A Gaggle of Ghastly Grandmamas: Wonky Inn Book 9

by Jeannie Wycherley

  I located George and Andy Borewick in the kitchen. Finbarr was sitting on a bench at the table, his face woebegone.

  “What’s going on?” I demanded.

  George headed me off before I could reach my Irish friend, ushering me gently out of the kitchen. “What are you playing at?” I asked him.

  George looked uncomfortable. “Sorry, Alf. It does seem that Finbarr has been a little liberal with the truth.”

  “What does that mean?” I glowered up at him.

  “It just means that he didn’t tell us he’d been out on a walk with Delia the day before she died.”

  Ah. Of course he had done that. “I set that up for them. It doesn’t mean that he killed her.”

  “It doesn’t mean that he didn’t either,” George replied. “My guv’nor is on the case. I think he’s a bit spooked by your friends from London.”

  “They’re not my friends—”

  “Whatever. He wants us to produce some results.” George nodded in the direction of the kitchen. “DC Borewick thinks Finbarr is our man.”

  “Well, he isn’t.” I folded my arms across my chest. “Borewick is a fool.”

  “I don’t think he’s a fool. Mistaken maybe.” George sighed. “Look, Andy is young. He’s a graduate. He wants to make a name for himself. He’ll soon see there’s no evidence to base this assertion on. In the meantime, he wants to interview Finbarr under caution. It won’t hurt.”

  “Here?”

  “No. Down at the station.”

  “You can’t do that,” I said automatically, and the more I thought about it, the more I realised that taking Finbarr away from Whittle Inn would be a disaster all round. Finbarr maintained the perimeter boundary that kept The Mori at bay. More than that, he lived for the outdoors. It was all he cared about. If the police threw him in a cell, how would he survive? “Please don’t,” I begged. “Can’t you interview him here? Can’t I be with him?”

  “He’s not being very forthcoming, Alf. That’s why we need to take him into town.”

  “Let me talk to him.” I grabbed George’s arm. “I’ll ask him to tell you everything he knows and if you still think that he’s the one to blame then you can take him … but you won’t.”

  “I don’t know,” George frowned. “I’d have to persuade DC Borewick.”

  “You can do it.” I gripped his shoulders. “For me. Please.”

  His face softened, a soft crinkling of the skin around his eyes. “Alright. Wait here. Let me see what I can do.”

  Five minutes later, I was sitting next to Finbarr and DC Borewick was scrutinising the pair of us with much distrust.

  “You need to tell them everything, Finbarr,” I reiterated. “I’ve promised them that you’ll tell the truth.”

  “There’s just not that much to tell, Alfhild,” Finbarr avoided my eyes. Obviously there was.

  “Let’s start by how you came to be in the forest with Miss Cuthbert,” George ventured.

  Finbarr cast a sideways glance at me, and I knew he thought he’d be incriminating me. “The truth,” I said, my voice firm. “All of it.”

  Finbarr took a deep breath. “Alfhild here approached me two days ago, when all of our guests had started to arrive. She said she had been asked to take someone on a tour of Speckled Wood, but because she was busy she wouldn’t be able to do it.”

  “And you were happy to do that?” the young DC asked.

  “Aye, to be sure.” He sounded anything but sure.

  “Finbarr,” George prompted.

  “Well, alright, maybe not. Alfhild said this woman, Delia Cuthbert, was a bit of a special case. A bit strange, like.”

  “So you’re suggesting Alfhild didn’t like Ms Cuthbert?” Borewick asked. He had his notebook and pen out and was poised to take notes.

  “I didn’t say that,” Finbarr protested.

  I interjected. “It’s not that I didn’t like her. I’m sure I didn’t know her properly at all. It’s more that she did seem to need a lot of attention, I suppose.”

  “Thank you, Ms Daemonne. I’d just like to remind you that it’s Finbarr we’re interviewing here.”

  My eyebrows shot up into my hairline. Cheeky little man. My wand hand itched.

  George narrowed his eyes at me, and I slumped on the bench and sulked.

  “Go on,” said Borewick. “What happened next?”

  “I sought out Delia in the bar where she was sitting with some other ladies.”

  “Her mother?” George asked.

  Finbarr shrugged.

  “I don’t believe so,” I said, casting my mind back. “I think it was Phyllis Bliss, one of my great-grandmother’s oldest friends, and Phyllis’s chums.”

  Borewick glared at me and Finbarr jumped in quickly. “Ah, that’d be right. I remember that lady now. Phyllis, ye say?” He checked with me and I nodded. “Rather strait-laced and old-fashioned in a buttoned-up kind of way, I’m thinking?”

  “That’s her,” I confirmed. A perfect description of the old battleaxe.

  “Because now that you mention it, she and Delia were having a difference of opinion.”

  “What about?” I squinted at him in surprise.

  “Ms Daemonne?” Borewick interrupted.

  “You’re not supposed to be asking the questions,” George reminded me, but I heard the barely suppressed amusement in his voice.

  I looked up at both officers. “Sorry. But that’s important information, isn’t it? That Delia had a bit of a tiff with Phyllis?” Was I dumping Phyllis in deep do-do? Possibly. I decided it was payback for all the times she’d criticised me over the past few days, and although deep inside I recognised that it did seem to be a mean thing to be doing, I had to sow some reasonable doubts into young Andy’s mind, before he got carried away and ended up arresting my Irish friend.

  “And what about Charity?” I continued. “You know she had a difference of opinion with Delia too.”

  George cleared his throat and tipped his head at me. A warning that I was pushing my luck. I pressed my lips together.

  “Do you recall what Delia and Mrs Bliss were discussing?” Borewick asked.

  Finbarr looked perplexed. “To be sure, I have no interest at all in what women gossip about.” He slapped his hand on the table and leaned forwards to address Borewick more forcefully. “That’s why I prefer to live in the grounds of Whittle Inn, then I don’t have to listen to all the sniping that goes on in here.”

  I gaped at the Irish witch. “Finbarr!”

  He smiled, his face suddenly sheepish. “Ah, well, I didn’t mean to cause offence, Alfhild. You know that.”

  “It’s just banter,” I explained. “We all love each other really.” Did that sound desperate? I couldn’t deny we weren’t exactly The Partridge Family here at Whittle Inn. We had our differences.

  “You took Delia into the forest?” George asked.

  “I did. We had about an hour of decent light before dusk fell, but it was cold and she wasn’t dressed for a decent walk, and I really don’t think she was well. I suggested turning back—maybe getting a warm bath and a hot toddy—but she wanted to press on.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Where do you think she wanted to go?”

  Finbarr shook his head. “I don’t know.” He remained quiet for a moment, casting his mind back. “I really don’t. But now, thinking about it, maybe she was looking for something or somewhere?”

  “And did she find it?” Borewick asked.

  “Well if she did, I don’t know what ‘it’ was.”

  “So what was your disagreement about?” Borewick asked.

  Finbarr leaned back against the wall, eyeing the DC with evident frustration. “I wasn’t disagreeing. I don’t do disagreeing. I’m a simple man. I like to keep the peace.”

  Borewick sighed. “Well, alright. But—”

  “If you’re wanting to know why Delia was upset, I’d suggest it was because I told her it was getting dark and we needed to come back to the inn.” He gestured dow
n at his feet, clad in his thick-soled, mud-encrusted leather walking boots. “I know my way around the woods but, with the greatest of respect, Delia didn’t strike me as anything more than a city dweller.” He leaned over the table once more and began to spell it out for the detectives. “She wasn’t wearing the right footwear. She didn’t sound well. It was beginning to get dark. That’s all.”

  I folded my arms and lifted my chin. “There you have it!”

  Borewick tapped his pen against his lips. George shifted his weight from one foot to the other. We all waited. Finbarr drummed his fingers on the top of the table, his knee jiggling until I reached out and lay my hand on it.

  “Under the circumstances—” Borewick began.

  I glared at him.

  George coughed.

  “We—I—it’s fine,” the DC relented. “Mr Finbarr, you can go about your business for now.” Finbarr whooped and jumped to his feet.

  “Just don’t leave Whittlecombe without talking to me f—”

  But the back door had slammed shut and Finbarr had already disappeared.

  I clasped my hands together and smiled up at George. “That went well, I thought.”

  Of course all actions, direct or indirect, lead to consequences, and less than five minutes later, George and Borewick were interrogating Phyllis Bliss in the corner of the bar. Elise had also taken an interest by now, and she sat next to Ezra, both of them regarding Phyllis with undisguised interest. I shouldn’t have been taking such a mawkish delight in ruffling her feathers, I suppose …

  … but I was.

  I hovered behind the bar, ostensibly drying glasses and filling the shelves, slicing lemons and that sort of thing, but all the time I had my ears craning to pick up the conversation. Phyllis Bliss happily played her part. Her voice was like a foghorn in a funeral parlour.

  Borewick had cut straight to the chase. “We understand you had a slight difference of opinion with Delia Cuthbert the evening before her death, Mrs Bliss. Would you care to tell us about that?”

  Phyllis glared at the young detective over the top of her tortoiseshell spectacles. “Who told you that?” she snapped.

  “It doesn’t matter who told us.” George lounged against the wall, notebook in hand.

  “Someone with a grudge against me, I’ll wager?”

  “Why would someone have a grudge against you?” Borewick asked.

  Indeed, I thought. Why would they? Sometimes it seemed to me that my guests had more secrets than Harry Potter’s chamber.

  “There are plenty of witches staying here at this inn, members of my own sorority, who are jealous of all I have achieved in my lifetime. I’m very well thought of—”

  “That’s right,” Elise chipped in. “I checked you out, Mrs Bliss—”

  Phyllis flushed. “Of course, I—”

  “You are certainly known to the Ministry of Witches,” Elise said, choosing her words carefully.

  Ooh. I raised my eyebrows, forgetting for a moment I shouldn’t have been eavesdropping.

  George shot a knowing look my way and I hurriedly dropped my gaze and set to drying glasses again.

  “Is that something I need to make a note of?” Borewick asked Elise.

  She shook her head. “It’s not relevant to what has happened here.”

  “Oh.” For some reason, Borewick found Elise more formidable to work with than George. I guess Elise was an unknown quantity. She certainly didn’t suffer fools gladly. She was polite and sharp as a tack. Her winning smile hid a core of steel.

  “Putting aside that someone may have a grudge against you,” George said, “what was your argument with Delia Cuthbert about?”

  Phyllis huffed. “I think it would be too strong a word to call it an argument,” she reiterated. “It’s just—” she fumbled around for the words. “Well, if I’m honest, I found her an incredibly rude young woman.”

  “In what way?” Borewick probed.

  Phyllis glowered. “In every way, quite frankly.” She wrinkled her nose. “All that coughing and sniffing … she had no manners to speak of. Never seemed to have a handkerchief or a tissue. Quite revolting.”

  “So, you called her out for her lack of manners?” Elise suggested.

  “No,” Phyllis shook her head. “Well yes, I may have done, but that wasn’t what we … differed over.”

  Elise leaned forward. “Go on.”

  “She insulted my grandson.” Phyllis looked most aggrieved. “I may have taken offence at that.” I had no doubt whatsoever that she had. The way she spoke about her grandson constantly, you could be forgiven for thinking that the sun shone out of his nether regions.

  “So she and your grandson have some sort of history together?”

  Phyllis shook her head, her eyes blank. “Do you know, young man, I have no idea. Prior to being invited here to celebrate all things Kappa Sigma Granma, I had never come across the Cuthberts before.”

  From my vantage point behind the bar, I stopped. That struck me as odd. Why would one of the founding members of Kappa Sigma Granma not know each and every member? I made a mental note to ask Gwyn about that.

  “What did Delia Cuthbert say that you felt was an affront to your grandson?” Elise asked.

  “She suggested that … in her words … he was all mouth and no trousers.”

  Elise tried to hide a smile. “And what did you take that to mean?”

  “My grandson is a great witch. One of the finest of his generation. I find it hard to believe that anyone could think he is all form and no substance. I believe he will go on to do many more great things.”

  I rolled my eyes. Who was this chap she kept going on about? I could envisage him now. Jason Momoa with neatly cropped blond hair, because he would be taller, fitter and more handsome than any other man ever. He’d have graduated from the University of Witches with a Double First and gone straight to work for the Ministry of Witches on full pay, despite everyone else working at apprentice rates for the first seven years. He’d have been made head of his coven within the first twelve months and would no doubt have an equally perfect girlfriend. All of this, and he’d be what age? Twenty-three? Twenty-four? It irked me that someone could be so successful while I cleaned up bits of congealed egg from the tables in my wonky inn.

  Phyllis was undoubtedly laying it on with a trowel. The person she was really describing was a kid barely out of short trousers, surely? Someone who could still remember playing with Lego. Not a grown-up like me who had almost forgotten the joy of playing Buckaroo.

  Okay, I hadn’t forgotten that particular joy.

  But … think of how many young people showed great promise at school, then attended an academy somewhere and lost the plot. Puberty has a lot to answer for.

  Especially in male witches.

  Still. I couldn’t help harbouring some silent sympathy for Phyllis. She was his grandmother. Of course she was proud of him and of course she would want to stick up for him. If Delia had bad-mouthed Gwyn, I’d have taken offence equally quickly.

  “Hi Alf.”

  I jumped. Ezra had crept up on me while I’d been earwigging.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a cup of coffee, is there?”

  “Of course,” I said, and flipped the switch on the coffee machine. It glugged and gurgled, effectively drowning out the conversation from behind me.

  “How’s your boiler?” Ezra asked, and waggled his eyebrows.

  I laughed. “It’s working again this morning, but it’s very temperamental.” That reminded me. “You said you knew a specialist heating engineer?”

  “I do. My brother-in-law. He has an office and a workshop in a little lane behind Celestial Street.”

  “He might be just what I need, after all,” I nodded, holding a mug under the dribble of coffee emanating from the nozzle in front of me. “The boiler is a Spellbinder model and not only is it now obsolete, but not a single one of the companies I’ve contacted has any recollection of it.”

  “Well
, exactly,” said Ezra, sounding pleased. “That’s because it’s specific to witches.”

  Just as I’d started to suspect.

  Ezra pulled his notebook out of his pocket and wrote a number down, before tearing the page free and handing it over. “Give my brother-in-law a call. He can fix anything.”

  “I’ll do that, thank you.” I folded the slip of paper up and slipped it into my wand pocket, then handed the coffee over to Ezra. He winked and headed out towards The Snug.

  I resumed my polishing of pint glasses, wondering what the interview with Phyllis had thrown up.

  “Do you know how Delia had had contact with your grandson previously?” Elise was asking.

  “I have no idea, Officer. Perhaps you’d better ask him.”

  “Perhaps we had,” said George, and stole a look at me.

  Phyllis hauled herself to her feet. As far as she was concerned, the interview was over. “I’ve had quite enough of this. It was supposed to be a fun week—and goodness knows it wasn’t cheap—” she glared at me. I gave up all pretence of not snooping. “I want to go home.”

  Oh no! The last thing I needed was for every member of Kappa Sigma Granma to swan off home in a huff. If that happened, I’d be sorting out refunds for evermore and my boiler would never be fixed.

  “Oh, Phyllis!” I dashed out from behind the bar. “Please don’t leave. We love having you here.”

  Phyllis curled her lip. “I’m not sure that’s true, Alfhild.”

  “Oh, it is,” I lied. “Gwyn especially, you know she values your company so much.”

  “Indeed.” Phyllis considered this. “I suppose it would be difficult to get my transportation back here.”

  “It would.” Another lie on my part. It had been a cab. I only had to make one phone call and I could summon another one to the inn … to whisk Phyllis away forever.

  “Never mind. I’ll ask my grandson to come and collect me.” Phyllis swivelled on her heel and stormed away.

  “So Phyliss’s grandson is coming all the way down here to drive her back to London?” Charity looked as confused as I felt.