The Witching Hour

by Morgana Best

  Before I had a chance to respond, the minister announced another hymn. I consulted the hymn book but didn’t feel in the mood for singing. The church itself looked like the one in The Vicar of Dibley, and I thought it would be more fun if Dawn French was taking the service.

  Mercifully, the service came to an end. Cassandra and I followed Aunty June to her hire car for the drive to the High Wycombe cemetery. On the way to the car, I passed a group of mourners and was surprised to see they appeared genuinely upset. It was as if they had known Aunt Beth after all. So why were they pretending they hadn’t?

  The High Wycombe cemetery was hilly. It had never occurred to me that cemeteries could be hilly. Back home, all the ones I had visited were on flat ground and certainly were void of scenic views. What’s more, the High Wycombe cemetery was in the centre of town, right around the corner from Aunt Beth’s.

  I helped Cassandra down the railed stairway into the lower section of the grounds. There was a magnificent view of the faraway hills beyond rolling fields, and to the right was a cluster of typical English houses in the direction of Aunt Beth’s house.

  I had a feeling I was being watched, but shook it off. Anyone would be spooked in a cemetery.

  A man hurried over to us and introduced himself as the funeral director. After the standard platitudes, he extolled the virtues of pay-before-you-go funerals, and assured us that once someone has paid for their funeral, no family member would ever again have to pay a penny. He looked at Cassandra pointedly while speaking, and I noticed her face was growing redder.

  “He must think I’m near my use-by date,” Cassandra said to me in a stage whisper.

  Undeterred, the funeral director continued to list the advantages of paying for a funeral in advance.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “We don’t intend to die soon, so we’re not in the market.”

  Cassandra chuckled. The funeral director made no attempt to leave, so I addressed him again. “When my aunt died, she was not attended by her regular doctor. In fact, she didn’t even know she’d died. The doctor who did attend called you. How would I find out his name?”

  “You’d have to ask at the cemetery office.”

  Two elderly ladies walked over and introduced themselves and told me that they lived in the same street as Aunt Beth. I thanked them for coming, but only had a sentence out before the funeral director cornered them with his sales pitch.

  The service at the graveside was brief, and I was the only one to cry. Cassandra had told me that at her age she was used to friends passing over, so she was holding up well.

  I cried more when I thought of the people I had lost, and then I cried for my two dogs that had passed on in the last few years, my Rottweiler and my Golden Retriever. As I was alone in England, I cried some more. I started to cry from self pity, and then I cried even harder as I felt selfish for crying from self pity.

  Lucky I had my sunglasses on, for I had been foolish enough to wear non-waterproof mascara. I noticed some of the people in back dabbing at their eyes with tissues. They certainly were going above and beyond the call of duty, pretending they were upset about someone they hadn’t known. Or had they? Something just wasn’t right.

  A familiar voice startled me. I spun around. “John Smith!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Misty Friday, Well, this is a coincidence. Imagine seeing you again, and in a different country! I was a friend of Beth’s. She never mentioned your surname to me, so I never made the connection.”

  It certainly was a coincidence. I wasn’t buying it.

  “I’m so sorry I missed the service. I’ve just arrived back in the country and only now heard the news. I hurried here. I do apologise for being late.” He handed me a bunch of yellow roses. The wrapping had a big label, ‘Pinks Florist.’

  I didn’t know what to say. Countless possibilities ran through my mind. Had Aunt Beth sent John Smith to Whitehaven Island to watch over me? Or had he been planning her murder and had been watching me for that reason?

  He kept talking. “I called Beth this morning and when she didn’t answer, I went around to her house. A neighbour told me the terrible news, so I came straight here.”

  “Via Pinks Florist.”

  “Sorry? Oh yes, of course.” He shifted his gaze as he spoke and looked out over the hills.

  Something didn’t ring true. I looked up and saw Cassandra staring at us. I raised an eyebrow at her, but she continued talking to Aunty June. Aunty June was pointing to John Smith. I nodded to her.

  “How long are you staying?” His attention was back on me now, and his tone was eager.

  “At the cemetery?”

  “No, in the country.” He spoke slowly with the slightest hint of amusement. “Beth said you were coming to write articles for your magazine.”

  “Oh.” I felt foolish. “Yes, five weeks.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  I was taken aback. “No thanks, another friend of Beth’s is driving me around.”

  “You don’t want to drive Beth’s car?” He was clearly surprised.

  “Apparently it hasn’t been working for years.”

  John Smith appeared taken aback. “To the contrary, Beth was driving it only last month. Who is this friend that has been driving you around?” The tone of his voice had changed to demanding, and he took a step closer to me.

  I was tempted to say, None of your business, and add a very rude adjective or two as well, but merely said, “Douglas Brown.”

  John Smith looked stricken. “Don’t,” he began, but then Cassandra appeared at my side and interrupted him.

  “Misty, can we go? I don’t feel well. I think the shock is setting in. I need to lie down.” Without so much as a nod at John Smith, she steered me back up the hill. Aunty June hurried ahead of us.

  “Cassandra, is Aunt Beth’s car in working order?”

  “I doubt it. I never saw her in it. I drove her everywhere. Why?”

  “That man I was speaking to said she was driving it last month.”

  Cassandra stopped and looked at me. “I really have no idea. What else did he say?”

  I tried to recall the conversation. “He said he was a friend of Beth’s. Did you ever see him around?”

  Cassandra took off walking again, more steadily this time. “He was never there when I was visiting Beth. What did he want?”

  “He said he’d just arrived back in the country and apologised for being late for the funeral.” I decided not to tell Cassandra that John Smith and I had met previously. If Aunt Beth had been murdered, then the less I said, the better.

  Cassandra paused to get her breath and turned to face me. “Misty, I don’t trust him. My husband used to say I have women’s intuition. I don’t know if he was right, but sometimes I get feelings about people, and the feeling I got about that man was not good. He’s probably a terrible womaniser. Don’t date him.” She fixed me with a steely look.

  I laughed heartily. “Cassandra, he didn’t ask me out. There’s no chance of him dating me. I’m sure I’m quite safe. Would you mind if I called at the cemetery office before we leave?”

  “Do you have the address?”

  I waved a piece of paper at Cassandra by way of answer. “Yes, it’s near the entrance to the cemetery.”

  The office proved to be another dead end, pardon the pun. They informed me that the doctor who had called them was a Dr Spence. They supplied his mobile phone number, but when I called it, there was no tone, not even a voice mail saying the phone had been disconnected—nothing.

  When I got back to the car, I told Aunty June and Cassandra what had happened. “Don’t you think it’s suspicious?”

  Cassandra did not respond, and Aunty June simply said, “I have a headache coming on from standing in the hot sun. I’ll need to go back to my motel and lie down.”

  After Aunty June let us out at Aunt Beth’s house, I said goodbye to Cassandra and then hurried inside to the hallstand, on which was a sma
ll porcelain bowl containing Aunt Beth’s keys. Thankfully there weren’t many to choose from, and even without my reading glasses I was able to see the one with a key ring marked Triumph.

  I walked back outside to the car. The door was easy to unlock, but the car smelt stale inside.

  I turned the key in the lock expectantly. There was not so much as a whirr. I opened the hood, expecting to see the battery leads unattached, but they were firmly on. The terminals didn’t have any powdery substance on them, but I picked up a half brick which was perched on the edge of Aunt Beth’s fence and hit both battery terminals. I tried the key again. Silence. It might just have been a flat battery, but there was no sign that the car had been driven recently.

  Score One to Douglas, score Zero to John Smith. Perhaps John Smith was the man who had knocked me over. He might have been too embarrassed to admit it and made up a cover story. He might not have been lying about the car; that might have been a simple mistake.

  I heard my ring tone and looked everywhere for my phone. It took me a while to realise I had shoved it in my bra when I was looking at the car battery. I fished it out and saw to my dismay that it was Skinny, my editor.

  “How are you going with the West Wycombe copy?” she barked.

  No hello, typical. “My aunt just died, Skinny, um, Daisy. The copy isn’t due until next week.”

  “Oh yes, sorry to hear that.” Her voice was rushed and held no hint that she was the slightest bit sorry. “I wanted to see some preliminary stuff about the Hellfire Club, but you’ve just noted that several exclusive clubs for high society rakes were called Hellfire Clubs in Britain and Ireland in the 18th century and that the Hellfire Club of Sir Francis Dashwood met irregularly from around 1749 to around 1760, and possibly up until 1766.”

  I was furious. “Look, can this wait? I can’t remember what I emailed through and I’ve literally just come from my aunt’s funeral.”

  “Yes. This is what you emailed through next. I’ll read it to you:

  Sir Francis Dashwood did not call his club a Hellfire Club.

  John Wilkes described the group as ‘A set of worthy, jolly fellows who got together to celebrate women in wine.’

  The order’s other members included Lord Sandwich, John Sales, and the Prince of Wales who was the son of current King of England, King George II. Benjamin Franklin was a close associate of the order and a good friend of Sir Francis Dashwood.

  “It’s badly written, and it’s boring,” she concluded in her usual strident, accusatory voice.

  “Skinny, um, Daisy, that is not the beginning of my story. I emailed that to Keith, as he wanted some background information. It’s not my story.”

  “Well, take it to the next level. Were they devil worshipers?”

  Typical. Daisy would be better off working for a sensationalist tabloid rather than a paranormal magazine. “Most certainly not.”

  “I’m sure I heard somewhere that they were.”

  “Daisy, a lot of websites allege that Sir Francis was a Satanist, but he was nothing of the sort.”

  “They were all Satanists, Misty! It sounds better that way. You’ll have to stop submitting substandard work.”

  “Now look here…” I was cut short as the call disconnected. Probably just as well, too. I needed my job, after all. I had a mortgage and car payments, not to mention all the bills that always appeared just after I’d finally paid off the last ones.

  I was so upset and frustrated after speaking to Skinny that I didn’t distinguish the sound of a car pulling up outside Aunt Beth’s from the noise of the cars driving up and down the street. I was halfway back to the door when I was overcome by an uneasy feeling.

  I turned around, only to see John Smith getting out of his car, a silver Audi R8 Limited Edition. I almost drooled. Audis were my favourite car, not that I could afford one. I still had two years’ worth of repayments on my ancient Ford. It needed two new tyres and back brake pads, and the battery was on its way out.

  Well one thing was settled—John Smith was no petty thief if he could afford a car like that. I could barely take my eyes off the car, but then John blocked my view by walking up the path.

  “Yes?” I asked uncharitably. I didn’t have to like the man just because he had impeccable taste in cars.

  “Misty, can I speak with you?”

  “Isn’t that what we’re doing?” I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. I’m not usually so rude, but the funeral coupled with the phone call from Skinny had set me on edge.

  “This is important. Can we go inside?”

  I gave in. “Sure.” I opened the front door, waved him into the living room, and didn’t offer him coffee. I saw Merlin coming, but before I could warn John, she ran over to him. “Watch out!” I said.

  To my amazement, Merlin purred loudly and weaved around John’s legs. “Nice cat,” he said, and bent down to stroke her.

  Merlin purred even more loudly for a minute or so, and then arched her back and stalked away with a backward look at me, leaving me shaking my head.

  John and I sat opposite each other in awkward silence for a moment, before he spoke. “Misty, your Aunt Beth donated an old, rare book to the Cambridge University Library.”

  “Yes,” I interrupted. “I know all about that.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Everyone.” As soon as I said that, I imagined Skinny saying to me, Misty, you have to stop exaggerating. I amended it. “Well, Cassandra showed me the newspaper clipping, and then Douglas told me.”

  John Smith at once tensed and leant forward in the chair. “Have you found the missing page?” The air almost crackled with electricity.

  “What’s it to you?” I was getting angry. Who did he think he was!

  “Misty, whatever you do, if you find the page, do not tell anyone you have found it and do not give it to anyone. Your life is in danger.”

  This was all a bit melodramatic. “Are you crazy? What are you on about? Don’t be ridiculous!”

  I was about to order him out of the house when he said, “Trust no one.”

  Trust no one. That’s what both Aunty June and the man from Mr Boggin’s Book Emporium had said. Aunt Beth’s note had said, MISTY DANGER DASHWOOD TRUST.

  I sat in silence for a moment, and considered what to say next. “Who is Dashwood?” I was ready to study his reaction.

  “Dashwood?” he repeated, but sure enough, I saw a flicker of surprise, which he masked soon enough. “Why do you ask?” Without waiting for me to answer, he spoke again and changed the subject. “I believe Beth died for that page.”

  The page! Why hadn’t I thought of that! The motive for murder had been right there in front of me all the time. “Are you saying she was murdered? The doctor said she had a heart condition and had been sick for years. He said there were no suspicious circumstances.” I wanted to draw John Smith out, to see how much he knew.

  He was still speaking. “I’m also familiar with Douglas Brown. He’s dangerous. I suggest you get back to Australia as fast as you can. Let me call and book you the next available flight. I’ll drive you to Heathrow.”

  That did it. “You won’t be driving me anywhere, you control freak! Now get yourself out that door and don’t show your face here again or I’ll call the police!” I heard my voice rise to a high pitch.

  John did head for the door, which was a relief. He paused on the doorstep. “Misty, you have no idea what you’ve got yourself into. Do not tell anyone if you find the page. You are in great danger. Do not mention I’ve been here to anyone. Do not...”

  He was unable to finish the sentence as I slammed the door in his face and locked it, my fingers fumbling. I hurried around the house and checked all the doors and windows. I looked under the three beds, and in the wardrobes too, and turned on all the lights in the house, even though it was daytime.

  Then I got out some paper and a pen and sat at the kitchen table. I made a To Do list. First on the list was to call the police. I doubted
they’d listen to me, but I had to try.

  Ten frustrating minutes later, and I was sorry I had called. I had been on hold for about five of those minutes. The police officer who finally answered told me more than once that there would be a logical explanation for all my concerns. He also said that there was no possible way to have a post mortem for Aunt Beth. He had been polite, but completely dismissive of what I had to say.

  After that pronounced lack of success, I had trouble coming up with a Number Two for my list. I was going to the Dashwood family mansion, West Wycombe Park, with Douglas, so would gather as much information as I could on the Dashwoods. I needed to find the link between Aunt Beth and the Dashwoods. More importantly, I needed to find out the significance of the missing page, and why everyone wanted it.

  Chapter 8

  West Wycombe village, to my Aussie eyes, was like something out of a storybook. I did the tourist thing and ooh-ed and aah-ed as we drove slowly down the High Street. I was already impressed by the centuries-old brick wall, which stretched all the way from High Wycombe to West Wycombe.

  “We’ll come back and walk down here another time,” Douglas assured me. “These are mainly sixteenth century buildings. By the eighteenth century, the High Street had several coaching inns, due to the fact that it was the halfway rest point for the London to Oxford stagecoaches. See that building there? That’s the Church Loft. It’s the oldest building on the High Street. Part of it was used as a prison.”

  I wanted to stop and look in the most amazing Ye Olde English building with a small sign, Paul’s Sweet Shop, partly as I wanted to see inside such an incredible looking building, and partly because someone walked out with a coffee in hand. The gritty morning coffee was supplying me with my necessary caffeine hit, but the taste was not the best on a daily basis.

  To say West Wycombe Park was impressive was quite an understatement. We paid our entry, and then drove up the beautiful driveway through parklands to the front of the stately home.