Witching Murder

by Jennie Melville

  ‘Poor Vivien, poor child,’ said Winifred Eagle.

  Mrs Flight kept silent, she was a relative newcomer and not anxious to involve herself with the ruling body of the group. She sipped her coffee, which was bitterer than ever tonight. No one, she reflected sadly, had ever taught Caprice to cook.

  Birdie allowed herself a few moments of private devotion to the Earth Goddess, who in her mind’s eye bore a decided resemblance to Birdie herself, only larger and younger. A pleasing sense of divinity descended upon her.

  The Goddess told her what to say. ‘You introduced Vivien to us, Caprice, so perhaps you should start.’

  ‘I didn’t introduce her. She came into the shop to get a Tarot reading, which you gave her, Birdie.’

  ‘She was a troubled soul.’

  ‘And how right she was,’ said Winifred Eagle sadly. ‘Poor child, poor child, I liked her so much, although she wasn’t normally the sort of girl I get to know. Chance brings strange companions together.’

  ‘I always had the feeling,’ said Mrs Flight, ‘that she didn’t come by chance, that she knew what she was doing.’

  No one listened to her, which was usually her fate.

  ‘What’s happened to those two women?’ said Caprice, breaking across Mrs Flight. ‘They’re late.’

  ‘So what are we hoping to get out of this meeting?’ Dolly asked, turning the car in the direction of Slough. ‘By the way, we’re meeting in the shop in Slough, and we’re running late.’ As she drove, she said, ‘And the reason I’m late is something came up … I’ve been offered, or nearly offered, I can have it if I want, a job as a kind of co-ordinator of crimes against women and children. Promotion, of course. But I don’t know whether to go for it or not.’

  ‘Sounds as if it might be a kind of side-alley.’ Leading nowhere much. Charmian had been offered jobs of that kind herself in the past and turned them down.

  ‘Yes, you have to recognise the signs, don’t you? I’ve said I’ll think about it. The offer remains open.’ She steered the car expertly through the crowded traffic lanes. ‘I’ve got plenty of other things to think about. We’ve traced Vivien Charles’s father, her only remaining relation. Her mother died about ten years ago. He remarried and has more or less lost touch with Vivien. That is, she kept up, the odd letter, and telephone call, but never told him much. He knew she’d moved to an address in Merrywick – she used to live in Ealing – but didn’t know why. He assumed she must have a job here.’

  ‘But she didn’t have.’

  ‘No, but he knew she’d had a small inheritance from an aunt and she’d said something about “ finding herself”. If he thought about it, and I don’t believe he did, he thought she was doing that in Merrywick.’

  ‘With the Witches of Merrywick?’

  ‘They seem to have been her only contact. She doesn’t appear to have had any other friends; she only had a short-term lease on the house and it doesn’t look as if she was staying.’

  ‘Someone made her pregnant. Where did she work before she came here? She had a job?’

  ‘Her dad thinks it was with a wine merchants at first, then she moved to a bigger outfit in Hatton Woods – we haven’t located it yet but we will. And, of course, no letters or addresses round her house. It’s inconceivable a girl of that age didn’t have a life somewhere – friends, places that knew her, where she bought clothes or had her hair done – but by God there’s no trace of it. It’s as if she deliberately drew a line through her old life.’

  Charmian looked out of the window as the car turned off Slough High Street, crowded with shoppers going in and out of the supermarkets and multiple stores, into the quieter Havant Way. Dolly would learn. There are always two stories to be told. While you are trying to put one together, there is another one underneath that demands to be heard.

  ‘You’ll find Twickers interesting. Caprice has really put it together. Interesting without being mad, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Did you ever shop there?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dolly with a grin. ‘Couldn’t resist. Bought myself some Burning Oil. I was supposed to get visions in the smoke, but I didn’t see anything. Caprice said it was old stock and marked down in price.’

  ‘I shall be watching out for Caprice.’

  ‘Oh, she’s an entrepreneur all right. She’s got the touch. Birdie thinks it’s all her, but Caprice is really the Queen Bee. I sussed that out after two meetings: she was watching me watching her.’

  Both women felt they had walked into a circle of eyes when they arrived at Twickers. Caprice led them into the back room.

  Caprice was a tall, well-built woman, with broad shoulders and muscular hands; she seemed as though she could look after herself. A little careful eccentricity appeared in her clothes, nothing too homespun, but a flowing cotton skirt of gypsy colours and rows of amber and coloured beads.

  She had greeted Dolly with a smile, apparently quite relaxed and pleased to see her. Charmian got a stiffer handshake. ‘We’re all here, ready and waiting.’

  One new arrival had got there before them: Joshua Fox.

  As soon as she saw him and was introduced, Charmian felt sure that was not his real name. He didn’t react to it in the right way, no sense of possessiveness, instead a subterranean surprise as if he hadn’t been called that when he left home. Wherever home was.

  A sinewy, tough fellow with a sweep of shining black hair, and younger than she had expected. The right age for Dolly. But not if he thought he was a warlock.

  He did not strike her in any way as being obsessed, or mad, or magical, but he was certainly possessed of remarkable magnetism. She could see why the ladies were happy they had captured him. For herself, a sort of anger allied to fear, which she recognised as coming from her near rape, swept over. She repressed it quickly, turning to one of the women.

  She recognised her neighbour. ‘Hello, Miss Eagle, how’s the cat?’

  ‘I’m worried about him.’

  ‘Winifred is always worried about her cat.’ Caprice poured them red wine in metal goblets. She had produced the wine and she was burning something sweet and aromatic in a bowl. Candles had been lit in pewter holders – silver would have been more correct but Caprice could not run to the expense, and pewter was very mediaeval.

  All the women were reacting to Joshua (‘Call me Josh’), Dolly included, sex appeal like that always had its effect. Even Charmian’s own reaction meant something.

  ‘It’s rough about Viv.’ He had a deep, sweet voice, with a speech pattern of neat vowels and clean consonants. A trained voice? Charmian asked herself, wondering if he was an actor.

  ‘That’s why we’re here,’ said Dolly.

  Caprice took up the challenge. ‘Is this official, or are we meeting as friends?’

  ‘I think it has to be regarded as official. Sorry.’

  ‘I don’t think you are. I think it’s what you came for in the first place: to check us over.’

  Dolly was silent.

  ‘Crime prevention, it’s called, isn’t it? Only we’re not criminals.’

  Dolly still said nothing.

  ‘I could cast your horoscope and tell you where you were going,’ said Caprice with some vindictiveness.

  Birdie tried to restore the balance, ‘I think we owe it to our sister Vivien to do what we can. She was a good child. Ignorant but learning.’

  ‘What were you teaching her?’ asked Charmian.

  ‘Nothing wrong,’ said Birdie seriously. ‘How to worship, how to love the world and the earth, our Mother.’

  ‘She was three months’ pregnant. Do you know who was her lover?’

  There was silence.

  ‘Did she say anything to you about it?’

  ‘No.’ Birdie shook her head. She pulled herself together after what had been a shock. ‘But I am not against fruitfulness nor is our Great Mother.’

  ‘It takes two,’ said Dolly. ‘She didn’t do it on her own. Any ideas? What about you, Josh?’

 
He took up the loaded question with coolness: ‘I’m just an observer here. Saw the advertisement and thought I’d look in. And I’ve always been interested. Some of the things here seemed to work. Or I thought so. Faith healing, maybe, but it got rid of a nasty go of migraine I had. Then I had a look in the crystal ball and saw a scene from life, won’t say what, but it meant something to me.’

  ‘I shall ask you about that later,’ said Charmian.

  He shrugged. ‘Might have been hallucination. Or mild hypnosis. Some of Miss Peacock’s prayers do tend that way.’

  ‘Are you a teacher, Mr Fox?’ I’m not calling him Josh, too cosy altogether.

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘You talk like one.’

  ‘I’m a writer. Freelance.’

  ‘Published?’

  ‘This is hostile.’ He sat back, with an annoying half-smile on his face.

  It was, Charmian admitted. We’ll get to the bottom of you, Mr Fox. Check your address. Find out if you really live there, which I doubt. Find out who you are.

  The black masks on the walls with glass balls for eyes glinted in the light. Caprice’s burning herbs got up her nose, and together with the heat of the candles made Charmian feel dizzy.

  Dolly had gone quiet. In a dark distance, Charmian heard Birdie’s voice: ‘Shall we say a prayer for our sister?’ Life seemed to be sucked out of the air.

  Charmian drew her energies together. ‘ This isn’t a church service, Miss Peacock, but an investigation.’ I wish I was sure of that, she thought.

  She went to the door and threw it open. A cold wind blew through. She took charge. Well, it felt like that. Dolly didn’t seem disposed to.

  ‘One thing Sergeant Barstow hasn’t told you: you will all be asked to give blood samples. Also certain forensic samples: from your clothes, possibly from your houses.’

  ‘Can we refuse?’ asked Caprice. There was a mutter from the others.

  Josh Fox did not ask, Charmian noticed.

  As they drove away, Charmian said, ‘Call yourself Sergeant Barstow to them in future, Dolly.’

  It was her warning.

  Dolly received it with a silent nod. It made good sense.

  ‘Can we go back to something earlier? The house in Dulcet Road was entered when it was supposed to be locked up. That’s one thing to clear up. But earlier, the door to the house was left unlocked which was how Mrs Flaxon got in. Who left it unlocked?’

  ‘The killer? Going off in a panic?’

  ‘Could be. But perhaps there was another caller. What about Forensics?’

  Dolly shrugged. ‘I’ll see what they can suggest.’ But she didn’t have high hopes.

  Chapter Five

  Denise Flaxon let herself into her flat in Slough. It was empty. It was always empty. It felt empty even when she was in it.

  This was early evening after the day on which Charmian and Dolly Barstow had attended the meeting in Caprice’s shop. Denise had driven past the shop while the meeting was going on without knowing of the meeting or even noticing Twickers.

  It was a week to the day that she had found Vivien Charles dead. Not a pleasant thought, and one that Denise put to the bottom of the file of all the other thoughts that worried her.

  Today had not been a good one at Elysium Creams. A meeting of franchise holders had been called by the area manager, at which their sales figures had been reviewed. Denise’s had not been good. Low. In fact, the lowest of all the franchisees, except for little Mrs Harries who was six months’ pregnant and from whom not much could be expected at the moment. Denise had got the distinct impression that the area manager thought Denise was not trying. You might think this would not matter to Elysium Creams because Denise’s franchise was bought and paid for by her and what she did not sell was her own business. (Or lack of it.) But what you did not sell, you did not buy from the main stocks and that did matter to Elysium Creams. Was, indeed, their main motive for creating franchises.

  ‘Come now, Denise, dear,’ he had said in front of everyone, ‘you can do better than this. You did do better when you started with us. When did you take up your franchise now? Four months ago, was it?’

  ‘Three,’ said Denise.

  ‘One of our brightest salespersons, I said so myself when you joined the team. Said it aloud, didn’t I? And so you were for a couple of months. What’s gone wrong, dear?’

  Naturally Denise could not answer that. Bloody fool, she thought, but keeping the soft puzzled look on her face the meanwhile, as if she was as perplexed as he was.

  ‘You’ve got one of our best areas there in Merrywick, bristling with opportunity. I said so when I let you have it, didn’t I?’

  Denise admitted that he had and implied she would try harder. Work her patch more efficiently. But from the way the rest of the flock eyed her, she got the impression that when her present franchise ran out, it would not be renewed. Elysium reserved to themselves the right to hold back a contract. Made sense when you thought about it.

  Mrs Harries leaned across her ample middle, as far as she could lean, that was, and patted Denise’s hand. ‘Don’t worry, love, he always goes on like this. I’ve heard it all before. He always picks on someone. Just you this time.’

  Denise tried to look as if she cared. But the episode had tired her and she was glad to get back to her private emptiness at Oaktree House, Woodstock Close, although it was not an apartment she looked upon with relish as a rule or thought of as home.

  Home was where? Where you thought it was, and she did not know what to think. She felt homeless.

  No post, but a free newspaper on the mat and milk in the fridge. She started to make a cup of tea.

  As expected the newspaper headlined the murder in Merrywick. You couldn’t expect them to pass over the local sensation, but she was very grateful that her name was not mentioned although her discovery of the body was described. The police had said they would do their best to keep her name out of it.

  Denise went through to the kitchen and made a pot of tea. She was thirsty but not hungry, she never was hungry these days, which was just as well because her refrigerator contained nothing but a dried old lemon and a carton of LongLife milk. She would go out in a little while and buy some food for a meal in the local supermarket which kept late hours.

  She kicked off her shoes, they were higher of heel than the ones she usually wore, not really her style, but right for the job. If you were selling beauty products then you had need to look elegant and feminine.

  She sipped her tea. She would have to go to the inquest, of course, but she thought she could manage that, and the young policewoman (what a job for a woman, Denise could not admire it) had promised her it would be a formality as far as she was concerned. It was a great pity she had found the body, it ought to have been somebody else.

  Someone else had been there. The door was unlocked. Vivien hadn’t got up and turned the key, and then arranged herself again on the floor.

  Her tea was too hot, so Denise poured in some more milk. Perhaps it had been the milkman who had called in Dulcet Road? Opening the door to leave a pint of milk, then seeing Vivien and running away. But no, black joke. It had not been the milkman. She was as sure as anyone could be that it had not been the milkman, nor the postman, nor a boy delivering a parcel from a shop.

  She couldn’t be certain that the police had taken in the significance of the unlocked door through which she herself had got in. They might have thought that the killer left the door open behind him. To Denise this seemed most unlikely and she had to recognise that the young police sergeant might think this, too.

  In which case she would be wondering who had dropped in, and be looking for him.

  That made two of them. Because Denise was wondering and looking as well.

  It had occurred to her that she might be in danger herself. She tried to dismiss this thought as a transferred anxiety. After all, she had plenty of things to worry about, including the inquest, but somehow the thought of that unlocked door nagged
away. Could anyone have been watching her? Perhaps been watching the house?

  She finished her tea, then stood up to study her reflection in the wall mirror – one of the few decorations, if that was what it was, that she had added to the flat. But after all, a woman had to know what she looked like.

  ‘This murder is nothing to do with Mrs Flaxon,’ she told her reflection. ‘Stop kicking yourself around.’

  A dark curl had got disarranged, she was about to do something to it when her doorbell rang.

  Some people like callers and look forward to them, Denise Flaxon did not. She was in the state of preferring solitude, and her experience in Dulcet Road (even if she had brought it on herself and it was her own fault) reinforced this feeling.

  ‘Standoffish,’ was how Flo Jessamon, her neighbour in the flat below, dubbed her.

  But it did not stop Miss Jessamon ringing the doorbell. One did one’s duty, even to an unfriendly neighbour. ‘I should never forgive myself if any harm came to her through any neglect of mine,’ she said to herself, ignoring the fact that she was passionately keen to get a look inside Mrs Flaxon’s rooms. Some people collect stamps, pictures, secondhand books or china pot lids with pictures on, but Flo Jessamon collected interiors. Of other people’s houses. It was a higher form of nosiness.

  She smiled hopefully as the door was opened. ‘I don’t want to disturb you, Mrs Flaxon.’ She passed over the expression on Mrs Flaxon’s face which said she was doing exactly that. ‘I just wanted to have a word with you. I’m Miss Jessamon from the floor below.’

  ‘I know.’ It was not a promising opening. We finish here, it seemed to state.

  Flo removed her smile and said with gravity, ‘I don’t want to alarm you, but I thought I ought to speak.’

  ‘What about?’

  Denise was not aware of letting Miss Jessamon in, but somehow she was there inside and they were both standing in the sitting room. Other contacts of Miss Jessamon had observed the same phenomenon. It was something akin to the Indian Rope trick – Miss Jessamon’s father was known to have served with the army in India – a Now you see her, Now you don’t kind of thing, hard to reconcile with Miss Jessamon’s small but sturdy frame.