The Witching Hour

by Morgana Best

  Although it was pitch black, I ran forward and slammed straight into a wall. I tried to scream, but paralysis overcame me. Terror consumed every cell of my body.

  I could hear a child crying. “There’s a ghost in here!” he said between his sobs.

  “Freddie, come back! Where are you?” his mother called.

  A small form barrelled into me and clung onto my leg. “I’ve got you, Mum! I’ve got you, Mum,” the child called out.

  “I’m not your mother,” I said, but the child wailed even more.

  “I’m here, Freddie,” a woman’s voice said. She sounded quite close.

  “He’s over here hanging onto my leg,” I said.

  Just then, Freddie let out a bloodcurdling scream followed a split-second later by a woman’s voice saying, “Freddie, it’s only me!”

  “The ghost touched me!” Freddie screamed and released his grip on me.

  I backed away from him, but he lunged at my skirts, knocking me forward against the tunnel wall. As I managed to right myself, his mother came forward and grabbed him. “Are you all right?” I asked her.

  “Yes. Freddie and I will stay here until the lights come back on.”

  “I’ll head back outside.” I tried to keep the panic out of my voice. I hurried away as fast as I could, my palms on the tunnel wall.

  As soon as I passed the Children’s Cave, a guide appeared. “Are you okay?” she said. “Um, aren’t you are missing something?”

  I wondered what she meant. “I don’t think I took my sunglasses into the cave,” I said, confused.

  The guide hesitated, and then asked, “Is there anyone else behind you in there?”

  “Yes, a mother and child.” I shielded my eyes from the torch. “They’re in the Inner Temple.”

  “Okay, I’ll go and find them. You should be fine now. It’s very rare that the lights go out in here. Here’s a spare torch.”

  “Oh, okay, thanks.” With the torch in hand, I took off at a jog, straight through the Circle, straight down past the Tool Store, out the entrance.

  When I emerged from the tunnels, I was shocked to see Aunty June speaking with John Smith. When they both saw me, they looked even more shocked than I was.

  “Misty, Misty…” Aunty June said. Her face had gone even whiter than usual. She pointed to me.

  John Smith had his hand firmly clamped over his mouth and was doing his best not to laugh.

  I narrowed my eyes. “What’s so funny?”

  “Well, I’m glad to see your taste in clothing has improved. Greatly improved, in fact.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. Maybe I had knocked my head when I had fallen in the tunnel. Just then, I heard the mother’s voice again. “Freddie, it’s all right. There’s no need to be afraid now.”

  I turned around to look at little Freddie and did a double take. He was clutching a security blanket, only it wasn’t a security blanket, it was my skirt!

  I looked down at myself. I was only wearing my shirt and my undies. I gasped. Freddie’s mother hurried over to me and handed me my skirt. “I’m so sorry.” She held the skirt in front of me with one hand and clamped her other hand over Freddie’s eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she said again. “It must have happened when he clung to you in the tunnels.”

  I stood there, dumbstruck. I didn’t know what to do. Should I step into the skirt with everyone watching me? I had no idea.

  I held the skirt in front of me and backed into the little shop where I found a dark corner and slipped it on. When I walked outside, Aunty June was still looking shocked and John Smith was still doing his best not to laugh. There was no sign of Freddie or his mother.

  I tried to console myself. At least they were nice undies this time.

  “Sugar will make the morning’s events fade from your mind,” Aunty June said. “I’ll buy you some clotted tea. Will you join us, Mr Smith?”

  “I’d love to, but I have a pressing engagement.” With that, he left.

  “What was he doing here?” I asked Aunty June.

  She shrugged. “He didn’t say. I’m sure he has reasons of his own, which may or may not be that he’s a cold-blooded killer. Why don’t you sit and I’ll order?”

  I felt a headache coming on and rubbed my temples. However, Aunty June was right—the sight of cream arriving took my mind off my worries. Food was the perfect remedy, especially fattening food. I preferred the taste of artificial cream but wasn’t going to refuse the real thing.

  The clotted tea looked exactly like the Devonshire teas of back home, and was just as nice. I stuffed my face with light, fluffy scones, to which I had added lots of whipped cream and strawberry jam. The cream turned out to be delicious, and it was horribly bad for me, I’m sure, which served to cheer me up.

  I heaped three large spoons of sugar into my tea and stirred well.

  I had forgotten Douglas was coming back to collect me, and so was surprised to see him. “I’m sorry, Douglas,” I said. “Aunty June turned up. She can take me home. I don’t have your number so I couldn’t let you know.”

  Douglas forced a smile. “Nice to see you again,” he said to Aunty June, although he didn’t sound happy to see her in slightest.

  As soon as he was out of earshot, Aunty June said, “I think that man wants to seduce you.”

  I chuckled. “Surely you don’t think he’s interested in me?”

  Aunty June retrieved a large glob of strawberry jam that had fallen from her teaspoon onto the table. “Maybe he is and maybe he isn’t, but he wants you to be interested in him.”

  I leant forward. “So he can get information from me?”

  Aunty June waved her spoon at me. “Possibly.”

  “And you trust John Smith?”

  Aunty June pulled a face. “Of course not, Misty! I don’t trust anyone.”

  An hour later, I sat at Aunt Beth’s kitchen table with only Merlin for company. Aunty June had dropped me at Aunt Beth’s and continued on to her motel.

  While the laptop was booting up, I poured a large glass of Moscato and then googled the possible use of garlic as a poison. I discovered lots of information about garlic, but none of it in the context of murdering people.

  I was starting to get information overload. Maybe I would end up spouting facts like Douglas.

  Perhaps Aunt Beth had eaten huge amounts of garlic for her heart condition after all, despite the fact I hadn’t found any garlic in the kitchen or garlic tablets in the medicine cabinet.

  I tried one more thing. I googled the words garlic poison death. The third entry was Death by Selenium. This was enlightening. It said that selenium is odourless and colourless, and looks and tastes like water. It said that even a low dose can be lethal, and that it also causes a very strong garlic odour.

  Then I came across mention of a CSI episode in which someone killed her husband with a selenium overdose. Finally! I was onto something.

  Chapter 10

  I had just finished my second requisite morning cup of coffee and gritty bits when the doorbell rang. It was unlike Douglas to be an hour early; he was usually right on time. I was relieved I was already showered, dressed, and had put on my make up while drinking the second cup of coffee.

  The person standing at the front door was a shock to me.

  John Smith. I was embarrassed after the undies incident of the previous day. Should I invite him in? I wondered. What does he want? “What do you want?” It came out more harshly than it did in my head.

  “Misty, please hear me out. You’re in danger.”

  I grimaced. “So everyone keeps telling me.”

  “Who’s ‘everyone’?”

  I thought of Skinny again. Misty, stop exaggerating. “Well, you and Douglas.”

  I ignored John’s immediate frown and showed him into the kitchen. It was brighter in there, and so less intimate but, I suppose, a kitchen is not a terribly intimate place anyway.

  I put the jug on to boil, filling it with minimal water so it wouldn’t take
as long, and picked up a blue and white pottery jar which was labelled tea. Without thinking, I turned it upside down to look at the maker’s mark. This was a reflex—my mother had been an antique dealer for years before turning to jewellery. She always turned things upside down to look at the maker’s mark, although she did so less often after the time she turned a vase upside down at a client’s house, not realising the vase was full of water.

  The jar was empty, so I looked for teabags. I saw a packet marked Twinings Lapsang Souchong, and reached in for two tea bags.

  “How do you have it?”

  “Black, with one.”

  “Okay.” I poured the boiling water in, added one spoon of sugar to his and one to mine. Then I thought about it and added another spoon to mine. I thought about it some more, and added yet another spoonful to mine.

  I put John’s tea in front of him so forcefully that some of the tea splashed out, and then sat down opposite him.

  “Okay, tell me what you wanted to say.”

  “Have you ever heard of Paul Whitehead?”

  I groaned, partly as I had just tasted the tea, which tasted like liquid beef jerky, and partly because he sounded just like Douglas.

  “Are you a clone?”

  John looked startled. It might have been the tea as he had just taken a mouthful. “Sorry?”

  “You and Douglas. You both sort of look the same. You both keep asking me if I’ve heard of someone.”

  “That was the first time I asked you if you had heard of someone.”

  I hate it when men are logical. I couldn’t think of a lucid reply, so just waved my hand at him in an attempt to make him continue.

  “Paul Whitehead…”

  I cut him off. “Oh yes, I know about him. The cave at the Hellfire Caves, the one called Paul Whitehead’s Cave, had a figure of him and an urn.”

  John pressed on. “Yes, Paul Whitehead was a satirist and poet. He was a close friend of Sir Francis Dashwood and a member of the Order of the Friars of St. Francis of Wycombe. Whitehead’s wrongful reputation as simply a minor poet probably comes from Churchill’s slander of his character.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. “Really, you are a clone. You and Douglas both recite catalogues of facts.” I forced down another mouthful of Lapsang Souchong.

  John didn’t appear to see the funny side at all. “Whitehead was a very important man. Probably not a soul knew more secrets than he did about political figures of the time. He knew secrets about future American, English, and European leaders. He was the only one to keep records of Dashwood’s and the Order’s activities, and he kept them in a single book.”

  I nodded, and John continued. “The reason I’m telling you about him is his urn. He died in 1774. Seven days before his death, a messenger arrived at his house with a letter. Four days later, he ordered his servants to build a huge bonfire on the grounds. He piled all his books and papers onto it for the next seventy-six hours. After the final paper burned, he went to his bed and was dead six hours later.”

  I wondered if there had been a strong smell of garlic in his bedroom. “Was he murdered or did he kill himself?”

  John shrugged. “History tells us that his will instructed that his heart was to be given to Sir Francis Dashwood and put in an urn. He left fifty pounds in his will for the urn’s purchase. Sir Francis Dashwood carried out his wishes and put Whitehead’s heart in the urn in the mausoleum. What history doesn’t tell us is that the fifty pounds was a cover story. The urn was already in the possession of Sir Francis Dashwood and was inscribed with a particular set of arcane symbols.”

  “But John, I saw the urn today. The sign said it was the original urn.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s said that an Australian soldier stole the heart, but what was actually stolen was the urn. After the theft, the Order put a similar looking urn in its place. There is a painting—you can find it on the net—which clearly shows the original urn and the inscription on it. That is, you can see the inscription in the painting, but it’s not detailed enough to make out what it says. Despite rumours that the original urn is now at West Wycombe Park, in fact it’s never come to light. Misty, I don’t want to frighten you, but there are people who will kill to get those symbols, and the only other place they appear is in the missing page of your aunt’s book.”

  I stood up. “I don’t know where it is!” My voice rose almost to shouting point.

  “Misty, that could be irrelevant. The people who are after it might try to hurt you to get you to hand it over. They might not believe you don’t know where it is.”

  “Just who are these people?”

  John just looked at me.

  “Come on, you can’t just tell me that and then not tell me any more. Aunt Beth was murdered for that page! You really need to tell me. I insist.” I used my most stern voice. I put my hands on my hips for emphasis.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you. You’re in danger as it is. The more you know, the worse position you’ll be in. Have you considered going back to Australia?”

  He was so frustrating. “No, I have not! Look, stop trying to deflect attention from my question. You need to tell me! Just who are these people?”

  John stood up and paced up and down the kitchen for a couple of laps, then sat down again. “Misty, I’d rather not. It’s a little awkward.”

  “What do you mean? Really, if I’m in danger as you say, then surely I’d be better off with all the facts.”

  John looked hugely embarrassed. “You won’t like it.”

  “Try me.” I fixed him with my best glare, but Merlin soon ruined that. She shot out from behind the door and made a beeline for John. To my surprise, she hopped up on him and kneaded his knee, pushing her paws up and down while purring loudly. John stroked her and she only swiped at him once or twice in a half-hearted manner.

  I frowned. Was Merlin a good judge of character? She liked John, and disliked Douglas and Cassandra, although her dislike of Cassandra might be simply because Cassandra detested cats. I was so lost in thought that I jumped when John started talking again.

  “Okay, you asked for it,” he said, while stroking the purring Merlin. “They’re the Black Lodge, a secret society who want to use the symbols on the page for what they believe is a ritual to prolong their lives. The reason you won’t like it is that Douglas is one of their leading members.”

  I was shocked, but I’d had so many surprises lately and this one was no more shocking than the others. I couldn’t believe a word John said. Was Douglas really not to be trusted?

  I was considering this when the doorbell rang. I excused myself, and found Cassandra on the doorstep, a cake in her hands.

  “Come in, Cassandra. The cake looks good. I have a visitor,” I warned her in low tones.

  At the sight of Cassandra, Merlin hissed, leapt from John’s knees and bolted up the stairs, swiping at Cassandra on her way. Fur flew into the air, and Cassandra sneezed.

  I did the introductions, then made Cassandra a cup of tea while being a little annoyed that I didn’t have time to process the bombshell that John had just dropped on me. I did doubt it was true, but I wanted to figure out why John would say such a thing. Perhaps he was the one who was in the Black Lodge and trying to throw blame onto Douglas.

  Cassandra wasn’t showing any animosity to John this time, no doubt as he was eating her cake with such relish.

  “That’s a wonderful cake, Cassandra.”

  “Thank you. I used to bring chocolate cream cake over for Beth once a week.”

  I dissected the cake, and ate the frosting off the top and the sides. That’s the only part of cake I like, and luckily for me the frosting was thick. I avoided the cream. It looked real, and I only like fake whipped cream. As much as I liked the frosting, I again lamented the fact that Cassandra had shown up just as I was about to find out more from John.

  The doorbell rang again. Cassandra and John both looked startled. I checked the time on my iPhone. This would have to be Doug
las, and right on time as usual.

  I hurried to the door, and sure enough, Douglas was standing there. “I have visitors,” I whispered. This was getting to be a habit.

  I led Douglas down the hallway to the kitchen. Cassandra looked shocked. I figured it would have been a long time since she had seen two gorgeous guys in the one room. I turned to Douglas to introduce everyone, but was struck speechless by the look on his face.

  I had never seen Douglas’s countenance change too much throughout the time I had known him. He had always been Mr Cool-As-A-Cucumber. Right now, he was looking like someone from an acting class practicing a different range of emotions: shock, horror, rage, surprise. Cassandra and John noticed it too, for they hastily muttered their goodbyes and took off like bats out of hell. No one had even shaken hands with Douglas, let alone said, ‘Hello.’

  Chapter 11

  I shut the front door and then went back to the kitchen. Douglas was sitting on one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs. He looked more or less back to his usual self, but something was seething under the surface.

  “Who were they?” His tone was not exactly rude or abrupt, but he was quite edgy.

  “Cassandra is the next door neighbour,” I said, “and John, um.”

  “Go on.” Douglas looked decidedly tense.

  I didn’t know how much I should tell Douglas so decided to err on the side of caution. “Well, I don’t know really. I met him at Aunt Beth’s funeral and he said he was a good friend of Aunt Beth’s.” I didn’t tell Douglas I had met John Smith on Whitehaven Island.

  “What was he doing here? Is that woman his mother?”

  I bristled at his demanding tone. “No, they don’t know each other.”

  Douglas grew impatient. “Misty, what was that man doing here?”

  “He said I’m in danger,” I blurted out.

  Douglas sat forward on the edge of his chair. “From whom? Misty, please tell me everything.”

  I figured I might as well. I still hadn’t had time to process John’s disclosure about Douglas. I figured it was best to put everything out on the table and see where the cards would fall.