by HANNA, H. Y.
Still, she couldn’t say that she was completely sorry. There had been something wonderfully satisfying about seeing Angela and her friends get their comeuppance. Caitlyn didn’t want to think too much about how they had got their comeuppance. Somehow, the “hoax” explanation didn’t really work anymore. And yet, in spite of what had also happened back in the kitchen—with those chocolate decorations just appearing like that—Caitlyn couldn’t bring herself to say the “m” word.
“Mother!” Bertha stormed suddenly through the shop’s front door, her frizzy red hair flying loose, her kaftan trailing behind her. “Mother, what have you been doing? Angela Skinner is running around the village green with a group of her friends, ranting and raving about you putting a hex on her and giving her warts. Is it true?”
The Widow Mags didn’t even pretend to look sorry. In fact, her eyes gleamed and she looked like a mischievous child who had done something naughty—and enjoyed it.
“Mother, how could you have done that?” wailed Bertha. “You know how hard it is already to be accepted in this village. We need to keep a low profile! People don’t understand our gifts and it’s dangerous if we’re too open about them! Plus, you’re setting a bad example for Evie. How can I tell her not to—”
“Oh, don’t fuss,” said the Widow Mags irritably. “It’s only chocolate. Angela won’t be permanently harmed.” She paused, then added under her breath, “More’s the pity.”
Bertha sighed and said in exasperation, “Mother, can’t you at least try to blend in a bit more?”
“Blend in?” The Widow Mags gave a cackling laugh, which startled Caitlyn. The old woman really did sound like the stereotypical witch in children’s books and movies.
“We’re never going to blend in! When are you going to realise that? Look how many years we’ve tried to keep our heads down and not attract attention. How long we’ve been suffering abuse and insults from women like Angela. People avoiding us in the street, not serving us in the shops, giving us dirty looks and talking behind our backs… We’re ‘different’ and they’ll never let us forget it. No matter how much you try to befriend them or pass yourself off as some common herbalist, it’s never going to work. Besides…” The old woman gave a fierce nod. “I am what I am. I make no apologies for that.”
Before Bertha could answer, there was a commotion at the front door again and, the next moment, Angela stormed back in, followed by her friends, two men in police uniforms, and an older man in a sombre grey suit. He didn’t have a badge visible but there was no doubting that he was a CID detective. Caitlyn felt a prickle of unease.
“There! That’s her! That’s the witch!” Angela’s voice was still strangely muffled because she was keeping both hands clamped over her nose. The skin on her arms and hands were clear now, the chocolate warts gone.
The detective inspector looked slightly weary as he came forwards and said, in a slow, patient voice, “Miss Skinner, as I have told you already, the police do not deal with incidences of… ahem… paranormal activity and the occult. So unless a crime has been committed here—”
“She hexed me! That’s a crime, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid a… er… hex isn’t included on the list of criminal offences under the Crown Prosecution Service.”
“Well, she… she caused me harm, then! Bodily harm!” said Angela wildly. “You can arrest her for that!”
The inspector gave her a sceptical look. “Do you have proof of that?”
“Yes. It’s here… on my nose.” Angela said, still not taking her hands away.
“I will need to see it.”
Angela hesitated, then flushing with humiliation, she removed her hands from her face. Caitlyn leaned forwards. She could see what looked like a large brown blob on the end of the woman’s upturned nose.
The inspector looked slightly confused. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”
“This!” cried Angela, going slightly cross-eyed as she looked down at her own nose and pointed to the brown blob. “See? It’s a hideous wart! She gave it to me—that bloody old witch!”
The inspector leaned forwards. “All I see is a bit of chocolate stuck to the end of your nose, ma’am.”
“Huh?” Angela dabbed at the brown blob and it came off—a big, melted glob of chocolate, smearing across her fingers. Her eyes widened in disbelief and outrage. “Aaah! She changed it! She changed it back!”
“Miss Skinner,” said the inspector, his voice no longer patient. “I do not find your joke amusing. It is a serious offence to waste police time—”
“It was a wart! I’m telling you, it was! It was!” Angela was almost jumping up and down with frustration.
The inspector was getting irritable now. “If you persist in these ridiculous accusations, I will be obliged to arrest you for making a false report, and wasting police time and resources.”
“Aaaarrrggghh!” Shrieking in fury and outrage, Angela turned and stormed back out of the store, followed by her friends.
Caitlyn couldn’t help but smile. It was good to see the horrible woman thwarted. And she felt a sense of relief that the police hadn’t arrested the Widow Mags. But that relief was short-lived when she saw that instead of leaving, the inspector turned towards the counter and addressed the old woman.
“As it happens, I was on my way here to see you, ma’am. My name is Detective Inspector Walsh. Is there a room where we may speak in private?”
“Why?” asked the Widow Mags suspiciously.
The inspector gave her a hard look. “Because I am conducting an investigation into the murder of Stan Matthews and I need to ask you some questions.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bertha clutched the Widow Mags’s arm. “Mother, you don’t have to answer any questions! The police can’t interview you if you want to get legal advice first. I know a lady; she’s a lawyer and she specialises in helping people with ‘alternative’ lifestyles, and she’s happy to do pro bono—”
“A lawyer? Why would I want to speak to a lawyer?” said the Widow Mags. She waved a hand at the inspector. “Go ahead. Ask what you like. I have nothing to hide. But make it quick,” she added, scowling at him. “I’m busy and I haven’t got all day.”
The inspector looked slightly nonplussed at being reprimanded like a small boy. He cleared his throat in an official manner and said:
“I believe that Mrs Matthews—the dead man’s wife—is one of your customers?”
The Widow Mags’s bottom lip jutted out. “So what if she is?”
“Eyewitnesses report that she was seen here in the shop with you the day before Stan Matthews was murdered. Can I ask what she purchased from you?”
“Chocolate, what else?” said the Widow Mags impatiently.
“What kind of chocolate?” the inspector persisted.
“All sorts. How do you expect me to remember? I have so many kinds.” The old woman gestured around the shop.
The inspector’s gaze followed her gesture. “Yes, and I hope you will have no objection to us taking a sample of each—just for comparison purposes, you understand.”
“What do you mean?”
“The post-mortem report on Stan Matthews indicates that he was poisoned. Traces of chocolate were found on his fingers, and the remains of chocolate in his stomach.”
“What are you trying to say?” demanded the Widow Mags. “Are you suggesting that it was my chocolates that poisoned him?”
“We just like to cover all lines of enquiry,” said the inspector.
“Take whatever you want. I said I have nothing to hide.”
Inspector Walsh motioned to one of the uniformed men and they watched as the young constable moved behind the counter and began taking samples of the truffles on display.
“I believe that you grow herbs as well, is that right, ma’am?” the inspector continued.
The Widow Mags gave him a surly look. “So? Lots of people grow herbs.”
“Perhaps… but most don’t grow certain dangerous p
lants such as belladonna. I understand you have several specimens in your garden. I find it interesting; why would someone who runs a chocolate shop need to grow such deadly herbs?”
“There’s nothing wrong with growing belladonna if it is handled with care,” said the Widow Mags huffily. “It’s the fools who mess ’round without the knowledge of how to use it, who get into trouble.”
“And I presume you have that knowledge?” the inspector said, looking at her intently. “In particular, using belladonna as a poison?”
“Why would I want to use it as a poison?”
“Well, I can imagine several instances. For example, if someone came to you for help… such as Mrs Matthews?” The inspector leaned forwards. “It was well known around the village that her husband beat her. It would have been understandable if she’d wanted to… get rid of him, so to speak. Perhaps you sympathised with that. Perhaps you helped her.”
The Widow Mags gave him a belligerent look. “Amy Matthews didn’t come to me for help to get rid of her husband… but I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had. Stan Matthews was nothing but a drunk and a vicious bully. I think he got what he deserved. Good riddance!”
Bertha groaned and hid her face in her hands. “Mother…"
The Widow Mags waved dismissively at the inspector. “Now, unless you’ve got more stupid questions to ask me, I’d thank you to leave. I’ve got a shop to clean up and your constables aren’t helping, stepping everywhere with their size ten feet!”
The inspector looked taken aback. He glanced around, trying to come up with a dignified response. The young constable, who had been gathering samples, had just returned from the rear of the cottage, a plastic bag with green clippings in his hand.
He nodded at the inspector. “That’s everything, guv.”
Inspector Walsh turned back to the Widow Mags and cleared his throat. “Ahem… er… yes, that will be all for now, but we may have some more questions for you later. I advise you not to leave Tillyhenge without informing the police.”
The Widow Mags snorted. “Leave? Where do you think I’d be off to? A world cruise?”
The inspector turned slightly red, cleared his throat again, and left the shop with a look of relief on his face, the two police constables hurrying after him. There was a reproachful silence in the shop after they left. Bertha looked like she was fuming and about to explode at any moment. Feeling slightly embarrassed, Caitlyn grabbed a broom and hurriedly began sweeping up the scattered chocolate pieces.
As she swept, she could hear the Widow Mags and Bertha bickering in low, angry voices—then after a while, she realised that they were no longer talking about the police visit and the murder. No, they were talking about her. She could see them throwing speculative glances at her as they argued and she saw Bertha go into the kitchen, then return, a stunned look on her face. She must have seen the chocolate decorations—those crazy, beautiful, dainty works of chocolate art that seemed to have materialised out of thin air.
Then she paused in her sweeping. This was stupid. Why was she hesitating? She’d been in Tillyhenge over a day now and still hadn’t started asking the questions she really came here for. They were obviously talking about her anyway. Now was as good a time as any.
Taking a deep breath, Caitlyn put her broom down and walked over to the counter where the two women were still talking. She reached under her shirt and pulled out the runestone attached to the ribbon around her neck.
“Um… Can you help me with something? Do you… Have you seen symbols similar to these anywhere around Tillyhenge? Do you know what they might mean?”
They froze and stared at the runestone she was holding up to show them.
“Where did you get that, girl?” the Widow Mags asked hoarsely.
Caitlyn was surprised by their strong reactions. “It was… um… sort of given to me. I’ve had it since I was a baby.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“I don’t know." Caitlyn hesitated, then said in a rush, “I think it might have been my mother. But I don’t know her. I… I only found out recently that I was adopted and that I was found as a baby by the side of the road, somewhere here in the Cotswolds. There was no ID on me. The only thing I had was this stone, on a ribbon, around my neck.” When they didn’t speak, she hurried on: “I… I thought it might help me find my mother—and my real family. I showed this runestone to a professor in Oxford and he told me that he thought it might be connected to the stone circle here at Tillyhenge. That’s why I’m here.”
The Widow Mags reached out slowly and picked up the runestone, brushing her thumb over the carved surface, whilst Bertha watched, her eyes wide. There was a strange expression on both their faces.
Caitlyn said urgently, “You know something about this, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes. You recognise the stone! Where is it from? What do the symbols mean?"
The Widow Mags dropped the runestone suddenly, as if it was burning hot, and turned sharply away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, girl.”
“What?” Caitlyn looked at her, confused and taken aback for a moment. Then she grabbed the old woman’s arm. “No, no… you do know something! You must tell me!”
The old woman shook her hand off. “I think you’ve been told a lot of nonsense. People are always making up stories about the stone circle. There’s probably no connection to Tillyhenge at all—”
“Mother…” said Bertha in an agonised voice. “Mother, we can’t just—”
“Quiet!” the Widow Mags hissed. She pushed past Caitlyn and walked over to grab the broom. Then she turned her back on them and began sweeping. It was obvious that the conversation was over.
Caitlyn turned to Bertha but the other woman avoided her eyes. She mumbled something about needing to get back to Herbal Enchantments and hurriedly left the chocolate shop.
Caitlyn blew out a sigh of frustration. What was going on? Why wouldn’t they talk to her?
***
The pub was heaving when Caitlyn arrived there for dinner that evening. With no other restaurant in the village, it looked like it was the only place where the locals could meet up and socialise. Several people were grouped around the bar counter, nursing pints of beer, whilst others huddled around the room in wooden booths and sets of armchairs, and at various wooden tables scattered around the place.
Many people looked up and eyed Caitlyn curiously as she entered, amongst them a big man standing at the bar, a pint of ale in his hand. He had a tanned, weather-beaten face—obviously someone who normally lived in a sunny climate—which really stood out amongst the pale English villagers, and a large belly which strained against the buttons of his checked shirt. His eyes were blue, small, and shrewd, and his mouth was pursed thoughtfully beneath a greying moustache. Despite his casual clothes, he exuded an air of wealth and authority, like a man who was used to getting what he wanted and rich enough to make it happen.
Caitlyn realised that he was standing next to Rob Wiggins, the reporter, who seemed to be trying to ask him some questions, while busily scribbling on a notepad. But when he saw her, the big man made a dismissive gesture to the reporter and left the bar, coming towards her.
“You must be the young lady who arrived yesterday that I’ve heard so much about. I’d been hoping we might meet.” He gave her a wink. “Any chance I could buy you a drink? We strangers in the village have to stick together, you know.”
He had distinctive clipped accent—a South African accent—and Caitlyn realised that this must be Hans van Driesen, the big game hunter that James Fitzroy had mentioned. She also remembered that this man was a suspect in the murder investigation and her interest quickened.
“My name is van Driesen. Hans van Driesen,” he said with a smile, offering her a large hand.
She shook it and introduced herself. “What brings you to this part of England, Mr van Driesen?” she asked casually.
“I came to kill something… but don’t worry, not a man,” he added, bursting out laughing
at the look on her face. “Oh, come, Miss Le Fey. You want to know my connection to the murder, don’t you? I know everyone in the village is talking about me. They saw the police come to interview me yesterday. They think I killed that gamekeeper.”
He was trying to shock her. Caitlyn felt slightly annoyed. She kept her voice deliberately cool as she asked, “And do they have good reason to suspect you?”
“Maybe.” He eyed her with amusement. “I had some dealings with Stan Matthews.”
“Oh? What sort of dealings?”
He leaned forwards and grinned at her. “Have dinner with me and I’ll tell you.”
Caitlyn hesitated. She didn’t like his smug manner and the way he was manipulating her into having dinner with him. On the other hand, her interest was piqued in spite of herself. And besides, she did have to eat dinner anyway—why eat alone? She might as well eat with him and hear what he had to say.
“All right.” She nodded at him. “You’re on.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Caitlyn was conscious of many eyes following her as they gave their orders at the bar and then sat down together at a table. She wondered what the gossips were going to say about them the next day. The food arrived fairly quickly and, as they started eating, Caitlyn waited for van Driesen to broach the subject of the murder. But he seemed content to spend the evening making small talk and flirting with her. Finally, as they were lingering over dessert, Caitlyn decided that she had had enough. She had only agreed to eat with him for the chance of getting information and she wasn’t going to let him wriggle out of that.
“So you said you had dealings with Stan Matthews,” she said without preamble. “Is that what the police were interested in when they questioned you?”
