Witching Murder

by Jennie Melville

  Dolly’s picture was the same in many ways: she blamed the coven, and feared to name the killer. A man, not the women, that was how she saw it.

  But the scene that was forming in Charmian Daniels’s mind was more complicated. She thought that the others might be looking in the wrong place. Her gaze would be turned in a different direction. She also thought a man was guilty, but was prepared to be found wrong. In many ways she was the most experienced and sophisticated person who was dealing with this murder, and it was her suspicion that the motive for this killing might not be sophisticated at all.

  All saw the pregnancy as important.

  Charmian drank her coffee and crumbled a slice of shortbread. ‘This is good stuff,’ she said with surprise. ‘ Homemade. Did you make it, Kate?’

  ‘Annie. She’s on a cooking kick. Is it a good sign or a bad sign, I ask myself?’

  Dolly looked puzzled. ‘Must be a good sign surely?’ She had never met Kate’s mother.

  ‘You don’t know Annie. It might mean that she has quarrelled bitterly, passionately, for ever, with Jack. Although I must say it’s usually curry or chutney or ginger cake when she does that. Something hot.’ Kate’s eyes glittered. ‘And when she’s really mad, then she puts in lots of onions and garlic in the hot stew and it is very purging. Annie says it is healthful.’

  ‘I never thought of cooking as an expression of anger,’ said Dolly.

  ‘Oh, it’s done all the time.’

  Charmian thought of all the toast she had burnt and the casseroles she had overcooked in her brief married life and accepted that there might be something in it.

  ‘Shortbread seems pretty mild,’ she observed. ‘Especially when sprinkled with sugar.’

  ‘Yes, it has to be a good sign.’

  ‘Why don’t you just ask your father how things are?’ Dolly could quite see one might not ask Annie. She did not know Annie Cooper, well-known artist and potter, but she could see that one would treat the creator of dangerous curries with circumspection.

  ‘Oh, Jack never knows. He never knows when something is going to hit him. Always a surprise to him.’

  But not to his daughter, Dolly thought. Did children always know best?

  ‘And what did you make of Mr Fox?’ she asked Charmian.

  ‘Good-looking. Interesting.’

  ‘Yes, he is certainly both of those things.’

  ‘Vulpine.’

  ‘That too,’ said Dolly.

  Kate said wistfully, ‘I wish I’d met him. I’m in the mood for a foxy man. I think I might join the Merrywick witches.’

  ‘Don’t do that.’ Charmian was sharp.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you ought to keep out of things you don’t understand, and especially out of things I am professionally engaged in.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Kate. There must be something powerful about these witches to make her godmother so forceful.

  Dolly stirred her coffee. ‘Mightn’t it be a good idea if she … well, joined up? We might learn more about the group.’

  ‘Infiltrate, you mean?’ said Kate joyfully.

  ‘It’s obvious I shall get nothing more, they know who I am now,’ went on Dolly. ‘It’s not professional … But it might work.’

  ‘I love the idea,’ said Kate. ‘Perhaps you could sign me up. Special Policewoman Kate Cooper.’

  Charmian shrugged. ‘Kate will do what she wants, as she always does. But officially, No.’

  ‘Oh, it was only a joke. Don’t be stuffy. But if they’ve lost their virgin figure, as you hinted Vivien might have been, only, of course, she wasn’t, then they might be quite keen to get me.’

  ‘You’d better keep quiet about some of your own activities then,’ said Charmian drily.

  ‘But what is it you think they are up to? Corrupting the young? Sacrificing to the Devil? Since I might be a sacrificial object I’d like to have some idea.’

  Charmian remained silent so Kate looked at Dolly Barstow.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Dolly. ‘But since a murder has come out of it, I should like to know myself. I think there is something rotten going on in that circle somewhere.’

  ‘Do you think they killed Vivien as a sacrifice? Or because she turned out not to be a virgin? If they knew. Oh, I can’t believe that of Birdie Peacock, she’s such a lady.’

  ‘Ladies can kill.’ Charmian put down her coffee cup with a bang. A little liquid splashed on the table, Kate got up for a cloth to wipe it clean.

  ‘If there’s enough emotion and passion around.’ Kate cleaned the table and refilled Charmian’s cup. ‘But they don’t seem that sort.’

  Too old, was what she was really saying, but naturally would not say so in front of her godmother and Dolly, both her seniors. Dolly knew what she meant, though, and gave her a wry look, before throwing in her own comment.

  ‘They seem very ordinary. And very matter of fact about what they do. Caprice dyes her hair, Birdie Peacock goes to Keep Fit classes, and Vivien, who was about the most insignificant of them all, was learning German. Witches with hobbies. It’s not what you expect.’

  ‘You can’t expect them to go round on broomsticks and wearing dark pointed hats,’ said Kate. ‘In Merrywick that would get them noticed.’

  ‘I think they like publicity. Within reason.’

  ‘You look thoughtful, Godmother.’

  ‘I want to find out what turned a group of harmless, well-intentioned women into a lethal band,’ said Charmian. ‘If that is what happened. That is going to be my function in this case.’ Dolly would have the procedural stuff in hand, and would keep her informed. ‘Which of them is the most important, in your opinion, Dolly?’

  ‘At first I thought Birdie Peacock. Now I think it is Caprice.’

  ‘You don’t like Caprice, do you?’

  Dolly shook her head. ‘I don’t trust her.’

  ‘I’m going to talk to Miss Peacock and to Caprice. That’s a start.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Oh, that’s obvious, isn’t it, and I shall want your help there: find out more about Vivien Charles. She may have been the youngest and the most insignificant, but she was the one who was killed. She had a life outside Merrywick and that’s what we need to find out about.’

  ‘Do you think her pregnancy matters?’

  ‘Oh, it matters all right,’ said Charmian absently.

  While Kate was washing the coffee cups, Dolly said, ‘I had a strange telephone call today. Well, perhaps not so strange, we get a lot of odd calls, you know that. I suppose I mean interesting. It was from a woman, middle-aged and educated from her voice. A Miss Jessamon from Slough. She asked to speak to someone dealing with the Dulcet Road murder in Merrywick. Said a man had been seen watching the house where she lived. All small apartments. She said she was frightened it might be the murderer studying a new victim.’

  ‘Not likely, is it? Is that all? She gave no reason?’

  Dolly shrugged. ‘No, which made it one of the nonsense calls we do get about a major case … But when I checked the address I saw it’s where Mrs Flaxon lives, and that did interest me.’

  ‘I suppose Mrs Flaxon may have told her she found the body.’ Two women under one roof, talking together. Wasn’t it likely that Mrs Flaxon had sought relief and comfort by confiding in a neighbour?

  Dolly said, ‘ I got the distinct impression that the woman had no idea that Mrs Flaxon was connected with the case.’

  Kate could be heard talking to the cat, making soothing noises. Presently she carried Muff in. Muff lolled peacefully in her arms, enjoying the petting.

  ‘This poor creature has a torn ear. She’s been in a fight.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s Miss Eagle’s cat. He will push through the garden fence and Muff resents the intrusion on her territory.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Lean, black and muscular. Too much for Muff.’

  ‘I expect she gave as good as she got,’ said Kate, indignantly. She and Muff had a
special relationship.

  ‘I’ll have a look next time I see him.’

  ‘You don’t think we have seen him?’ said Dolly. ‘In Dulcet Road?’

  Benedict was a witch’s cat and might go anywhere and return from anywhere, but one thing Charmian was sure of was he was too wily to get caught. If that had been Ben leaving Dulcet Road on one dark night nothing would ever be proved.

  Charmian did not answer directly. One black cat looked so much like another.

  ‘I have to admit I rather like the cat. But I think he’s a devil.’

  Dolly went back to what was really on her mind: ‘Do you think Mrs Flaxon is in any danger?’

  ‘It is possible. She may have witnessed more than she realises. Let me see her statement again, will you?’

  Dolly nodded. ‘Will do.’

  ‘What description of the watcher did Miss Jessamon give?’

  ‘Ah, well, there you have a point. She didn’t see him herself. Another flat-dweller did. Said he was a very ordinary-looking chap.’

  Charmian thought it over. Was it worth pursuing? Yes, it was.

  ‘I’ll talk to Miss Jessamon and the other tenant. Then I’ll interview Mrs Flaxon. See what I can get out of her.’

  Soon after this, Dolly left and Kate picked up her coat and announced her intention of visiting her mother.

  ‘I might stay the night. We’ve got some family business to talk over.’ Both Annie and Kate were the beneficiaries of a large family trust and one of the things the Coopers, mother and daughter, were always level-headed about was money. ‘So don’t worry if I’m not back.’

  Kate patted Muff on the head and departed.

  It was a warm, light evening, with a full moon, a witches’ moon, Charmian thought. Or did witches prefer the dark? She stood at her garden door while Muff flitted past her, a striped shadow disappearing into dappled shades of trees and bushes.

  No good calling her back, it was one of those nights when Muff was not going to hear.

  Without putting on a coat, Charmian walked round the corner towards Miss Eagle’s house in Abigail Place.

  It was not all dark as might have been expected, but one of the rooms on the ground floor was lit up with curtains undrawn. Standing out on the road, Charmian could see into the house.

  A sitting room. But remarkably bare and plain with all the chairs drawn back to the wall. Almost an empty room. The room of someone who needed space. Air all around them. It was possible that there had been a meeting there. A session of witches. Or possibly a standing of witches?

  Because there, standing in the middle of the room, absolutely naked, was Miss Winifred Eagle.

  Someone who needed air and space all around her body.

  She looked muscular and spare, obviously having no trouble with her hands, a good deal healthier than Charmian felt herself at the moment.

  As Charmian watched the light went out. Not as if Winifred Eagle felt she had been observed, or cared either, but more as if that part of the evening was over.

  Charmian crept back home, although why she should feel the need to be unnoticed when Winifred Eagle so obviously did not, she was not sure.

  When Charmian got back to her own front door she noticed a small object lying on the step. It might have been there before she left by the back door, or it might have been put there while she studied the surprisingly nubile Miss Eagle.

  A little, roughly shaped human figure, fashioned out of plasticine, endowed with marked female characteristics and a needle through both eyes.

  It had been given a rough, carrot-coloured mop of false hair made of cotton, so Charmian took it to be a representation of herself.

  She stood looking at it without touching it. A feeling of some excitement came over her.

  She had asked questions, she had prodded, she had probed, and she had got this in return.

  We’re rolling, she said with satisfaction.

  As she stood there, Muff leapt from the bushes, seized the object with a cry of joy and disappeared the way she had come.

  Chapter Eight

  As was her wont with any specially valued capture, Muff had laid out the little figure, carefully, tenderly, in the middle of the pillow on Charmian’s bed.

  She had sped in through the opened bedroom window while Charmian took her bath, laid out her trophy, then, having done all that honour and natural instincts demanded, she had curled herself up in tranquil sleep at the foot of the bed.

  ‘Thanks, Muff.’ Charmian emerged, rubbing her hair dry. ‘And this time I mean it. I wanted to see that object. This is evidence, pet, not a billet-doux.’ She stood looking down at it. ‘ Yes, it’s me all right. Meant to be, anyway.’

  She popped the unpleasing simulacrum of herself into a plastic envelope, which she then sealed. It was unlikely that much information about its creator could be got from it after its trip in Muffs mouth, but Forensics could try. And you never could tell.

  ‘But it means I got under the skin of someone. Badly. And since it is so personal it is likely to be someone I actually spoke to. That means the Merrywick Witches, and Mr Fox.’

  The envelope went into a drawer of her bedside table. A book to read lay open: some poetry tonight. Milton, no less. He made her feel educated; also there was something very soothing about his rolling verse. A few hundred lines of ‘Paradise Lost’ and she would be asleep.

  A soft breeze was blowing through her bedroom window, ruffling the curtains. She stood there looking out for a few moments, enjoying the soft night air.

  She could just see the top of the castle itself where the Royal Standard fluttered. Beyond lay the Great Park with its avenues and leafy walks, mile upon mile, the old hunting grounds of the mediaeval kings of England: Norman, Angevin, Plantagenet and Tudor. The castle itself, originally planted there in his usual firm fashion by William the Conqueror to intimidate and hold down the neighbouring countryside, had long been a small township in itself. Within the castle walls live several communities, at its head the court when the sovereign chooses to visit, and then the more permanent inhabitants like the Poor Knights of Windsor and the clergy of the Chapel of St George. Not to mention the military, whom one might expect in a royal castle and of whom the Governor is the Great Officer. The Hanoverians were fond of the castle (George III more or less lived there), Queen Victoria was the Widow of Windsor, while the present Queen is said to regard it as her home.

  The castle is a strong image, rising up boldly with the town at its feet, and one which Charmian delighted in. It seemed to record the march of the centuries in stone: Norman keep, Plantagenet chapel, Tudor library and Victorian dairies down by the road to Old Windsor. Bewildering to the visitor, Old Windsor, the original old English village, is some miles along the road, nearer to where the Anglo Saxons forded the River Thames at Staines.

  The town itself, daily crowded with visitors, has a few eighteenth-century houses near the castle but is largely a Victorian creation. Charmian’s own small house in Maid of Honour Row was over a hundred years old but unpretentious. Probably a small tradesman and his family had lived in it when it was built. Or a castle servant walking up the hill to his work each day.

  Charmian did not run through this catalogue as she looked out of her window while Muff snored gently on her bed, but it was there at the back of her mind. She certainly remembered the visitors because only that day she had had to leap backwards into a bush of thorns to avoid being mowed down by a coach full of Japanese tourists, swinging down the wide curve of the High Street towards the River. She had a pair of laddered tights in the rubbish bin to prove it. To add to her fury, the constable on duty had said to her with a wink: ‘Trying to commit suicide, Miss?’ She resented the wink more than the remark.

  But now she was simply enjoying the night air; there was an avenue of limes not far away whose scent joined with her roses. A British Airways jet from Heathrow sailed overhead, but the noise did not worry her, she hardly noticed it. It was a comforting sound, it was home.


  When there had been no houses, no roads, no traffic, nothing between the castle and the old forest, there had probably been ghosts and witches.

  Hern the Hunter was said to appear in the Great Park, although the sceptical Charmian knew she would never see him. George III was reputed to hang about the castle itself and take the salute from the Guard on occasion, but she did not feel she was likely to see His Majesty either, he only appeared to soldiers. If there had to be any ghosts she thought she would have preferred to meet Sir John Falstaff, that patron of Windsor ales – one stood as good a chance of meeting a literary ghost who had never existed as a real, dead man.

  As to witches, the records testified to the prosecution of a couple of witches living in squalor amidst a clearing in the Great Park. But that was in the late seventeenth century. They had come up for trial in the assizes but the case had been dismissed, the Age of Reason having dawned and the alert and pragmatic Lord Justice Meadowcraft being on the Bench. He who had said that if witchcraft could cure his gout, then he would believe in witches, but since it could not, then he did not.

  Probably Meg Cottar and Joan Longcross had been no more than midwives and healers, perhaps a bit too zealous for their own good. Or just unlucky. Mothers die in childbirth and babies are stillborn even now, and litigation sometimes comes of it, but gallows do not loom, only compensation.

  White witches, that was what Winifred Eagle and Birdie Peacock claimed for their sisters of Merrywick. Perhaps something in the air round here summoned up the idea of witches.

  ‘Only I think I am on the side of Lord Justice Meadowcraft.’ She flexed the fingers of her right hand. If the Witches of Merrywick could cure her hand, then she would believe in them. No sign of it so far.

  But, as Kate would no doubt point out, you have to ask.

  ‘Can’t see myself asking,’ said Charmian out of the window. ‘That sort of thing ought to be a free gift.’

  She wondered what Winifred Eagle had been up to, dancing naked in her room.

  Had Winifred Eagle delivered the missive on her front doorstep, sometime between Kate departing and Charmian finding it?