by HANNA, H. Y.
“Well, there are loners everywhere. That’s hardly news,” said Caitlyn with a shrug.
“Perhaps. But in this case, she’s not just a hermit living alone at the edge of the village—she’s someone who is actively feared by the other residents.” Inspector Walsh leaned forwards and said, “Look, Miss Le Fey, I don’t know if you’re telling the truth about having no connection to or history with the Widow Mags. Perhaps you really are just an altruistic visitor who feels sorry for the old woman. Perhaps you think you need to protect her. But I can tell you, your loyalty is misplaced. If the Widow Mags is responsible for these murders, it’s your duty to help me bring her to justice.”
“You just want a scapegoat,” Caitlyn accused him. “You want an easy solution to this murder—it’s taking up too much space in the media, isn’t it? It looks bad for the police not to be making any progress on the case or have any arrests. You want to wrap it up quickly so you’re just doing the easy thing. The villagers don’t like the Widow Mags so that gives you the perfect scapegoat. What about your other suspects? Have you questioned Mr van Driesen about his movements last night?”
“I’d thank you not to tell me how to do my job, Miss Le Fey,” said the inspector testily. “Yes, we have questioned Mr van Driesen and he has been more than helpful. He provided us with a full account of his movements last night and we can verify that he was in the pub the entire time. By the time he returned to his room, Rob Wiggins would have already been dead.”
“Yes, but you said yourself that belladonna is a slow-acting poison. Van Driesen was standing right next to Rob Wiggins at the bar counter—he could have easily slipped something into the reporter’s drink. Maybe that was why he asked me to dinner!” said Caitlyn excitedly. “Maybe it was so he could have an alibi and not be with Wiggins when the reporter started showing symptoms of poisoning!”
“Hmm…” The inspector frowned. “That is—”
He broke off suddenly as they heard sounds of a great commotion coming from the front of the pub. It sounded like two fishwives having a screaming match.
“What the—!” The inspector sprang up and hurried from the room.
Caitlyn and James looked at each other for a second, then rushed together after him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
They stepped into the main room of the pub to find it filled with people screaming and shouting, fingers pointing, hands waving. The sergeant and two constables were struggling to keep order but they were being largely ignored by the group of women in the centre. Caitlyn saw that everyone was gathered around two ladies: Angela and Bertha, who were facing each other, looking like they were going to come to blows at any moment.
“QUIET!” thundered the inspector.
Everyone stopped, shocked into silence.
“Now, what is going on?” asked Inspector Walsh, glowering at everyone.
“I’ll tell you, Inspector!” cried Angela, stepping forwards. She was clutching a Styrofoam cup filled with hot chocolate—not the thick, rich, home-made beverage served in the Widow Mags’s shop, but a cheap, watery instant chocolate, full of sugar and artificial flavourings. Caitlyn could smell the sickly sweet fragrance wafting from the cup.
Angela drew herself up importantly. “I came to help you with the investigation. I have evidence to report.”
Inspector Walsh raised his eyebrows. “Evidence?”
Angela nodded eagerly. “Yes. Evidence that the Widow Mags is the murderer.”
Bertha gasped in outrage. “That’s a load of—”
The inspector held a hand up, silencing Bertha. Then he turned back to Angela. “Very well, ma’am. If you could please tell me what you’d like to report?”
“Well! As you know, Inspector, I was at the chocolate shop yesterday afternoon and that old witch inflicted the most terrible curse on me—”
“Hmm, yes, we’ve been through that already, Miss Skinner,” said the inspector irritably. “And as I told you yesterday, I’m afraid accusations that cannot be substantiated with concrete proof are not something the police can take action on.”
“Oh, but that’s not what I came here to tell you, Inspector,” said Angela quickly. “What I wanted to say was that while I was at the chocolate shop yesterday, I noticed that Rob Wiggins was there. He was sitting in the window seat, having a hot chocolate.”
“Yes, Miss Skinner, I was aware of that already,” said Inspector Walsh, starting to lose patience.
“Ah, but what you don’t know is that I saw the old woman put poison in his drink.”
Caitlyn stared at Angela in disbelief whilst, next to her, Bertha gasped and spluttered with outrage.
“Do you have proof of this, Miss Skinner?” asked the inspector.
“You have my word, Inspector! How much more proof do you need? I’m telling you, I saw it with my own eyes: the Widow Mags added something from a vial into Rob Wiggins’s hot chocolate, before she served it to him. And it wasn’t just me. My friends saw it too.” She turned to the ladies beside her and elbowed them roughly. “Didn’t you?”
“Oh… er… yes! Yes, that’s right—we saw it too,” they said in unison.
Caitlyn narrowed her eyes. They were lying; she was sure they were lying. Angela must have put them up to it. She felt a surge of anger. She was sure the whole thing was a vindictive ploy because Angela wanted to get revenge for what the Widow Mags had done to her yesterday.
“It’s a lie,” Caitlyn spoke up suddenly.
Angela glared at her. “Are you calling me a liar?” she hissed.
Caitlyn looked at her evenly. “Yes, I am. The Widow Mags served Rob Wiggins his hot chocolate before you came into the store, so you couldn’t have seen her doing anything. You’re lying just to incriminate her.”
“How dare you!” cried Angela, her face going red.
“Now, now, ladies…” said Inspector Walsh hastily. “There’s no need to get worked up. Conflicting witness accounts are quite common. Everyone has a different view of the situation, depending on their own perspective and interpretation.”
“I know what I saw!” snapped Angela. “Are you going to take the word of some stupid little tourist over mine? She’s only been in the village a few days. What does she know?”
“I’m merely stating the truth,” said Caitlyn.
“Oh really?” Angela put on an affected voice, mimicking Caitlyn’s accent. “‘I’m merely stating the truth’—so high and noble, aren’t you? Just like yesterday when you paid for Amy Matthews’s bread. Such a little do-gooder,” she sneered, shoving her face into Caitlyn’s.
Caitlyn felt the anger inside her surging even higher, boiling, furious. She wanted to shove something into that loud mouth, to stop the woman from talking. The cup of chocolate in Angela’s hand frothed suddenly like an erupting volcano.
“Evie!” hissed Bertha, glaring at her daughter. “Stop that!”
“What?” cried Evie. “I’m not doing anything!”
Angela was still jeering at Caitlyn, oblivious, “…oh yes, you think you’re so superior, don’t you? Coming here and—”
The cup exploded, sending a miniature chocolate geyser shooting up into Angela’s face, filling her mouth.
“—thinking you’re better than everyo—AUGH-BLUB-GGHH!… BLUB… BLUB… BLUB… BLUB…!”
Angela staggered around, sounding like someone gargling in the shower. Giggles erupted from the crowd. It was such a funny sight: as if a garden hose of liquid chocolate had been turned on and directed at the woman’s face.
Then, as suddenly as it started, the stream of chocolate shut off. Angela dropped the cup on the floor, choking and spluttering. Everyone gaped at her. She was covered in slimy brown liquid, with watery chocolate dripping off her chin and hair.
“Evie!” cried Bertha, staring at her daughter in horror.
“It wasn’t me!” protested Evie, looking scared now.
Something in her daughter’s face must have convinced Bertha and she turned back to look at the empty Styrof
oam cup, now lying innocently on the floor, a few drops of chocolate leaking from its rim. Then, slowly, Bertha raised her eyes to Caitlyn, who was also staring at the cup, a mixture of emotions on her face.
“You!” shrieked Angela, pointing a finger at Caitlyn. “It was you! I knew it—you’re a witch as well! You did it! You made the chocolate go ballistic on me!”
Caitlyn shook her head dumbly. She looked like someone who had just woken up from a dream. “It… I don’t… I didn’t mean…”
“Now, now, there’s no need to get hysterical,” said Inspector Walsh, holding his hands up. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation. Sometimes, these takeaway drinks are so hot that pressure builds up inside the cup and then, perhaps, if it is jolted suddenly, it might cause the liquid to burst out… similar to when a bottle of fizzy drink is shaken.”
“But it wasn’t hot anymore,” Angela insisted. “It was barely lukewarm. If it had been hot, I would have been scalded but I’m not.”
It was true. Everyone could see that. The only injury Angela had really suffered was to her pride. But Caitlyn knew what the inspector was trying to do: offer a rational explanation for something that otherwise could only be explained by one thing—magic.
Angela shoved her face close to Caitlyn’s and hissed, “I don’t care what anyone says. I know you did this and I won’t forget it!”
Turning, she stormed out of the pub, followed by her friends.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
They were dismissed by the inspector and Caitlyn followed Bertha and Evie gratefully out of the pub. As soon as they were outside, however, Bertha grabbed her elbow and pulled her a safe distance away from the prying ears of the crowd still gathered in front of the pub.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” she said, looking Caitlyn straight in the eye.
“I-I-I don’t know what you mean,” Caitlyn stammered.
“That thing with the hot chocolate exploding in Angela’s face. You made that happen, didn’t you?” She leaned towards Caitlyn, peering at her closely, then a smile spread slowly across her face. “I knew it. You are a witch.”
“What? No, that’s crazy! I’m not… I didn’t—"
“Are you saying that you had nothing to do with what happened to Angela?”
“I… I don’t know,” Caitlyn admitted. “I just… I felt really angry, like… like this anger was boiling inside me and I just wanted her to shut up… and then the next minute… I don’t know what happened but it was like my feelings transferred themselves to that cup of hot chocolate!”
Bertha nodded in satisfaction. “Yes. Exactly as I thought. You’re a witch.”
“I’m not a witch!” cried Caitlyn, shriller than she intended. She noticed people from the crowd turning to look at them and hurriedly lowered her voice. “I’m not a witch!” she repeated with emphasis. “Witches don’t exist, there’s no such thing as magic—it’s all a bunch of old wives’ tales and folk legends.”
“Magic is simply the ability to cause change by force of will,” said Bertha. “Those who can work magic have learnt to harness the energy in the universe and direct it with intent towards a certain purpose.”
“I didn’t intend to do anything to Angela,” Caitlyn protested.
Bertha smiled. “Perhaps not consciously. But you felt angry and wanted to stop Angela talking—and your gift translated that emotion into action. You obviously have a strong natural ability, to be able to do that without conscious focus and without any training. Most witches have to practise for years before they have that kind of ability. And…” She looked thoughtfully at Caitlyn. “It’s interesting that it was the hot chocolate you manipulated.”
“Why is that interesting?”
“Well, there are different types of witches, you see. Oh, we can all learn to cast spells and brew potions—those are the basics—but each family is endowed with certain talents which run through the generations. Ours is an affinity with chocolate.”
“With chocolate?” Caitlyn felt like laughing. “What, you guys are like the chocolate witches?”
Bertha gave her a reproachful look. “It’s not a joke. Cacao is a potent source of magic. The ancient Mayans and the Aztecs knew about this. They called it xocolātl—‘food of the gods’. Cacao beans were associated with wisdom and magical power, and the ancient witches and shamans used it in their spellworking rituals. They also understood its healing power.” She laughed suddenly. “Why do you think people feel so good when they eat chocolate? It’s not just the taste—there is something within chocolate itself, a dark and powerful magic which works on the mind and body. And the witches in my family have a gift for working with that magic.” She reached out and patted Caitlyn’s hand. “You are one of us, my dear.”
Caitlyn opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out.
Bertha nodded, as if in answer to an unheard question. “I suspected as much from the first day I met you—I picked up a vibe from you. And there was the fact that you look so like...” She caught herself. “Well, anyway. And then I heard about those chocolate decorations you created, just naturally… and I knew.”
Caitlyn stared at her. Was Bertha right? Could she really be a witch? And was this the answer to her questions about her past?
She licked dry lips. “Are you saying that I’m… that you are my family?”
Bertha hesitated. “That runestone—” She broke off as they heard a step behind them.
Caitlyn turned to see James Fitzroy standing next to them. She wondered how much he had overheard.
“Miss Le Fey… I was wondering if I might have a word with you?” he said, very formally.
“You go, dear,” said Bertha quickly. “I need to nip back to my store to check something. I’ll speak to you later. Come, Evie!” She bustled away, with Evie in tow.
Caitlyn followed James in a slight daze as he led the way over to a Range Rover parked at the side of the village green. Once again, she could feel the eyes of the villagers following them and knew that tongues must have been wagging. They reached the car and stood next to it awkwardly.
James cleared his throat. “I wanted to apologise for my manner in the pub last night.”
Caitlyn looked at him in surprise. This was the last thing she had expected.
“I was concerned for your welfare and I may have come across more… brusque than I intended.”
“Oh. Um… that’s okay,” said Caitlyn. “I… uh… I’m sorry as well if I got a bit stroppy. I tend to lose my temper quickly sometimes.” She gave a slightly shamefaced smile.
His eyes flicked to her red hair. “So it would seem. Was that another example in the pub just now with the hot chocolate?”
Caitlyn stared at him. Surely James Fitzroy wasn’t suggesting that she was a witch too? “Wh…what do you mean?”
“What happened to Angela—it was some kind of prank, wasn’t it? The cup was rigged to explode like that. Did you do that?”
Caitlyn stiffened. “I… no, I didn’t…”
“Then do you know who did it? Was it Bertha or her daughter?”
“No!” said Caitlyn quickly. “Bertha and Evie had nothing to do with it.”
James looked at her for a moment, an expression of frustration on his face. Then he sighed and said, “Caitlyn, I’m responsible for this village and its inhabitants. These are my people—I care about them. I care about what happens here in Tillyhenge. I need to know if anything… unpleasant is going on.”
Caitlyn took a deep breath. “All I can tell you is that I… I didn’t play a practical joke on Angela. And neither did Bertha and Evie.”
He frowned, his expression still disbelieving. “Then what—”
SLURP!
Caitlyn yelped as she felt something wet and slimy rasp over her ear. She jerked around and saw—leaning out of the open back window of the Range Rover—an enormous English mastiff. It was Bran. He was panting amiably, his baggy face pulled back in a wide doggie grin, his pink tongue hanging out and droolin
g. The whole car was rocking from side to side, in time to his panting.
“Bran—no! Stop that,” said James.
The big dog responded by giving the side of Caitlyn’s head another loving lick.
“Eeuuw!” she cried, clutching her ear.
“I’m sorry!” said James, looking mortified. “Here, take this…” He handed her a crisp white handkerchief.
Caitlyn took it and wiped her ear, thinking that at this rate, she was going to end up with his entire handkerchief collection.
James made a face. “I’m sorry—Bran’s been in the car the whole morning while I was at the pub with the police and he’s probably a bit frustrated.”
He opened the back door of the Range Rover and the mastiff jumped out. Caitlyn could almost feel the ground shake beneath her feet. Bran wagged his tail, then ambled over to Caitlyn, sat down on her left foot, and propped himself against her.
“Er… what’s he doing?” she asked, staggering slightly under the huge dog’s weight.
“Ah.” James looked embarrassed. “Don’t worry—that just means he likes you. Mastiffs are leaners, you know. But he only does that to people he really likes.”
“Oh… uh… well, I love him too, but can he get off my foot now? I think it’s lost all circulation.”
“Bran—get off the lady. Come on, get off, you big lump!” James shoved uselessly at the giant dog who sat, unmoving, looking at his master placidly.
At last, James straightened up, flushed and slightly dishevelled. “Er… he’s very well trained, really. He just… needs a bit of time to think about the commands…”
