by B G Denvil
“Mistress Scaramouch,” he said, “it’s most pleasant to see you again. But I’m afraid I have to ask you a few questions.”
Not bothering to tell him that she no longer counted herself as a Scaramouch, especially since Alfred Scaramouch was sitting next to her, Rosie simply nodded. “Here?” she asked. “Or elsewhere?”
Dickon scratched his head. Evidently, he had forgotten the questions. “Here, I suppose,” he said. “Shove up. I’ll remember in a minute.”
Rosie nodded to Bob and ordered the sheriff a cup of ale. “Something to do with Mandrake?” she asked, and wondered if Mandrake’s spell was still working. “Or something about the king? Buckingham? I shall try and answer whatever you like. How to bake bread? How to polish a knife? How to train a falcon?”
“Confusing.” Dickon scratched his head again. “My memory has been dreadful lately. I’m a little worried, but I suppose I’ll manage. I have an idea I wanted to ask you about Godwin Trout and his wife, Maggs.”
“I should be happy to answer,” Rosie said as Dickon’s ale arrived. “But I’ve never met either of them, so I doubt I can help much.”
“It’s a couple of weeks back when he got a nasty stab wound in his arm. But I didn’t get involved, since I was told there had been a fight here in the tavern, and Godwin was just as much at fault as anyone else.”
“I heard the same thing,” said Rosie with a vague stare.
“Being the sheriff, of course,” Dickon managed to look important, “I gave them all a warning, but I didn’t feel I needed to do anything more. But now – ” he lowered his voice, “I’m wondering if I was wrong. Perhaps I should take the whole lot into custody for a weekend.”
Alfred frowned, but managed to keep out of it. Peg, on the other hand, interrupted. “I don’t think any sheriff,” she said, “needs to interfere in some common drunken tavern skirmish.”
“And I didn’t,” sighed Dickon, “not until last night.”
Rosie raised an eyebrow. “What happened last night?”
“Don’t you know?” Dickon was surprised. “Though I suppose a few of the crowd here don’t know yet either.”
“You got married?” asked Edna hopefully.
“Oh dear, on the contrary,” sighed Dickon. “I’m going to start questioning everyone. I need clues. You see, last night Godwin was murdered.”
He faced three open mouths and one fast shut one. Alfred, who had never even heard of Godwin Trout, simply hoped the sheriff would go away. But was thinking, Oh darnation, another murder.
And Peg was thinking, I wonder if Mandrake actually had anything to do with this one.
But Rosie said aloud, “What? How? Where? Why?”
Yet Dickon scratched his head in desperation, and said, “A killing, oh dear. And all I want to do is play hopscotch.” When he gulped, looked around at the confusion, and said, “I keep getting so muddled. What did I just say?”
“You said that you should question the wife first,” said Rosie, nodding vigorously. “And I quite agree with you, because I heard he was most horribly abusive and used to hurt her. And I think you also said you needed to discover if he was here drinking last night, so you could find out what time he was killed.”
“Did I say all that?” Dickon smiled at last. “Perhaps I’m not as muddled as usual. I’ll ask Bob about Godwin. Thanks, Rosie. And thanks for the ale.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, but after he had gone to find the tavern owner, she turned to her friends. “Godwin was probably the one who started the fight where stupid old Sheriff Gill was killed. So do you think he was up to something nasty?”
“We don’t need to get involved this time,” Peg said at once. “Thank goodness it doesn’t involve us.”
‘But,” said Alfred, “I wouldn’t mind helping. I don’t have much to do now all the crows have grown. Perhaps I should go and meet this poor injured wife?”
“Maggs. She’s young, pretty and probably having an affair with at least one other young man,” Edna told him. “You’d best be careful.”
“I always am,” said Alfred.
“Well, you saved my life a while back,” Rosie said, her hand on his arm. “But you don’t know much about humans. They’re a funny lot.”
Five
It had been two months ago when Rosie had been invited to attend the Wiccan Court for a Coming of Age celebration. At midnight on the eighteenth of June, she had turned twenty-five years old. Considering that the average age of witches and wizards was around two hundred years or more, Rosie’s twenty-five was virtually babyhood.
She had enjoyed the celebration and so had her guests. It was the High Lord Humbugus who had handed over the small golden sceptre, a real honour.
These were now pleasant memories and took precedence over the many more unpleasant ones. Considering how young she was, and even though she was now the sole owner of The Rookery and its grounds, it was hardly surprising that she adored both the original cup, a gift from Whistle, and the sceptre from Humbugus. Both now sat proudly in her own bedchamber on a small shelf made especially for them now that Alice was out of the way.
Both had magical powers, but as a ninety-eight herself, she had not needed to explore either of them fully.
Alongside sat the silver toadstool, spoon and cup which had been created and much used by her own creator, Whistle Hobb.
But in spite of the previous closeness to Whistle before his death, and her immense gratitude for all that he had given her, including life, she was somewhat startled and not entirely delighted when a very large fat snake appeared, curled up cheerfully in the sunshine on her doorstep, and when she shooed it away, the voice sounded quite plaintive.
“Really, my dear,” muttered a voice just like Whistle’s, “there’s gratitude for you.”
It was quite a pretty snake with scales in alternating brown and white, with a few glistening greens thrown in. The eyes were piercing emerald, and Rosie could not remember ever seeing a snake quite like it. “I surrender,” she decided. “You’re not an adder, are you?”
“Never could add up,” admitted the snake.
“If you can come back like this,” Rosie said, “as well as being in Oswald, and I’ve seen you as a whirling mist too, why can’t you just be yourself?”
“You may not remember,” sighed the snake, “but I’m dead.”
“This snake,” Rosie pointed out, “is extremely alive.”
But the snake shook its snout. “Not at all. It’s an illusion, and a nice simple one. Snakes don’t have a particularly complicated anatomy, no arms or legs. So a little easier to create.”
Rosie smiled. “You once created a whole person, with arms and legs and even a head. And I’m certainly grateful for that, since it’s me.”
“I was alive at the time,” sighed the wizard. “Overcoming the slight disadvantage of having been murdered is not altogether straightforward, you know.”
“Well, I suppose you must be an adder then,” Rosie said faintly. “But you’re not a good likeness, I’m afraid. I’ve seen enough of them, and they’re never as long or as fat and not as pretty either.”
“I have to be particularly huge,” Whistle replied, “in order to fit in all those brains.”
“Sorry.” Then Rosie thought of something else. “Are you poisonous?”
It seemed that Whistle was not entirely sure. He opened his mouth, squeezed his eyes in concentration, and felt around the inside of his jaws with his long, forked tongue. Two rather long fangs pointed outwards. “I think perhaps I am,” he said finally. “Could be useful. Now if I’d had these when wretched Boris Barnacle was running around with his hammer, I might have got him back.”
Rosie wasn’t laughing. “That reminds me of something,” she said. “I remember Boris from when I was a child. He was playful and pleasant enough, although he really liked to sneak in a pinch or two while playing. He had a spiteful side, but he certainly wasn’t murderous. Not even malicious. But when he started going into the
shadow side, he began talking nonsense, as if he couldn’t manage the light and the dark at the same time. And his bedchamber had black splashes over the walls.”
“Umm,” said the snake, having a quick wriggle to make itself comfortable, “that means the evil came from somewhere else, but it can’t really settle in anyone unless they’re suitable. It sounds as though Boris was too simple, really, and couldn’t cope with both. The shadows got stronger, and the little good bits got squashed out. But the black splashes seem to point to Boris having fought against the evil at first.”
“Oh dear. Poor Boris.”
“Whereas your adopted mother was more than happy to welcome the evil in. My fault, of course. Very stupid of me. Had my mind elsewhere, naturally.”
“Which is something else I was thinking about the other day,” Rosie said. “She’s a Troilus bug now, but I haven’t seen her since she was changed by the court.”
“Well-camouflaged.” The snake shook its head with an emerald blink. “If I see her, I’ll eat her. Getting a bit peckish now, as it happens.”
“Don’t eat any crows.”
“My dear girl,” said the snake, “I am an illusion. Illusions don’t eat dinner. But they do sleep, which is what I intend doing now. Very pleasant sunshine.”
Rosie went back into her room, reminding herself not to step on the snake next time she went out.
What she had not bothered to ask Whistle was the puzzle of who had killed Godwin Trout, and why. The unremarkable behaviour of humans had always seemed utterly boring to Whistle. But it was something that Rosie herself was determined to discover. Not only was she concerned that Mandrake might once again be blamed, but she was also bothered by the idea that her favourite tavern and place of rest was turning into a place of mayhem and murder. And that wouldn’t do at all.
And as Whistle could embrace a snake’s shape, Rosie thought she might as well be a cat again. With a quick shake from head to toes at the same time as a muttering the spell, she turned into the small white cat. She first sat for a moment, grooming her long soft fur. With whiskers longer than most and fur as long as a forest but a good deal more voluptuous, this was a cat that attracted attention. But not all humans loved cats. Rosie stopped grooming, sniffed, flicked her whiskers and set off down Kettle Lane. Slower than flying naturally but she enjoyed flexing her muscles while the sun on her back.
In the Juggler and Goat, no candles were lit, as it was midday, and the sun was trying hard to find a path through the tiny window. Rosie almost disappeared in the sunlight of the few hot inches beside Rollo’s feet, which was an easy spot to curl into, so with a twitch of both ears she sent a quick spell.
Immediately Rollo changed the subject. “And what about Godwin?”
His friends stared at him. “We just finished talking about that an hour ago, or less.”
“Sorry.” Rollo was embarrassed. “I sort of couldn’t help bringing it up again. I mean, I still don’t think poor Maggs did it, you know. But I bet she gets arrested for it. Dickon has gone wild. Makes no sense. But he must have enough brain left to see an abused wife might want to kill her husband. Or it might have been whoever she was having an affair with. I just think we should do something about it.”
“You’re going as daft as Dickon,” complained one of his friends. “Talking rubbish, just like him. We discussed all this before, and you said you didn’t want anything to do with it. It was the sheriff’s job. And you didn’t think the world would miss Godwin, not one inch.
“I still feel that way.” Rollo frowned.
“So why did you bring it up again?”
“Because,” said Rollo with sudden determination, “this stupid sheriff is half balmy, and he’s going to do something terrible. I just know it. Maybe he’ll arrest me. Or you. Or,” and he felt something against his leg and peered down under the table to see who might be kicking him, “or perhaps this cat sitting on my feet. Dickon is capable of anything.”
“I’d like to see him trying to arrest a cat.”
But Rosie was trotting away. She had heard enough. Now she headed directly for the sheriff’s office and found the door open, no sheriff, two empty cells and splashes of unexpected black over all the walls, the table where the sheriff usually worked, the floor and the papers he had presumably been working on.
It was a declaration that Rosie had certainly not expected, and with her tail up, her talons outstretched, and her fur on end, she paced from the small stone building and headed towards the village hall.
Here, the mayor was shouting behind one solid wooden door, yet still could be heard. “I’ll authorise no such thing,” he was shouting. The sound of fists on a tabletop was equally shattering. “I don’t know what’s got into you, Dickon. I don’t know whether it’s sorrow at losing Arthur, or if pride at being the new sheriff has gone to your head. But I’m not writing death warrants for half the village.”
Then Dickon’s voice chimed in. “I know what I’m doing, John Jordan, and you do not. There is a terribly conspiracy leaking across the whole of Piddleton. It will devour us all. First the sheriff himself, an innocent and ancient gentleman, killed without motive. Now Godwin Trout, a happily married man. I believe there will be another murder within days.”
“You can’t know anything of the sort, unless you do it yourself,” shouted the mayor. “Or perhaps you’ll tempt some of our good people so much, they’ll do it to you.”
“It won’t be me.” Dickon glowered. “I can protect myself. But someone will die. I can feel it.”
As the door slammed open, Rosie quickly moved aside into the shadows. She watched as Dickon marched from the village hall and out into the sunshine, but she did not follow him.
She had seen his face. And she had seen the black splashes on his walls. She knew what had happened, but even as a ninety-eight, she did not yet know how to deal with it. Hurrying in, she stopped behind the mayor, who had flopped down, red-faced, on his chair and struggled for breath.
Rosie asked, her voice very human, “Can you tell me where Margaret Trout lives? I have a message to deliver.”
“Yes, yes.” The mayor had sunk his chin into his doublet collar, which was nearly as furry as Rosie at that moment, making his words blurred. Yet she heard him clearly enough when he said, “The corner cottage on Piddleton Middle Lane, heading out to Springfield Farm where her brother lives.” But then he turned, staring around. “Who was it that asked? Who said that? Who’s there?” And seeing no one, he moaned, “The good Lord forgive me, I’m going as mad as the sheriff.”
Rosie was already halfway down Piddleton Middle Lane. This was not a pretty area, for the farm covered most of the land on either side and was fenced in by cropped hedges, keeping the livestock from escaping and the land from being swept away in heavy rain. But the little cottage on the corner before the farm gate was pretty enough, with briar roses underpinning the thatch. The door was hung with a rabbit-shaped brass bell. The tiny front garden was rather weedy, but the path from lane to doorway was clean, and here Rosie scampered to the back of the cottage and slipped through the open gap in one of the windows.
She was surprised to find Maggs sitting on a stool at the tiny table beside the cooking fire, which held only soot, her arms folded on the tabletop and her head cradled there as she cried.
Thinking herself unseen and unheard, the pretty young woman was sobbing as though quite broken, and Rosie immediately hopped onto the table and began to run herself against the wet cheeks beside her. She started to purr, and Maggs looked up with a start.
“Where did you come from, little one?” she asked in a gentle whisper, and began to stroke the small cat. It clearly brought her comfort. Then scratching beneath the little cat’s chin, which Rosie enjoyed very much, the woman began to speak to herself. “He said four. And we’ve had two. I just know it’ll be me and then Luke. Because he knows about Luke. He must know.”
Rosie wished she could ask questions, but whispering into the woman’s ear would probably
send her into violent sobs again, thinking she was haunted. Instead, Rosie curled up on the table where a slice of sunshine had pushed through the window, and Maggs promptly lay her own face on top, loving the thick silk of the cat’s warm fur beneath her cheek.
It was a long time before Rosie went home, but Maggs did not speak again.
Six
“We know humans are all quite mad,” Peg shrugged.
“This is more than that, and it just might affect us too,” Rosie insisted. She was sitting at ease in Edna’s day room, legs stretched to the sun, and looking fairly human herself except for a bright white cockatoo asleep on her head. “After all,” she continued, “a strange collection of unsolved killings happened to us not long ago, and now it seems to be happening in the village.”
Edna passed around cups of wine. “But we did have an explanation for all the terrible things that happened here,” she said, sitting on the chair opposite. “And it had nothing to do with humans. We solved it all ourselves, and now, my dear, you own everything. What an excellent result, with a few other odd puzzles solved along the way.”
“But,” Rosie disagreed, “I do get quite a few ideas, you know. Seeing things before they happen. When Little Piddleton’s problem started, immediately Mandrake was arrested.”
“But it never was a murder,” Peg pointed out, “just a silly accident. And Mandrake got himself out.”
“Which means,” Rosie continued, “that whoever arranged that, now knows he has to do something far stronger next time, and the next time, and the time after that. Especially if he wants us to get involved and suffer too.”
Both Peg and Edna suddenly sat forwards, almost bumping heads across Rosie’s lap, since she was sitting in the middle. “So,” said Edna, “you actually think Alice is behind this again? But she can’t be. What can a tiny bug achieve?”
“She’s not alone.” Rosie stared at her friends. “That daft sheriff’s assistant, who is now the sheriff, he’s gone exactly the way Boris went, and he’s got black splashes all over his walls. And we know the Godwin person was murdered, well, his poor little wife was in floods of tears when I found her.” Rosie, remembering, also sniffed. “And she said sad things, as if she knew she was about to be killed as well.”
