by B G Denvil
With a quick sideways smile at Rosie, he turned back to Alice, saying, “Well, mistress, I must investigate this most unpleasant murder. So I need to interview every one of your residents.”
Alice, Peg and Rosie all pulled a variety of faces, but there seemed little escape. “I shall send them in one at a time,” Alice sighed. “But I warn you, Master Wald, my resident folk here are a somewhat eccentric bunch. Please don’t judge them too harshly.”
“And perhaps,” he smiled sweetly again, “I could start with Mistress Rosie Scaramouch?”
Rosie sat. “I’ve been trying to work it out myself,” she said at once. “And I’ve got nowhere. But I’m not giving up.”
“And what were you doing that night?” the young man asked.
“Nothing.” Rosie managed a half smile. “I mean, I was in bed. I always am at night. There’s not much else to do.”
“And have you discovered nothing from your own investigations, mistress?”
“Not a twinge.”
“And who actually discovered the body?”
“Well,” Rosie remembered, “actually, I think it was me. Except no, it must have been Kate before me.” She bit her lip. “Not me. Kate. She’s the maid. Or maybe my mother.”
“I don’t wish to be rude,” Dickon said with an apologetic frown, “but this sounds a little like prevarication, Mistress Rosie.”
“I don’t care what it sounds like,” Rosie objected. “My mother told me Whistle was dead. He’d died in the night. She told me to go and clean up so we could rent the rooms out again. So I did. There was an awful mess, and Whistle was smashed up really badly. I liked Whistle, but I never knew him very well. Then I ran back downstairs, and my mother got the maid to clean up instead.”
“So how did your mother know in the beginning?”
Rosie thought about it. “She has quite good – instincts,” she smiled, determined to go and ask her mother the same question.
After leaving the interview, Rosie ran outside again, avoiding both Alice and Peg for a few moments. She needed to think and squatted down beside Whistle’s grave. “I do wish,” she mumbled, “you could come and tell me what happened.”
“Well,” muttered a small gravelly voice from beneath her chin, “what do you think I’m here for? Just to decorate your collar? Very pretty, I’m sure, but I have better things to do than just tickle your chin.”
Startled, Rosie nearly fell over. But she knew exactly who had spoken, and it wasn’t Whistle. “You’re a very nice hat-pin,” she told it, one finger rubbing gently over the ruby. “But you weren’t here when Whistle was murdered. If you can tell me anything magically, then I’d be most grateful. But how could I be sure whether to believe you?”
“Please yourself,” said the hat-pin. “I’m quite content to go back to sleep. Admittedly the view just under your chin gets a little monotonous, but I won’t complain.”
“You just did,” Rosie pointed out.
There was no answer, and she sat back, cross-legged, on the damp grass. It was true, of course, that her mother had been the first to speak of Whistle’s death, but presumably someone had told her, since she was not one to make early morning visits, and she certainly never went to clean or tidy anyone else’s bed. Yet Kate, when finally ordered to do the whole job, had not known what a terrible task she had been given. And Rosie couldn’t remember anyone else who had known of the death before she did – just her own mother. And her mother was already in with Dickon Wald when she went to find her.
She bumped into Peg and accepted the inevitable. “So who actually discovered Whistle’s body?” she demanded.
“Come with me,” Peg said, grabbing her arm. “This time we have to get well away from the influences of the house. No Rookery. No Kettle Lane.”
“The tavern?” Rosie quite liked the idea.
“Not even that.” And Peg smiled. “Now, my dear. Close your eyes and breathe deep. We have to fly high, since we can’t risk any of these boring mortals seeing us, especially Dickon the idiot.”
Dutifully Rosie closed her eyes and smelled cold air and salt. She hoped it was dinner. But when she opened her eyes, she realised it was nothing of the sort.
The ocean swept before them. The soft blue waves echoed the sky and swirled gently into white froth as they climbed down to the beach. The tide was out, the day was calm, and the wind was a tiny breeze from the east. Beneath their feet, the sand was warm, and sailing through the tiny wisps of cloud above, the gulls wailed as they swooped. The brine smelled salty, of great journeys, of storms far off in the greater waves, and of strange shores.
Rosie clasped her hands together in delight. Visiting the English beaches was not an activity she had ever indulged. The ocean was for fishing, for the stark fear of adventure that ended in drowning, submerged beneath the unforgiving waters. Therefore, no one called the beach entertainment. Yet Rosie stood there now under the sun, and thought she had discovered another kind of magic.
“Exactly,” said Peg, as though Rosie had spoken aloud. “And now I can start my own investigation. Are you comfortable? Good. Then I’ll begin.”
Keeping her eyes on the seemingly never-ending beauty before her, Rosie nodded. But when Peg began, Rosie interrupted. “Oh, not all about me again,” she complained. “I thought we were going to investigate Whistle.”
“We’ll get to that,” Peg insisted. “Now answer my question, dear. What do you remember of your magical test? I presume it was your tenth birthday?”
Lying back suddenly, Rosie clasped her hands behind her head, felt the soft nest of the sand beneath her and stared up at the sky and its family of swooping gulls. “I remember it in bits,” she said patiently. “It was only fourteen years ago, but I must admit some of it is extremely wobbly. Bits up and holes down. To start with, I know it was my real birthday, and that’s the first of July. Goodness knows why my stupid mother forgot my proper date and somehow dreamed up the ninth of June.”
“A hint of problems to come,” Peg murmured and continued, “So, my dear. Who was it exactly who monitored your test?”
“My mother was there.” Rosie had closed her eyes. “I remember her standing at the back, looking cross. I expect she hoped I’d get a better result, but I didn’t. I remember Whistle being there too, Not sure why. He stood beside my mother with a neat little smile. But the main person, very tall with one of those funny hats, was a stranger. I didn’t know him at all, and I’ve never seen him since.”
“That’s the way it should be,” Peg nodded. “Has to be someone over ninety him or herself, without knowledge or prejudice of the child being tested. Your mother should have remembered who it was, but it seems she has a remarkably poor memory.”
“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,” mumbl
ed 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?”
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 thereabouts. “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?”
