The Mystery of the Marsh Malaise: Wonky Inn Book 5

by Jeannie Wycherley

  We’d agreed that unless the cave had somehow been closed off since the last time I’d been inside it, George could not be held below. Nonetheless, Silvan gestured at me to move away from the door and instead waved his wand. The heavy door laboriously rose by itself, tipped over and slipped quietly to the ground without so much as a rustle or a clink.

  Silvan fell to his knees and pushed himself flat against the ground. Wriggling to the edge of the drop he peered into the hole, directing his wand into the darkness, to scrutinize all he could see, hear, sense and smell.

  Finally he stood and shook his head.

  Nothing to report.

  George had not been held here.

  That left the farmhouse.

  With our backs pressed to the storage building we each inspected the late Georgian, early-Victorian farmhouse ahead of us. All the lights of the neat brick building were out, and the squat single-paned windows stared blankly back at us, giving nothing away. I couldn’t spot any movement behind the filthy glass, and I could hear no noise, save the restless shuffling of the cows in the barn to our left.

  In order to reach the front door we would have to head through the circle of light. But that was not an option. Instead, we’d have to make our way around the back of the storage buildings and approach the farmhouse from the rear.

  We double backed, walking in single file, Silvan taking the lead, me in the middle, Finbarr bringing up the rear. Occasionally Silvan would raise his fist, like a marine in one of those US action movies, and we’d each stop in our tracks. One of us would investigate a rustling or squeaking or other odd noise, and then when we were sure we hadn’t been discovered, we would push on.

  Once or twice, to my utter chagrin, I stood in an enormous soft pile of something unpleasantly fragrant and cursed the fact that we had to travel through a cow field in the dark. I shuffled along, dragging the offending foot, trying to wipe off the mess, until Finbarr gave me a little push and I had to dash to catch up with Silvan.

  After we’d navigated around the back, we had to dodge through piles of outdated and rusting farm machinery, difficult with such limited visibility. The shadows were long and my eyes strained to peer here, there and everywhere all at once. Still no signs of life. It looked like nobody had been around the back of the farmhouse in donkeys’ years. I huddled up close to the wall, and then curled my head around to peer into the grimy window. Old net curtains—yellowed with age—obscured my view into what I assumed was the kitchen.

  Silvan joined me.

  “I can’t see an alternative way in. No entrance through a cellar or a side door.” He ducked his head to speak low into my ear.

  “And I can’t see any light from within the building. I say we risk it,” I whispered in reply, and reached out to nudge Finbarr. “Let’s go in.”

  Silvan tapped the lock of the building with his wand and waited, his eyes drilling through the flaking paint of the door as though searching for life beyond—otherwise unseen. After ten seconds or so, he tapped the lock again and I heard the reluctant click of dry tumblers. He placed his hand lightly against the door, and slid his wand up, “Unlūce.” I heard a bolt draw back. He repeated the exercise at the bottom of the door, and then turned the handle.

  The door swung open, creaking a little and we squinted into the dark. It was a kitchen as I’d thought, although not one that had been used that way for a while. Silvan entered, illuminating his wand once more. I followed him through, drawing my own wand now, and turning in circles, reluctant to have my back to anything or anyone.

  The work surfaces and kitchen table were covered in rubbish. Old take-away boxes and bags, foil trays containing leftover food, takeaway coffee cups, plastic bottles of fizzy drinks. The stink of rotting food and spoilt milk was nauseating. I tried to stop breathing in through my nose, glad that Florence and Monsieur Emietter couldn’t see this.

  Finbarr followed us in and quietly closed the door behind himself. He too circled in place, observing the mess.

  “What do you notice?” the Irish witch whispered.

  I glanced about. “Apart from the mess you mean? There doesn’t appear to be anyone here. And there probably hasn’t been, not for a few days at least.”

  “That’s right. But it’s not just the lack of anyone. There’s no-one and nothing here. Not even rats.”

  Silvan dropped his wand to the floor and then directed it at the kitchen table. No rodent droppings on the table or even on the floor, that much was apparent despite the rubbish spread everywhere. No insects either. “I find that strange.” I noted the unease in Finbarr’s voice.

  “Come on,” I said, keen to press on with what we needed to do. “Let’s keep looking.”

  Silvan moved out into the hallway. Ahead of us was the main entrance, with a door to the left and one to the right. A flight of stairs led up from the front door. Closest to us, there was another door under the stairs. Silvan gingerly opened the latter, and shone his wand about. A flight of rickety steps heading downwards to a cellar.

  “Let’s split up,” Silvan suggested. “Finbarr, you take upstairs. I’ll go down. Alf, you concentrate on this floor.”

  We murmured our agreement and Finbarr scooted round us to take the stairs up. He and Silvan had their own source of light. I looked down at my own wand, still so humble and little used. Silvan chortled quietly and reached out with his own, tapping mine at the tip. It lit up as though a sliver of a star had lodged itself there, and then he disappeared leaving me to marvel at the wonder of his magick.

  I made another circuit of the kitchen, using my wand like a torch, opening drawers and cupboard doors, but there was nothing here to see except old utensils and tins of food that according to the sell by date had been in the cupboards for five years or so. I’d bet any money that five years had been the amount of time Jed’s father had been the owner of the farm.

  In the cupboard below the sink I found sacks of dry dog food, musty with age. I was reminded of the dog we’d heard barking. Where did he live if not in this house? And I wondered again about the old man who had lived here. What had happened to his dog?

  A loud bang from upstairs made me jump. I dropped into defence stance. A brief silence was hastily followed by a muttered curse. It sounded as though Finbarr had collided with something heavy, tipping it over. Heart racing, I moved quickly into the hall and shone my wand up the stairs. Finbarr appeared on the landing, rubbing his forehead and waving at me.

  “It’s fine,” he said, his voice low. “Nothing to see here.”

  I nodded, intent on returning to my own search. I paused at the front door. Locked and latched and covered in a curtain. I pulled the curtain aside and peered through the eye hole. The sodium light lent me the ability to see a fair distance. Outside all was quiet. The only signs of life were the moths and nocturnal insects that danced under the light. The muddy ground remained just as we’d left it. The Land Rover sad and still.

  I dropped the curtain and heard the tell-tale jangle of keys. Pulling the curtain back once more, I spotted several sets of car keys—or tractor keys perhaps—hanging on nails to the side of the door. Could one of these belong to the Land Rover?

  With nothing to see in the kitchen I tried the door to my right. I pushed it gently open, and crept forwards into the shadows, finding myself in the living room. It was a large space, dominated by a once impressive tiled fireplace. The open grate had been removed and replaced with an electric fire, something out of the 1970s. I doubted those things were still legal. The room smelt slightly better than the kitchen—but you could tell it had been shut up for a long period of time. As I moved past the window I disturbed the heavy curtains hanging there, and dust billowed into the air around me, swirling like smoke in the light from my wand.

  The floor had been lain with a badly-stained burnt-orange carpet. It had been partly rolled up to reveal floorboards. The walls were covered in some equally horrendous flowered paper, orange and yellow, brown and beige. A stained mattress had been posit
ioned in one corner, and several Bentwood chairs were arranged around the fireplace, but apart from those few items, and several ashtrays full to the brim with ash and butts, there was no more furniture and no further accessories.

  I sifted among some of the piles of rubbish, but just as I’d found in the kitchen, they contained nothing of interest. More food wrappers, old crisp packets, empty cans and bottles of drink.

  That left one more room to search.

  Closing the door of the living room softly behind me, I crossed the hall again and tried the last door. This one creaked on its hinges as I opened it. I held my wand up and whistled under my breath.

  Here we had an office or study of some kind, and judging by the modern equipment—a computer, and a printer for starters—this space had been utilised more recently. The light on the printer was flashing. A fault? I remembered how Ross had managed to print out documents from Lyle’s computer, so I opened the printer tray to check for paper, and sure enough it was empty.

  A large modern desk had been placed in the middle of the room. It was covered in paper, letters, documents and such like. I quickly flicked through what was there and opened a couple of drawers. I found an open package of blank A4 paper, so I pulled out an inch or so, and neatly filled the stacking tray, before slamming the tray shut and waiting. The printer whirred into action—a satisfying sound. At home, Charity was forever rescuing me when mine seemed to be perpetually jammed and refused to print for days on end. Occasionally I lost patience with it and threatened to send it flying out of the office window, to forever rest in pieces on the lawn outside.

  While I waited for the printer to spool and do its thing, I had a closer look at the mass of paperwork on the desk. Much of it made no sense to me. There were numerous printouts of Excel spreadsheets with numbers on them for example. I pulled out my mobile phone and took a few random photos to show Penelope Quigwell, before searching for something more obviously interesting. I sifted through a few letters, many still residing in their envelopes.

  Mainly addressed to a Mr J Bailey, the only striking thing about them was that they had been sent from all over the world. I spotted brightly coloured stamps and official- looking postmarks for Germany, France and Spain, Croatia and Russia, China, Indonesia, the USA and Columbia.

  Perhaps the contents of the letters were encrypted because they read like childish greetings.

  My dear JB

  I hope this letter finds you and yours well.

  I heard of the recent success of your trip abroad.

  That was a great result. I’d be interested in planting begonias next year. Perhaps we could discuss?

  Looking forward to hearing from you in the near future.

  Yours respectfully

  Kinver

  Planting begonias? I snorted in derision. Was that some sort of code?

  “You won’t be planting begonias if I can help it, Mr or Ms Kinver. No way,” I muttered and stuffed the letter along with a host of others inside my robes. We had agreed before we embarked on Operation Piddlecombe that we wouldn’t remove anything from the premises, but given how much paper there was piled high on the desk, surely nobody would notice.

  I tapped the computer keyboard and the screen lit up, password protected. Maybe we should just spirit this one away with us too. I was sure Ross would enjoy the further challenge of unlocking this one, although I had no doubt The Mori would have wised up after their recent security breach.

  The printer had finished its juddering lament, so I scooped that paper up too, rolled it into a long tube, and again deposited it in a deep pocket. Feeling weighed down I slipped back into the hall. Finbarr was coming down the stairs, an egg-shaped bruise forming on his forehead.

  Silvan appeared at the top of the cellar steps. “I think you should come down here,” he whispered. “Come and look at this. Mind how you go.”

  We followed him down the rickety stairs. They sank beneath our weight as though they weren’t properly fixed to the wall. Convinced they were about to collapse, my stomach lurched in fear once or twice. The staircase turned at a right angle halfway down, and at the bottom I found myself in a corridor with a small rabbit warren of rooms leading off it. Only one door stood ajar.

  “I’ve checked them all. Most of these are storage rooms. There’s some really odd stuff down here.” Silvan raised his eyebrows in mock horror, and I wondered how it could be that he’d been taken by surprise by the oddities and weird things deposited here, given his own questionable background. “We should burn this place to the ground. It would be no great loss.”

  He walked to the end of the short corridor and pointed inside the last room, the one with the open door. Finbarr and I traipsed towards it and I entered first and waved my wand around so that I could see.

  The room was boxy, maybe 12 feet square. Yet another mattress had been tossed into the corner, but this one had been covered in blankets. A bucket had been placed in one corner, and a wooden chair, a partner to the Bentwoods in the living room, took pride of place in the middle of the room, facing the makeshift bed. A jacket had been slung over the back of this chair. There were books piled up next to the mattress, alongside a tray carrying a wrapped sandwich and a bottle of water.

  The sandwich appeared quite fresh. I bent down to take a closer look. Egg and cress. The sell by date was for four days previously. I recognised the pricing ticket and the make of sandwich. This had been bought at Whittle General Stores just a few days ago!

  I held the sandwich up to show Silvan. “We can’t know this was George. Surely they wouldn’t have kept him here this long?”

  Silvan pointed at the pile of books and I reached over and picked up a handful. Lee Child, Mark Billingham, Robert Harris. Although not exclusively so, these were books men might read—and that made sense. No chick lit or romance or family sagas here. Assuming someone had bought the books for George, they would have chosen things that were universally popular. All three adorned with a bright yellow supermarket tag proclaiming ‘three for a tenner’. Good deal.

  I dropped them on the bed and shuffled through the other books. Similar. More yellow stickers from the same supermarket. And a puzzle book. I scanned the completed crosswords and my heart skipped a beat. This was George’s handwriting, no doubt about it.

  “He has been kept here, and judging by the sandwich wrapper, we’ve only just missed him,” I said. My head and heart were heavy. So close.

  I scrutinized the room once more. Took in the jacket over the chair. I reached for it. A light summer jacket in pale blue, with something heavy weighing down the pocket. The garment itself was far too small for George and it wouldn’t have fitted me either. I held my wand to the label. A UK size 10. A woman’s size.

  I reached into the jacket pocket and drew out the contents—a small navy jewellery box, much like the one George had presented my engagement ring in, and a mobile phone. Same make and model as George’s. I pressed the button on the side, but the battery had died, and nothing happened. Impossible to know for sure whether it was his, or whether it belonged to the mysterious woman who had left her jacket behind.

  A bit of a coincidence though.

  Confused, I turned about. There was only one mattress. And one sandwich and one bottle of water. That suggested to me that George had been held here alone. The woman had therefore been his captor or his guard.

  So George had been held here by a woman?

  A small woman would have been no challenge to him. He could have overpowered her.

  Unless she had a way to keep him under control.

  Which she would have, if she was a witch or a warlock.

  The Mori were not known for allowing women into their ranks, although female warlocks were not themselves a rarity.

  “Where can they have moved him to?” I wondered aloud.

  Finbarr pulled at the blankets. “Do you think they’ve abandoned the farmhouse? Maybe gone in search of pastures new? Literally.”

  “They’d never abandon Whittle
combe,” I said. “For some reason they’re forging a bitter war for it.”

  “If we had a better understanding of why, that would certainly help us fight them. We—,” Silvan started to reply, but I held my wand up and stopped him in mid-flow.

  A faint buzzing sound.

  Like an angry hornet.

  My heart jumped into my throat. “We need to get out,” I hissed urgently.

  Silvan cocked his head to listen, but Finbarr understood straight away, and flung himself out of the room and into the corridor. I yanked at Silvan’s arm and dragged him out with me, running for the stairs. This time I didn’t let the sponginess of the wood worry me. I clumped up them as fast as possible, ignoring the sense of being unbalanced.

  I turned right out of the cellar door, just in time to see something red in the corner of my vision. “Finbarr!” I shouted, “Look out!”

  I heard a shriek of agony and a loud thump as Finbarr fell to the floor. Without thinking twice, I lifted my wand and hurled a ball of energy at the spinning globe in the kitchen. It retreated, taking shelter in one of the open food cupboards. We had it cornered.

  I followed it in, my wand held ready to strike out at it again. Silvan, similarly armed, pushed past me and reached Finbarr who was sitting up and clutching his arm to his chest.

  “We need to get out of here,” Silvan said. “Finbarr. Can you stand?”

  “I can,” he said, but struggled to do so until Silvan reached for him and pulled him up.

  With one eye on the globe, hiding its light among the ancient tins of beans and spaghetti, I reached for the back door and yanked it open.

  What I saw there had me slamming the door in double quick time. Red globes, of varying sizes, slipping out from among the piles of rubble, and rusted farm machinery. Dozens of them.