by HANNA, H. Y.
Stepping forwards to join them, she said, “Perhaps you should be speaking to Lord Fitzroy about this? I understand that he owns most of the land around Tillyhenge.”
“He doesn’t own mine,” snapped the Widow Mags. “And I’m not selling it to him either!” She waved a hand at the young man. “Go away! I don’t have time for your nonsense. I have chocolates to make.”
“Um, maybe… maybe I could order something before I go?” He looked wistfully towards the hearth behind the counter, where the small black cauldron was bubbling away, the steam rising from it filled with a rich cocoa aroma. “What’s that? It smells absolutely fantastic!”
“It’s traditional Spanish hot chocolate,” said the Widow Mags, thawing slightly at his genuine enthusiasm. “It’s a secret recipe that’s been in my family for generations.” She pointed at the window seat at the front of the store. “Sit. I’ll bring a cup over to you.”
The young man meekly followed orders as the Widow Mags ladled the thick rich hot chocolate into an earthenware mug.
“Here, I’ll take it for you,” Caitlyn offered.
“Take this as well,” muttered the Widow Mags, shoving a generous chunk of chocolate fudge cake onto a plate. “The boy looks like he needs a good meal.”
Caitlyn hid a smile. She was beginning to realise that the Widow Mags’s bark was a lot worse than her bite. Beneath that prickly exterior was a kind heart. She lifted the mug and plate and carried them carefully over to the young man, who was perching nervously on the window seat.
“Thanks,” he said, giving her a hesitant smile and holding a hand out. “I’m David Allan, by the way. I didn’t get a chance to meet you earlier when I arrived to talk to your grandmother.”
“Oh, she’s not my grandmother,” said Caitlyn quickly.
“Really?” He looked surprised. “I thought I could see a family resemblance. You’ve got the same eyes…”
Caitlyn glanced back towards the old woman hunched behind the counter and was surprised to realise that the young man was right. They were much more wrinkled, of course, and drooping slightly with age, but the Widow Mags’s almond-shaped hazel eyes did look very similar to her own.
“He-e-ello? Anyone home?”
A figure paused in the shop doorway, arm raised in a parody of knocking. Caitlyn looked up and her heart sank at the sight of that smirk. It was the reporter she’d met on the first day. He sauntered into the store and up to the counter.
“Widow Mags?” he asked. “I’m Rob Wiggins, freelance reporter. Do you have a moment? I’d love to ask you a few questions about the murder.”
She scowled at him. “No.”
He grinned, not put off. “Oh, I can see that you’re busy now. But that’s okay—I can wait. I’ll just take a seat here, shall I?” He strolled over to the window seat and sat down next to David Allan, glancing across at the young salesman. “Mm, that looks delicious. I’ll have what he’s having,” he said to Caitlyn.
She felt a flash of irritation at his patronising tone. She was tempted to tell him that she didn’t work here and that he could go and get his own chocolate! Then she glanced across at the Widow Mags, still hunched behind the counter. With her arthritis flare up, it would be difficult for the old woman to juggle both preparing the chocolate orders and serving the customers. It would be a big help if Caitlyn lent a hand. Besides, she didn’t have anything else to do anyway.
“You have to prepay for your order,” she told Rob Wiggins. If they were going to have to suffer his company, they might as well get his money first!
As Wiggins fished in his wallet for the cash, he looked at Caitlyn thoughtfully. “You know, I’m still trying to figure out where I’ve seen you. Some B-list movie? Or cable TV show? Dancing with the Stars?” Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “I think I know! Barbara Le Fey. That singer who was killed in a car accident last month. I saw the pictures of her funeral. You were—”
“So what brings you to Tillyhenge?” Caitlyn cut in hastily.
He laughed and rubbed his hands. “A nice juicy murder, of course.”
“Do you have any theories?” asked Caitlyn, desperate to keep him talking and distract him from the mystery of her own identity.
“Oh, I’ve got more than theories… I’ve got proof.” He gave her a smug look.
“Proof of what?”
“Ah, that would be telling, wouldn’t it?”
“You don’t really have anything,” said Caitlyn scornfully. “You’re just talking big.”
He looked indignant. “No, I’m not. I know who did it. I know the identity of the murderer.”
“If you really knew that, why aren’t you going to the police?”
“Ah, well…” He coughed importantly. “I still have to gather some key pieces of evidence.”
“I thought you said you have proof.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Well, all right—I might not have the proof yet… but I know where to get it! And when I do, I’m going to make a splash.” He gave her a gleeful look. “This could be my ticket to the big time. It’ll be the scoop of the year! My byline will be on every front page. Maybe I’ll even get my own column: ‘Rob Wiggins—detective journalist extraordinaire’!”
Caitlyn resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She’d never met anyone so cocky. On his other side, she saw David Allan politely pretending not to listen. She caught his eye, exchanging a smile with the young salesman. Then she took the money and headed back to the counter. The Widow Mags was no longer there. Instead, she was in the kitchen, standing at a gleaming black Aga stove that dominated one wall of the room and stirring a small pot filled with melted chocolate.
As Caitlyn watched, the old woman took out a bar of solid chocolate from a box and chopped it into small sections. Then she tossed them into the pot, stirring slowly and carefully. As she moved the ladle around and around, Caitlyn saw the melted chocolate change, going from an opaque, dark sludge to a smooth, glossy brown liquid.
“What are you doing?” asked Caitlyn, fascinated.
“Tempering chocolate,” said the old woman.
“Tempering?”
“It’s a special technique used by chocolatiers for centuries,” the old woman explained, with no trace of her usual impatient manner. “The chocolate is heated and melted, then cooled by ‘seeding’ it—and then heated and melted again. This changes its structure. It makes the chocolate silky and glossy, and ‘snap’ crisply when you break it apart. Otherwise, it will look dull and waxy, and never set firm and hard.”
Caitlyn paused in surprise. Now that she thought about it, the Widow Mags was right. All the chocolate in the store outside was a beautiful glossy shade, from the warm tan of milk chocolate to the deepest brown of dark chocolate, and even the creamy ivory of white chocolate too. She had always thought that chocolate just came like that—she didn’t realise that it needed a special process to turn it that way.
“What are you going to do with the tempered chocolate?” she asked.
“I’m making some decorations for the cakes and truffles. Chocolate fans, lattices, and curls.”
The Widow Mags removed the pot from the stove and transferred it to the huge wooden table in the centre of the room, setting it down next to a large marble slab. She scooped some melted chocolate out of the pot and poured it in the centre of the marble slab, creating a large, gleaming dark puddle. Then she took a long metal spatula and spread the puddle evenly over the marble in a long, oblong shape. She waited a moment as the chocolate cooled and hardened, then—using a sharp knife—she scored long lines along the length of the oblong. Turning the blade of the knife in the other direction, she began slicing down across the oblong with sharp flicks of her wrist.
To Caitlyn’s amazement, tiny, delicate curls of chocolate seemed to spring from the edge of the blade as the Widow Mags moved across the marble. It looked almost like magic. Yet when Caitlyn reached out and touched one of the dainty swirls, it felt firm and strong. She lifted it to her lips. It melted sweet
ly on her tongue. She couldn’t resist reaching out to pick up another curl. And another.
“Are you here to eat my chocolate or help me serve it?” grumbled the Widow Mags, but Caitlyn could see that the old woman had a twinkle in her eyes.
Then she remembered why she had come into the kitchen. “Mr Wiggins—the reporter—would like a cup of hot chocolate as well. Should I—?”
“No, I’ll make it for him,” said the Widow Mags. She pointed at the ladle in the pot. “Keep stirring the tempered chocolate. It mustn’t cool down and harden, otherwise I’ll have to start all over again.”
Caitlyn moved around the table and picked up the ladle as the Widow Mags went out, leaving her alone. She obediently stirred the chocolate around and around the pot, finding the motion soothing, almost mesmerising. It was warm in the kitchen and Caitlyn felt drowsiness slide over her. She closed her eyes, inhaling the sweet, rich aroma of chocolate around her, and imagined what she would make if she was working with the chocolate herself. More of those gorgeous curls, definitely… and maybe little rosettes and even proper roses, with delicate petals unfolding… interlocking hearts… beautiful lattices shaped like a crown… a butterfly perhaps or… a feather! Yes, lovely little curled plumes and—
“CAITLYN?”
Caitlyn jumped, opening her eyes. She realised that the Widow Mags was back in the kitchen—she had been so engrossed in her daydream that she hadn’t heard the old woman return. Then she realised that the Widow Mags was staring fixedly at the marble slab on the table. Caitlyn turned her gaze to look herself and gasped in wonder.
There, arranged across the slab, was an assortment of beautiful, delicate chocolate decorations. A pile of chocolate curls. Another one of rosettes. A beautiful single rose, its petals gently unfurling. A pair of interlocking hearts. Some delicate lattices curved around into the shape of a crown. Something that looked like a half-finished butterfly. And then a row of tiny, graceful feather plumes. All made with chocolate.
Caitlyn blinked. They all looked exactly like how she had imagined them. How? Where had they come from?
The Widow Mags approached the table slowly, still staring at the chocolate decorations. “Did you make these?” she said hoarsely.
Caitlyn stared. Then she shook her head. “N-no… I… of course not! How could I? I’ve never worked with chocolate before! All I was doing was standing here stirring the chocolate…” She turned, confused, to look at the pot at her elbow, and was surprised to see that the level of melted chocolate seemed to have gone down slightly, as if some of the chocolate had been used.
The Widow Mags gave her a strange look. “That’s all? You weren’t doing anything else?”
“No.” Caitlyn shook her head again. “I just stirred it, exactly as you showed me, and imagined what I might make if I—” She broke off suddenly, staring back at the decorations on the marble.
No. No, it couldn’t be.
She knew for sure that she hadn’t moved from her position—and she didn’t have the skill to create those little works of chocolate art. But the alternative was even more unbelievable: that they had somehow been created by her mind… by magic?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A commotion in the shop made Caitlyn and the Widow Mags both whirl around and hurry back. Caitlyn was surprised to see that it was much fuller than when she had left. Several tourists seem to have drifted in, as well as a few villagers who stood fearfully in the front doorway, peering inside.
The loud commotion was coming from a group of women who were milling around the centre of the store, amongst them a lady Caitlyn recognised from the bakery that morning. Angela. The tall blonde woman who had made the malicious comments about Amy Matthews. Now she stood at the front of the group, obviously their unofficial leader.
“So… this is what the inside of the chocolate shop looks like.” She wrinkled her nose as she looked around. “What a dump.” She laughed contemptuously. “I can’t believe everyone has been too scared to come in here for years and it’s nothing but a dingy little hole.”
“What do you want?” growled the Widow Mags.
“Me? Oh, just to have a browse around. Surely I’m allowed to do that?” She sauntered up to the counter and eyed the truffles on display beneath the glass pane. She gave the Widow Mags a patronising smile. “Perhaps I should buy some chocolates? The non-poisonous ones, of course.” She laughed at her own joke and her friends laughed along with her.
“They’re not for sale to you,” the Widow Mags snapped.
Angela raised her eyebrows “Surely you’re not going to turn my money away? I heard that you were really struggling… I’m sure you could use some cash.” She laughed again and pulled a wad of notes out of her purse, waving them under the old woman’s nose.
When the Widow Mags remained stony-faced and unresponsive, Angela’s lips tightened and she thrust the money back into her bag. Then she picked up a beautiful filigree chocolate sculpture from the top of the counter.
“Wow… It must have taken you a long time to make this…” The chocolate sculpture slipped from her fingers and crashed to the floor, smashing into several pieces.
Angela covered her mouth in mock dismay. “Oops! How careless of me."
Caitlyn felt a surge of anger. That sculpture had been a beautiful piece of artwork, never mind a delicious creation of expensive chocolate. It was unforgivable to smash it on the floor like that. It was completely wasted now.
Angela turned from the counter, flinging out her arm as she did so and—accidentally on purpose—knocked another chocolate sculpture off the counter and onto the floor. More pieces of broken chocolate scattered across the wooden floorboards.
“Oh dear. I’m just so clumsy today. I don’t know what’s come over me.” Angela smirked.
The other women laughed and one of them, emboldened by Angela’s actions, reached out to a nearby shelf and knocked some chocolate bars off, then stepped on them, grinding them with her heel.
“Oh! How careless of me too! I must look where I’m stepping more.” She giggled.
“Stop it,” said Caitlyn, furious.
She took a step forwards. She noticed that David Allan had risen in consternation from his seat by the window, whilst next to him, Rob Wiggins was maliciously enjoying the show. The tourists hovered, uncertain, and, in the doorway, the other villagers watched with anticipation.
“Um, excuse me… You shouldn’t… you really shouldn’t do that…” David Allan said weakly.
Angela laughed again, then turned back to the counter where the last chocolate sculpture stood, alone and vulnerable. She lifted a languid hand and reached towards it.
“Take your hands off my chocolate.” The Widow Mags’s voice rang across the room, hard and cold.
Angela hesitated, then tossed her head and said with a show of bravado, “Or you’ll what? Turn me into a toad?” She leaned towards the old woman suddenly, narrowing her eyes and saying in a vicious voice, “We all know you murdered that gamekeeper, you old witch! And these chocolates of yours—they’re bewitched by dark magic! They’re dangerous! The village has put up with you for far too long. There’s no place for witchcraft here. It’s time you left and took your vile chocolates with you!”
The Widow Mags said nothing.
Angela laughed again, an ugly jeering sound, then turned and picked up the last chocolate sculpture. She tossed it carelessly over her shoulder and Caitlyn flinched as it hit the floor and smashed into a dozen pieces.
Angela smiled, then made a great show of dusting her hands. There were smears on her fingers, where the chocolate had melted slightly. She rubbed these away. Then she rubbed them again. And again.
Caitlyn saw that instead of disappearing as Angela rubbed her hands together, the chocolate smears seemed to be multiplying, springing up across her skin and gradually up her arms.
“What’s… what’s happening to me?” gasped Angela, staring at her arms.
The smears were rising up now, forming strange bl
obs and shapes…
Warts.
There were chocolate warts starting to grow all over Angela’s arms, neck, and face.
“Eeeeek! Angela, your nose! Your nose!” her friend shrieked, pointing wildly.
Angela groped at her nose, feeling an enormous wart protrude from the tip.
“AAAAAGGHH!” she screamed. She clamped both hands to her face, covering her nose, and turned to the Widow Mags in fury.
“What have you done to me?” she demanded. “Undo it!”
The Widow Mags looked at her calmly. “What do you mean? If you handle chocolate, it’s likely to melt and smear on your skin. Everyone knows that.”
The woman next to Angela gave a cry and touched her neck. Caitlyn could see a chocolate wart beginning to grow on her throat too.
“No!” she cried, scrubbing at her neck frantically. “No! No! No! Noooo!”
The other women in the group started clutching parts of their bodies too, gasping and shrieking.
“You! You evil witch—you hexed us!” cried Angela, her voice weirdly muffled as she still had both hands clamped over her nose. “I’m going to report you to the police! I’m going to go to the Inspector right now and show him these warts. He’ll come and arrest you for witchcraft!”
Turning, she stormed out of the shop, followed by her still-shrieking friends. Silence descended on the store. The tourists were staring wide-eyed; the villagers—the ones who hadn’t run off with Angela—looked terrified but fascinated.
“What are you all staring at?” snapped the Widow Mags.
Quickly, everyone looked away. Muttering under their breaths, they all scrambled to leave. Five minutes later, Caitlyn sighed as she surveyed the empty shop, the window seat abandoned, the hot chocolate half drunk. Even David Allan had mumbled an excuse and hurriedly left. It had all been going so well, the chocolate shop finally getting some customers at last…
