Alice stared, disgruntled. “Why?”
“Oh, ancient history and a few other things,” she said. “And I have a few questions regarding your dear daughter. I just had the pleasure of visiting your husband. Have you seen Alfred lately?”
“Not for a few years,” sniffed Alice. “Six or seven maybe. But the crows would tell me if he’d dropped dead or caught malaria.”
“And would it seem dreadfully odd,” Peg asked sweetly, “if I was to ask you all about Rosie’s birth. Your only child. Such a drama, I’m sure. You must remember.”
“Of course I remember,” Alice snapped. “Doesn’t mean I want to talk about it. The greatest pain a woman ever has, you know. Well, of course, you wouldn’t know. There’s few witches have children these days. There’s few who even get married, let alone do the mother thing. So buzz off and talk to the crows about their eggs, and what a fuss and bother it is feeding the silly little things every year.”
“I presume,” Peg sat opposite as if starting an interrogation, “you feel quite proud of yourself being one of our few actual mothers?”
“Why not?” demanded Alice with a curdled smile. “Now if you’re writing a history book or something, get on with the questions. I haven’t got all day.”
“Actually, you have several days,” Peg replied. “But I only want to know about Rosie’s ten years test. She came out as a fifty, as we all know now. But who did the test? Was it the official tester? And was it
a straight fifty? No little scaramouch tails on the end?”
“Oh, this is so boring,” frowned Alice. “Let me try and remember. Yes, Rosie was ten. Her tenth birthday, as is proper. It was all very conventional, you know. And, yes, it was a straight fifty.”
“Who did the test?” Peg insisted.
“Oh, I don’t remember that. It might have been Whistle himself,” Alice said, clearing her throat as though uncomfortable in some way. “But I’m afraid I lost the papers years back.”
“And you haven’t summoned their return?”
“Not important enough,” Alice was getting impatient. “If you think Rosie is not a fifty any longer, then test her yourself. It couldn’t be official, naturally. But for you to satisfy this irritating curiosity.”
“I do so like to irritate,’ said Peg. “I might just do that. I would have supposed it was that Edna person. Edna Edith Elsie Ethel or something like that. She did all the tests before she flew off to some cave in Scotland.”
“Never heard of her,” grumbled Alice.
“Really?” Peg’s grin turned into a cackle. “Sounds like your dear husband whose name you’ve probably forgotten, who said he’d never met Whistle. In the meantime, exactly when is Rosie’s birthday? Now don’t tell me you’ve lost that as well?”
The deep crimson flush rising from jaw to eyes was a reasonable indication of how the irritation was affecting Alice. “Ridiculous,” she mumbled. “Of course I remember. I was there, wasn’t I?”
“And?”
Rosie, standing quietly behind Peg, was tempted to interrupt since she knew her birthdate perfectly well, but she snapped her mouth shut again and lowered her eyes to her lap.
Alice meanwhile said loudly, “Absurd, Mistress Peg. That’s enough. Why didn’t you ask Alfred if you were over there a minute ago? I’ll answer this and no more. Rosie was born on the ninth of June. Umm, yes, twenty-three years ago. Now, satisfied? Good, I have work to do now. Goodbye.”
And she scuttled off, disappearing into the garden with an empty basket she had quickly grabbed on the way out.
Peg looked at Rosie, and Rosie’s mouth had fallen open again. Peg grinned. “Well, my dear,” she said. “I hope you found that most interesting?”
Rosie gulped. “So my mother has a bad memory. That’s not important,” Rosie muttered. “You keep forgetting things and get them muddled as well.”
“But I hope I am right in saying your birthdate was the eighteenth of June when you’ll turn twenty-five? And now you’re twenty-four?”
Rosie nodded. “But who cares? I don’t care about my mother. Never have. She’s looked after me for years, and I’m grateful, but she’s no darling. Anyway, the important thing is Whistle’s death, and none of this about me has any relevance at all.” Rosie felt upset and said so. “You’ve just made me feel even more rotten about my stupid mother, which doesn’t matter in the slightest. I care about Whistle. So let’s get on with it.”
“You don’t want the test?” Peg asked with a sniff. “I have no official permission to do the test, but I’m perfectly capable, you know.”
“Like the occasional visit to the Gobi Desert?”
“Oh, pooh,” Peg’s nose twitched several times. “Anyway, it wouldn’t prove anything. So, come with me, my dear.”
“Where?”
A stubborn desire had left Rosie with a stubborn desire expression. “Nothing more about me,” she said through her teeth. “No more me, me, me or my mother or even my father. Only and strictly just Whistle.”
Peg sighed. “Come on then, my dear. Whistle’s bedchamber it is.” And she clicked the fingers of her right hand, flying Rosie and herself from the back doorstep up to the top floor where the grandeur of Whistle’s two rooms still remained vacant.
Both rooms had been cleaned and tidied. A strong cider and wet parsnip smell pervaded. Kate, the maid, had clearly used her homemade disinfectant. The bedchamber seemed surprisingly banal. Without any hint of the previous occupant, the bed was made, the table top was empty, the shelves were neat and the Turkey rug on the floor lay flat.
They wandered through to the second chamber and gazed at the nothingness. A chair and two stools stood around an empty hearth, another rug beneath and another empty table off to the side.
“Bother,” said Rosie.
Peg said a lot more, but kept the words under her breath. Finally, she shrugged, nodded for Rosie to take her hand and follow, and flew down the stairs to the ground floor at the back, just beyond the courtyards where the abandoned stables had been taken over by the staff, both Kate and Dipper now lodging there.
Knocking on Kate’s door first, Peg pushed the way open and marched inside. “Right,” she said. “What have you done with all Whistle’s papers and books and scrolls?”
Once again outside amongst the crows and other birds, Rosie smiled. She could understand very well why her father had taken to the trees. The rustle and song were far more beautiful than the shouting and the kitchen bell within the building. But, as her father had shown, Kate was not overjoyed at being so abruptly visited. She wiped her hands on her apron, sniffed onto her sleeve, and made a sort of haphazard curtsey. “I weren’t skiving orff,” she said. “’Tis my time fer meself.”
“Just a friendly visit,” Peg assured her. “Now, what have you done with all Whistle Hobb’s papers? Quick, and we’ll leave you in peace.”
“I ain’t stole nuffing.”
“Prove it, and hand them over,” said Peg.
Kate scowled. “Torn up and burned,” she said. “Mistress Alice done ordered it, and she done lit the fire fer me an’ all. So I ain’t got nuffing.”
Peg stepped backwards with an expression of fury mixed with disappointment. “My own stupid fault,” she muttered to herself. “I had those things in my hands. All of them. And I let them go. Botheration and diddley-poo with horns on.” She turned back to Kate. “When you cleaned up,” she said with an encouraging smile which seemed distinctly false, “did you see anything odd you can tell me about? And better still, have you kept anything?” She paused, then added, “I shall pay to get it back, whatever it is.”
“I done gived it all to Mistress Alice,” Kate said. “Now I ain’t got nuffing. But yous can pay me anyways.”
“Tell me what you remember?” Peg pleased, attempting a softer approach. “It’s most important. Just try.”
She sighed, still frowning at Peg. Rosie was sitting in the corner, gazing out of the window at the crows. She wished she could join her father and go and feed them.
“Jumble and rumble,” muttered Kate. “There were papers o’ so many kinds it were real tedious, and they all done shouted at me. I screwed ‘em up. That shut the little moaners up. Then there were scales what I dropped and broke, and Master Hobb’s cape what wouldn’t sit still. Some stuff were silver, and I knows as how that were proper valuable, so I gived it all to Mistress Alice.”
“Really?” Peg smiled faintly.
“There were little tufty things and scoopy stuff. I reckon there was some o’ the gent’s brains, but I just wiped that up an’ all.”
“Oh, very well,” Peg said. “Just one thing more. Give me the two silver items you stole, and I shall give you two honest sovereigns.”
Kate blinked. “Not made up coin what’s gonna fade out tomorrow?”
“No. The real stuff. And not a single word to Alice. Just a secret between us.”
Kate bustled off and returned with a clutch of silver, which she stuffed into Rosie’s apron pocket with a snicker. “Right. Where’s me dosh?”
Peg handed over the two golden sovereigns, and leaving Kate to gloat over her coins, Peg and Rosie left the stables and flew back up to Peg’s bedchamber.
Eight
Peg stretched out both hands and stared at the silver items she held, one in each. One small pile of glitter appeared to be a misshapen silver toadstool. Peg’s right hand clutched something far larger. This was a spoon, big enough to feed an overgrown ox. She laid bot
h objects beside her on the bed and stared, then rubbed her index finger carefully over each one. She whispered at both, held one and blew on the other, swapped over, and eventually pointed at one after the other and demanded, “Explain yourselves.”
The spoon was reflecting Peg’s pursed mouth. It had a deep voice. “You may have noticed,” it said, “that I’m a spoon.”
The toadstool sniggered. “He’s fibbing,” it said. “He’s a clock. Tells the time, the date and the past. Sometimes, when he’s in the right mood, he can tell the future.”
Leaning forward with sudden delight, Rosie began to take an interest. “Brilliant,” she said, ignoring Peg. “So who killed poor Whistle.?”
“Not me,” said the spoon at once. “And anyway, you’ll have to wait for permission. In the meantime, you’ve got a visitor. Come back later.”
The toadstool was sniggering again. “He’s an arrogant spoon,” it advised. “Needs a spoonful of wine, I expect.”
When there was a knock on the main door downstairs. Peg cursed again. “Who is it?”
“The sheriff’s assistant,” said the spoon with a voice of vague boredom. “It’s you lot he wants. I may see you later, unless I’ve gone back to sleep.”
“Upstairs, downstairs, up and down, up and down,” Peg complained. “Come on, my girl. Your admirer won’t take long, I hope, and we can come back here.”
“My admirer?” Rosie was not amused.
“Not only just a pathetic fifty,” Peg shrugged, “but blind and deaf as well. Come on, dear. We’ll fly.”
Rosie was a little surprised at such unaccustomed insults, but with hands clasped tight to Peg’s, she followed her down to the front door and watched as Alice opened it to Dickon, the same sheriff’s assistant who had come two days previously. They showed him into the meeting hall where he sat and surveyed his audience.
