Sabotage at Somerset: A charmingly fun paranormal cozy mystery (Oxford Key Mysteries Book 4)

by Lynn Morrison

  Before I can reply, we're interrupted by a nearby shout. A man's voice rises above the chatter, calling out, "Mates, get a look at that crow! It's huge!"

  "It's the biggest bird I've ever seen. Take a photo of it!" another man replies.

  An enormous crow sitting here in the Botanic Garden? Crows are not known for living in populated areas. Can it be the crow from the Torture Museum — the one who helped Simon Beadle orchestrate his theft in the Ashmolean's archives? The same bird which sent a man tumbling to his death, moments before Beadle set the building on fire? If there is any chance that it is, H and I have to act fast.

  I turn to H, finding him deeply distressed. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Is there any chance it is a normal crow?"

  His eyes are wide with fury as he gives a furious shake of his head. He is literally steaming with rage at being pulled away from the promise of food to face off against his feathered nemesis.

  "Where is it? Let me at 'im!" H screeches, punctuating his words with a jet of flames. His snout twists from left to right, smoke leaking from his nostrils as he searches the treetops for the black bird.

  "Wait, H!" I shout. "We should get Bartie and my grandfather." But it's no use. Livid at the crow's incursion into his territory, H backs up and launches himself into a sprint, looking like a fighter pilot racing along the runway as he takes off for battle. And battle it will be if H manages to sink his talons into his Eternal enemy.

  I have no idea what the people around me see. The magic must be working hard to cover up the furious flight of an angry wyvern. H flaps his wings in a rapid pace, his talons outstretched, ready to do their damage. He takes a flying leap and bullets straight into the air.

  I call after him in vain. He is singularly determined, his eyes and ears fully focused on the black smudge hiding amongst the leafy green branches of the tall oak tree. I spin in a circle, taking stock of my location. Who's closer: Bartie or my grandfather? I catch a glimpse of the tall black iron gates which mark the entrance. Bartie it is.

  "Baaarrrrrrttiiiieeeeeee!" I shout, crossing my fingers as I dart after H. Bartie must have been close because he immediately appears at my side, his eyes wide open at the sight of my madcap dash.

  "The crow," I gasp. "It's here."

  Bartie disappears and reappears moments later, this time with my grandfather in tow. They jog behind me, all three of us following the sounds of thrashing tree branches pounding up ahead. A blast of orange red flames alerts us to H's location, and we quickly round the corner to catch up.

  It is the crow from the Torture Museum. Same beady black eyes sparkling with the promise of evil. Same greasy feathers as dark as the deepest night. The crow is even bigger than I remember. He is squared off against H, the two of them perched on opposite ends of a sprawling tree branch, both their chests heaving with exertion. Clearly, the battle started before Bartie, my grandfather and I got here.

  The gloating voice, however, is new. The crow's beak opens wide, shrieking an onslaught of insults in a screechy male voice that reminds me of fingernails running down a chalkboard.

  When he finishes his taunts, he turns to us and glowers, "Look at you lot, running around like fools. Is this the best Oxford has to offer?" It caws loudly, practically laughing in our faces.

  "Look who's talkin', ya bird brain," H sneers back. "Ya 'ave a shamed excuse fer a philosopher and a rejected museum director leadin' yer pack."

  The crow spreads its wings wide, flapping them in anger. It opens its beak, ready to retort, when H strikes.

  In a blaze of fire, H runs along the branch, tucks his wings in and launches himself, talons spread wide, at the evil bird. The crow flaps furiously, tumbling out of the way and barely managing to twist its fall into a glide.

  Bartie, my grandfather and I stand aghast as the two beastly Eternals take their battle to the air. I wring my hands, nervous that H might get hurt, but Bartie reaches over and pats my shoulder with reassurance. "No need to fear for H, Nat. He's got a clear advantage over the corvid."

  "What's that?" I ask, without taking my eyes off the mid-air battle. Before Bartie can reply, H takes a deep breath and sends a stream of fire at the bird, singeing its tail feathers.

  The crow realises his miscalculation around the same time. It scrambles higher, darting left and right to avoid the steady flow of flames licking at its clawed feet. For his part, H zooms close behind, offering the bird no quarter.

  It is the first time I get to see H in action as a fearsome wyvern instead of my cheeky mate. His yellow eyes glow even in the daylight, his aerodynamic scales helping him slip through any wind resistance.

  The two fly higher and higher, their bodies turning into backlit shadows against the bright summer sun. The crow maintains the lead, but that lead shrinks with every second.

  "Come on, H. You can do it," I cheer.

  Without warning, just as H spews a torrent of fire, the crow twists its flight into a dive, barely evading the flames. His beady eyes survey the landscape, searching for a way to avoid capture. I trace its descent, wondering where the crow will take the battle next.

  "Err, I think we have a problem," I shriek, getting Bartie and my grandfather's attention. "The crow is headed straight for the events lawn!" The men do their own math and arrive at the same conclusion, their faces draining of colour. I cup my hands in front of my mouth and pitch my voice as loud as I can, calling out, "H! The film crew!"

  Bartie and my grandfather disappear, but I'm left hotfooting it back the way I came. My leather flats slip on the gravel path, forcing me to slow down if I want to stay upright.

  I stumble onto the events lawn, my breath heaving and a stitch screaming in my side, to find utter chaos.

  The crow has abandoned its attempts to escape and is instead intent on ravaging the film set, causing as much collateral damage as possible. It buzzes the top of a picnic table, sending paper plates flying left and right. Next up is the camera crew. The crow flies figure eights, weaving in and out of the space between the trio, sending them ducking for cover.

  For his part, H is clearly torn between putting a stop to the bird's antics and helping fix the damage it leaves in its wake. The turning point comes when the crow makes a final pass over the lawn, using its claws to grab a mass of cables. Its wings beat in a maddened frenzy, tugging the cables higher and higher until they eventually sever in half.

  As the broken black cables tumble past, H spins in the air, chasing them back down to earth. Then, in a moment of sheer brilliance, he does what only he can do.

  He gathers the frayed ends, clutching them tightly in his talons, takes a deep breath and then spews his magical fire over them. The smoke fades to reveal perfect, unbroken lengths, magically made whole once again.

  The crow gives a final, distant caw before disappearing from sight.

  I bound over to H, heedless of whomever might be watching, and pull him into a giant hug. "Are you okay?" I whisper.

  "I'm right peeved," he grumbles. "Iffen that bird brain 'adn't tried ta torpedo the set, I'd 'ave 'ad it fer sure." H brushes off any further concerns, spinning around to prove he is injury free. Only his pride has been hurt.

  By the time I stand back up, Bartie and my grandfather, together with the magic, have managed to put everything back to rights. I hear a few mumbles about crazed cats and devilish birds, but otherwise, no one seems concerned about the battle that just took place.

  I escort H back to the Craft Services trailer where fortunately, there is no longer a queue to be served. H calls out his requests, which I translate for Sam, accepting the heaping plate of sausage rolls, chicken wings and mini wheels of baked brie. After his valiant effort, H deserves a hearty feast.

  We're barely seated at the now-empty picnic table when I hear a cry go up from the other end of the lawn.

  "The new scripts… they're gone! Someone's run off with the scripts!"

  Uncle Harold emerges from a nearby trailer, his frustration evident. As he directs the crew to search t
he area, I can't help but wonder. Was the crow here to distract us so Hobbes and Beadle could walk away with the scripts? Or did someone on the crew take advantage of the momentary disarray to create more chaos for the production?

  Finding out will take more than luck. I roll my shoulders back and steel myself for another investigation.

  "Bartie, Grandfather, you'd better alert the others. We need to regroup after work at my place. It's time we put together a plan to determine what exactly is going on here."

  ❖

  Later in the evening, H is comfortably ensconced in our front room, basking in his moment. Mathilde, Harry and Kate are seated on the sofa opposite his chair, peppering him with requests to re-enact his battle with the crow. Watching from the dining room, I can't help but think he deserves every minute of his time as the centre of attention.

  "Oh, I wish I could have seen it," Mathilde anguishes. "I'd have paid good money to see H give that old crow the what-for. He deserves every singed tail feather you gave him."

  "I'm more impressed by your quick thinking with the cables, H," Kate interjects. "You did the right thing by letting the crow escape. Your fiery breath saved the day's filming schedule. Well done, mate."

  Harry grabs her handbag and rummages through it, eventually pulling an oddly shaped, wrapped package from its depths. "Every hero deserves a reward, H. Hopefully you'll find this one to your liking." She passes it over to H, who stares dumbfounded at the gift.

  "Fer me?" he asks, as though he can't believe it. Harry nods and motions for him to hurry up and open it. He needs no further encouragement, making quick work of the brightly coloured paper and curly ribbon. His eyes twinkle with excitement as he beholds what is inside. "A wedge of Lincolnshire Poacher cheese, all fer me? It's my favourite, 'Arry!"

  "I know it is. It's yours and yours alone. You'll need to keep up your strength," Harry replies with a wink.

  Sensing a lull in the conversation, I step into the room and set the tray of hot drinks on the coffee table, telling everyone to help themselves. As I look around the room, I feel some of the tension from the day begin to slip away. My grandfather and Bartie have their heads together, sitting near the window, no doubt discussing what additional support the Eternals can offer. When Edward follows on my heels, carrying a bowl of crisps, the group is complete.

  Given our penchant for group gatherings, I made the wise choice to furnish the front room with a sofa and several armchairs. When you add in the cushioned seat in the window, there is space for all of us.

  "Thanks for coming by on your way home from work. The situation is growing more serious by the day. Our original plan to lure Beadle and Hobbes to Oxford and catch them in the act needs a rethink."

  I pause to see if anyone disagrees with my view, but they all sit quietly, with varying degrees of worry on their faces. "I'm not sure how much each of you know, so for the sake of completeness, I'll quickly run through everything that has happened on set and around the centre so far."

  As I recount our chase through the covered market, the crashing light, learning about the curse and everything else, the sheer volume of troubles blankets the room. Even Harry, our battle axe, has worry lines wrinkling her forehead.

  When I wrap up with the missing scripts, Kate sighs in frustration. "I hate to admit it, but I think we underestimated Beadle and Hobbes. What I don't know is whether they've had Eternals from the Torture Museum lurking around Oxford this entire time, or if this is a sign they are ramping up their efforts."

  "I think they are ramping up," Mathilde states confidently. "There is no way unknown Eternals could pass unnoticed in Oxford. They'd be spotted eventually by one of the Eternal creatures like H or a ghost. I think our plan worked too well."

  I lean forward, curious about her last sentence. "What do you mean?"

  "We wanted a lure that Beadle and Hobbes wouldn't be able to resist. And what's better than the chance to destroy part of your enemy's legacy? It caught their attention, but maybe it also aroused their suspicions. If they know we're on to them, they have fewer reasons to try to cover their tracks as they've done before."

  "It's true," Kate adds, looking grim. "They've gotten away with multiple break-ins, stealing items from Iffley, St Margaret, Barnard and the Ash. Perhaps they think they can't be stopped."

  Harry harrumphs from her end of the sofa. "That's fine. Let them keep their confidence. People who think they can get away with bloody murder always end up getting nabbed in the end. Their confidence will lead them to make a mistake."

  "Let's hope so, Harry," Edward agrees. "Our problem is that we still don't know what their end game is here. Do they simply want to steal enough items to solidify their new connection to the magic? Or do they want to rip our connection away?" He taps his chin, considering all the options. "It could also be as simple as a case of revenge. Maybe this isn't about the magic anymore. Maybe their only goal is to take down Wilkins' legacy and Kate's job at the Ash."

  Edward's words land like a lead weight, leaving us all stumped. My grandfather rises to his feet and crosses the room to stand in front of the fireplace. "Bartie and I have spoken with the other Eternals. We all agree that it should be easier to keep an eye on things when the production moves to Somerset College tomorrow." He scans the group, pausing to look Kate, Mathilde and me each in the eye. "How do you three want to play this?"

  Mathilde and Kate exchange meaningful glances. Mathilde speaks up, "Not to put you on the hot seat, Nat, but you are our resident planner and the only one of us who will be at Somerset the entire time. Seems only right that you should make the call."

  I roll my eyes, unsurprised to draw the proverbial short straw once again. "Planner extraordinaire to the rescue, I guess."

  I reach over to the nearby bookshelf and retrieve a pad and pen, weighing our options. "We need to plan two tracks for our investigation. The first priority has to be Beadle and Hobbes. We know they are willing to kill to achieve their ends. That puts identifying the mischief-maker within the film crew in second place. If someone on the crew is trying to sabotage the production, we'll spot them eventually. Especially if we've got all hands on deck to keep an eye out for Beadle and his murderous crew."

  "I'll speak with the Eternals. Given the circumstances, I am sure we can entice a few of them to leave their hallowed college halls and take up a surveillance area," my grandfather offers. Bartie voices his agreement, offering to cover the University Parks in addition to St Margaret.

  I make note of the assignments on my pad, checking them against the action plan. "That leaves me with Somerset. H and I will track down Somerset's Eternals first thing tomorrow."

  "Don't forget about Trevor," Mathilde calls out. "He is due to visit the set tomorrow."

  I brighten up, delighted to have the extra help. "Fab! I wonder what time he is planning to come… Uncle Harold must know…"

  Mathilde coughs, causing me to look over in time to see a flush colour her cheeks. "Um, he said early afternoon."

  Her awkward manner and rosy cheeks attract Harry and Kate's attention. Almost in unison, the two of them turn towards Mathilde, displaying the same curious gaze.

  Mathilde decides to brave through her embarrassment, pretending it is nothing. "What? I offered to meet him. He had to let me know what time he will be there."

  Harry narrows her eyes, unconvinced by Mathilde's offhanded explanation, but Mathilde straightens her shoulders, almost daring Harry to call her out on it. I have to give it to Mathilde. If there is any sort of affection blossoming between her and Trevor, she sure is keeping it close to her chest.

  Sensing the need for an intervention, I call Harry's name. "I forgot to mention one key piece of information, which I'm sure will be of interest to you, Harry."

  "What's that?" she asks, still eyeing Mathilde.

  "I met Caleb Farrow today."

  Harry's head spins around so quickly I worry she's given herself whiplash. "Caleb? You met him? Ohh!" she squeals. "What's he like in person? Is he as
gorgeous in real life?"

  "Even more handsome," I reassure her. "He called me 'Lady Natalie' and bowed when he met me."

  Harry practically swoons in her spot on the sofa. Chuckling, Kate grabs a takeaway flyer from the coffee table and fans her.

  Hand to her chest, Harry confesses, "I am so excited, Nat. I can't believe he didn't show up on the first day at the garden. Do you know his shoot schedule? I can't wait to meet him."

  "I'll check the college filming schedule tomorrow and send you a text. I cannot wait for you to meet him either!"

  If only Harry knew how much I mean that! One big question remains — do I warn Harry in advance about Caleb's penchant for staying in character, or do I let her discover this quirk for herself?

  Chapter Four

  Of all the days to sleep through my alarm, it had to be this one. I had turned in early enough yesterday evening, dropping off into an exhausted sleep within minutes, and I fully expected to wake up this morning in the exact same position in which I'd nodded off.

  However, the neighbourhood cats had other plans in mind.

  Was it only a few days ago that I cautioned H not to set them on fire? Well, whatever sympathy I had for them is now gone. It had disappeared around two in the morning, when they lined up for a chorus on my back fence. Worn out by his battle with the crow, his belly full of Lincolnshire Poacher cheese, H had fallen into a serene sleep in the downstairs reception room. While I had 'enjoyed' a front row seat at the feline concert, H was blissfully unaware of our visitors.

  By the time I make it down to breakfast, I'm seething with rage.

  "That's it, H; I am done playing Mr Nice Guy. You have my full permission to unleash your worst on the neighbourhood cats. If the magic sees fit to save them, hopefully it will leave them with enough sense not to return."

  H opens his mouth, thinking to calm me down, but decides that in this case discretion is the better part of valour. He scuttles off to his garden house, breakfast in hand, but makes sure to pour me a cup of fresh coffee before he goes.