Witch Haunted in Westerham

by Dionne Lister

  “If you say so. Do you think he was telling the truth?”

  “Yes. I’ve had a lot of experience with interviewing people, even without using my magic, and he wasn’t hiding anything. If you don’t trust his timing, you can check out when his wife died and when his kids went off to uni.”

  I sighed. “There probably isn’t any point unless all the others have a similar story, and we think they’re hiding something. We sure could use Ma’am’s mind-reading abilities.”

  Imani frowned. “You know that’s a last-resort thing, Lily.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, but there has to be some advantage to being a witch and fighting crime. Speaking of which, have you heard anything about Will lately?”

  “Sorry, no. The other agent he’s paired with has been MIA too. It’s probably just the case they’re working.” She gave me a reassuring stare. “He’ll be okay. Try not to think about it.”

  I barked a short laugh. “Yeah, thanks for at least not patronising me and telling me not to worry.”

  “That would be an impossibility. I shouldn’t say this, but even I’m worried.” She patted my shoulder. “No matter what happens, I’ve got your back, Lily. I’m here for you.”

  Nausea washed back and forth in my stomach. For her to say that…. I sighed. Well, at least we had pie.

  Oh, what a restless sleep I had. I woke up at least three times, breathing heavily, sure there was someone standing over my bed about to kill me. There was never anyone there, but still, try telling my sleep-addled brain that. Even Ethel couldn’t screech loud enough to get me out of bed early. I slept until eight. Beren and my first interview wasn’t until nine, so I had plenty of time to wake myself up and become presentable.

  Once I’d gone to the toilet, washed my hands and face, and brushed my hair, I was awake enough to spell my PIB uniform on. It was sooooo good to have my powers back. In the future, I would be doubly careful to not risk them again, although not dying was the best excuse I could come up with. If I’d given up, I wouldn’t be here to miss my magic, and even I thought that was worse.

  While I ate breakfast and enjoyed my coffee, Mrs Soames joined me, Ethel perched threateningly on her shoulder. That bird had a sharp beak, and Angelica had the damaged windowsills to prove it. “Good morning, Lily. Have you gotten anywhere with the ghost research? I would really like to go home soon.”

  Well, at least she’d started with good morning. Besides, beating around the bush just meant an unnecessarily longer conversation, so even though it seemed abrupt, I wasn’t going to complain. “Not yet, but we might have some promising leads. I’ll let you know tomorrow how we’re going. Believe me, I would love to see you go home too.” Tell the lady how you really feel, why don’t you? I laughed mentally—not crazily, but in my own head. Okay, so it may have been crazily too. “Um, you know what I mean.”

  She smirked. “I do know what you mean, but don’t worry; the feeling’s mutual.”

  “Rawrk, mutual, rawrk!”

  I snorted. Yep, Mrs Soames and Ethel both knew the quickest way to get to the point, niceties be damned. Would it be too much to add that I wouldn’t miss them?

  The doorbell rang. Saved by the bell! There was a reason there were clichés—some situations must be acknowledged as universally experienced, and it was easier to just say the expected phrase than have to come up with one of your own—there was just no easier way to say some things. Why fix it if it ain’t broke? See what I did there?

  “That’ll be my friend. I’m going out.” I stood and put my plate and cup in the dishwasher—no magicking in front of the guest. “See you later.” I left Mrs Soames to drink her tea in the esteemed, feathered company of Ethel.

  As soon as I was out the door, I magicked my handbag to myself—Mrs Soames couldn’t see me out here. Beren had already gotten back into the car. I got in. “Morning.”

  “Good morning.” He smiled. “I got you a little something.”

  Huh? What would he—I grinned. A large takeaway coffee cup with COSTA on the side sat invitingly in one of the cupholders. I grabbed it and took the top off—foamy milk with chocolate sprinkled on the top. Mmm. I licked the lid, took a sip, and sighed. “Thank you! You’re the best!” I put the lid back on and clicked in my seat belt.

  “I try. Besides, I need you to remind Liv how awesome I am and how she needs to say yes to another date.” He grinned.

  “Oh my God! How did last night go? I totally forgot with all the crap going on in my head. Sorry.”

  “I’m not one to kiss and tell.” He winked.

  “Like that, is it? Ha!” It must have gone well. Yay! If my grin was any wider, it would reach my ears. “I’m so pleased. It’s okay if you don’t want to chat about it—I’ll just get all the juicy details from Liv later.” I winked.

  He shook his head and laughed. “Women.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing. You know you guys would have it easier if you opened up to each other. Holding all that stuff in—good and bad—is a recipe for disaster, if you ask me.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He pulled into the street and turned right, heading for High Street. “Our first interview is with Mr and Mrs Benson. They’re in their early thirties, no kids. They sold to one of the companies, and it only took two days to sell after their home went on the market, but we have a problem.” He turned right at the main road.

  “Oh, what’s that?”

  He glanced at me before looking back at the road. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of his serious expression. “Every vendor Liv spoke with agreed to talk to us, but they also said they probably wouldn’t be able to tell us much because they had to sign a nondisclosure agreement stating they wouldn’t discuss any details of the sale except what is public knowledge—e.g. purchase price and how long it was on the market. Oh, and four of the vendors Liv tried to contact have died since their properties settled. They were all over the age of seventy.”

  “Oh, crap. That’s… well… suspicious, terrible….” I blew out a huge breath and shook my head. If that wasn’t strange, I didn’t know what was. “Clive from the tart shop had no problem talking to us yesterday, unless he was lying, but Imani doesn’t think he was. He said he’d sold because his wife had died, and his kids had left home. The house was just too big for one person. Wouldn’t he have said if he’d signed a non-disclosure thingy? Everyone else told Liv.”

  “He’s the one who sold to an individual, isn’t he? And didn’t he sell at the beginning of the weirdness?”

  “Yes. So you’re thinking his property isn’t part of whatever’s going on?”

  “Yep.” He put his blinker on, and we turned right. “We’re almost there. The couple are renting while they look for somewhere to live.” Within two minutes, we pulled up outside a two-storey, rundown block of units. The low brick front fence was leaning outwards, and a cracked concrete path to the front door denoted the midline between two halves of lawn that were mostly dirt with a sprinkling of rubbish and one old armchair. I frowned. The fact that people lived like this was depressing.

  It was time to focus on why we were here, so I pushed my feelings aside. “Have you got the details of the property they sold?”

  Beren turned off the car and mumbled something. A pile of paper appeared in his hand. “Here. Information on all the properties we’re looking at today, plus the ones of the deceased vendors.”

  “You know, we could probably chat to their next of kin. They wouldn’t be under the same restrictions about talking, and surely the vendors would have told them what was going on leading up to selling their house when they weren’t under a binding agreement.”

  “That’s a great idea. Hang on a sec, and I’ll get Liv onto it.” While Beren called Olivia, I shuffled through the papers till I found the printed web advertising for Mr and Mrs Benson’s house. Woah! They’d sold a two-storey, five-bedroom stone house. The original asking price was over two-million pounds, but according to the government records, they sold for one million five hundred
and twenty pounds. My mouth fell open. That was a ridiculous amount to drop in order to sell, especially when it had only been on the market for two days. When Beren finished his call, I asked, “Do we know if their asking price was reasonable, all things being equal?”

  Beren took the sheet and looked it over. “Yep, that looks like what you’d expect to pay. My uncle lives near there, and he only bought two years ago. Paid a bit over two million quid for something similar.”

  If all the properties had dropped by a similar amount, it would mean the price drop estimates I’d read about weren’t realistic—it was much worse.

  Beren got out and opened my door. We walked together to the units. How far they’d fallen. But why, and would they be able to tell us? If there was ever a need for mind-reading abilities, it was now.

  Just outside the door to the block, he stopped and faced me. “Lily?”

  “Yes?”

  “I forgot to tell you one small thing.” He turned his head and looked around, then looked back at me and whispered, “I need you to spell a bubble of silence when we get inside.” I opened my mouth to ask why, but Beren shook his head. “Don’t ask. Right now, we’re on the job, and you have to obey orders immediately, no questions asked.”

  I swallowed. His bossiness had taken me off guard. I wrinkled my forehead and pressed my lips together. So many questions were jostling against each other, pushing to escape the confines of my mouth, wanting to be the first out, but I had to hold them in. I grunted, which he took for an okay as he nodded and went inside the common area vestibule. I should get some kind of award for the effort that had taken.

  The Bensons’ rental apartment was on the ground floor. The common hallway had the original 60s vinyl floor tiles, but the paint had recently been renewed, and it seemed clean enough, which was better than the outside. Beren knocked, and I hung back, as usual. I always felt like a fake when I was out on PIB business since I wasn’t an agent. But that insecurity would never be enough to make me change my mind and take up Angelica’s job offer.

  A broad-shouldered, dark-haired man answered the door. He was a couple of inches shorter than Beren, and while he generally looked fit, a slight paunch bulged under his dark blue jumper.

  Beren said, “Hi, I’m Beren DuPree. My secretary, Olivia, spoke to you late yesterday.” Mr Benson nodded and held out his hand. They shook. “This is my partner, Lily Bianchi.” I held out my hand, and we did the shake thing too.

  Introductions done, Mr Benson stepped out of the way and opened the door wider. “Please come in.”

  Beren said, “After you.”

  I led the way straight into what appeared to be the living room. I mumbled the bubble-of-silence spell as I took in the dated décor of brown shagpile carpet, bright turquoise walls, and dome-shaped lights that had ugly gold-painted borders all the way around. A short, slim woman I suspected was Mrs Benson stood from her place on the faux-suede couch and held her hand out. “Hi. I’m Adele Benson.”

  I shook her hand. “I’m Lily Bianchi. Thanks for letting us come and talk to you.”

  “Please have a seat.” She waved at the couch, and I sat. “Can I get you anything? A cup of tea, glass of water?”

  I smiled. “No thanks. I’m fine. Just had my coffee.” I took my pen and notepad out of my bag—my memory could be crappy, and normally someone doing interviews had a notepad. Since Beren hadn’t whipped one out, I supposed it was up to me.

  Beren sat next to me, and Mrs Benson sat in an armchair that matched the couch. Mr Benson perched on the arm of the couch closest to Beren. “As I said on the phone, I’m not sure we can say a lot. We probably can’t be of much help.”

  Beren folded his hands on his lap. “Well, we’ll see how we go. I’ll ask some questions, and if you can’t answer them, that’s okay.”

  “Okay,” said Mr Benson. He folded his arms while Mrs Benson sat back in her armchair and folded her legs under her. Her large eyes and hunched shoulders made her look like a frightened animal. What was the price of breaking their agreement?

  Beren started the interview. “What made you choose Smith & Henderson to sell your house?”

  The tightness around Mr Benson’s eyes relaxed. “Around the time we decided to sell, we found their brochure in our letterbox.”

  “Do you remember if the brochure appeared before or after you decided to sell?”

  The couple looked at each other, and Mrs Benson said, “Just before.” As soon as she finished talking, her hand flew to her mouth, and she chewed her fingernail. What had she left out? It was as if there was more to say, but she’d restrained herself.

  “Was there something else you wanted to say?” I couldn’t help interrupting. Hopefully I wasn’t messing with Beren’s interview plan, if he even had one.

  She shook her head emphatically. I turned to Beren and shrugged. It was his turn to ask a question.

  “Why did you want to sell?”

  Mr Benson shrugged and coughed. “We wanted a change.” His fake smile was such an obvious tell, but there was nothing we could do about it. These people had done nothing wrong, and this was an interview, not an interrogation. It seemed like we had to guess which questions were off limits, not that it was hard.

  Beren nodded. “Fair enough. Was there a reason you took a lot less than what you were originally asking?”

  Mrs Benson choked—maybe her nail went down the wrong way. She stood and rasped, “Excuse me. I need a glass of water.” She hurried to the kitchen, which was through an arched doorway with no door. The fridge facing the opening was visible from where I sat.

  Mr Benson shrugged. “I guess we realised we’d gone in too high, and we didn’t want the property to sit around for months because that would hurt our chances of selling. It’s quite a competitive market, you know.”

  “But Oliver was one of the best agents in the area. Surely he advised you of what price to sell it at in the first place?” Beren was asking the hard questions, all right. He wasn’t actually getting honest answers though.

  Was that sweat popping up on Mr Benson’s brow? “Ah, well, um….” He took his jumper off to reveal a white T-shirt with faded writing that said Sorry I’m Late, But I Was Walking My Corgi.

  It was up to me to ask the obvious questions, but he could probably answer this, as I doubted it would have been anything whoever wrote the non-disclosure agreement would have foreseen as a problem. “Do you have any pets, Mr Benson?”

  His shoulders sagged. “No. We had two corgis, but this is a pet-free rental, so we had to find them new homes. We’re hoping to get them back when we get into a house. We just needed to save money while we look for something else.” He snapped his mouth shut, probably thinking he’d said too much.

  “Did you have a mortgage on your house?” Even though they’d sold for well under what they wanted, their selling price was still pretty hefty.

  “Yes, we did. Look, this is getting rather personal. I can’t answer any more questions. Sorry. I think we’ve helped you all we can.” He stood and walked to the front door.

  Mrs Benson, obviously hearing we were leaving, came to the kitchen opening. “Thanks for coming by. Sorry we couldn’t be of more help.”

  Beren and I stood. How disappointing. We hadn’t gotten nearly enough information. As we walked to the door, I flung out a question that would hopefully take them off guard. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  Mr Benson blinked, his eyes wide, and his wife paled. No one said a word until Mr Benson opened the door and found his voice. “Drive safely.” I was going to take that as a yes. If they wanted to keep their secrets secret, they needed to take Ma’am’s poker-face 101 class. She really should run those, although they likely already had those classes for agents. I probably needed to take one too.

  Once we were back in the car, Beren created a bubble of silence. “No clear answers, but I’m pretty sure they still told us more than they wanted to. Nice curveball at the end, Lily.”

  I smiled. “Why, thank you. I l
ike to be unpredictable.” Okay, so most of the PIB crew wouldn’t say that was actually something to be proud of, but it had served me well so far.

  “The next person we’re going to see is a forty-year-old lady—Miranda Thomas. She’s an ambulance officer.”

  I picked through the papers and found the ones pertaining to her sale. She’d sold her two-bedroom apartment for 50,000 less than what she paid two years earlier. Yikes. Nice apartment, by the looks of things. The real-estate photos showed polished parquetry floors, kitchen with stone benchtops, and it even had views over the countryside. “It says here she’d just finished renovating.” Dread spilled from my shoulders and throat down to my stomach. I didn’t even know this woman, but I wanted to cry. All those hours she worked doing such a stressful job, and somehow she’d been forced to sell for less than what was fair. I could only imagine how she felt right now. We didn’t have definitive proof, but someone, or a group of someones, was behind this. There was no way I’d quit until we figured this out. “Supposing we do solve this one, is it likely we can get people their properties back?”

  “I really don’t know, but I don’t like our chances. Even if we uncover some kind of plot to fleece these people, whoever owns the properties now could transfer ownership to an entity we can’t touch. Or they could sell and move the money. Try not to worry about that yet—we’ve got a long way to go before we even solve this.” Beren’s sober tone didn’t give me hope, and his words weren’t that great either. I sighed.

  As Beren pulled up outside a small bungalow, thunder rumbled from not too far away. There was a small patch of blue above us, but black clouds darkened the sky only a mile or so away. It would probably be pouring by the time we finished here. At least this cottage was cute and well-cared-for. The knee-height white picket fence was straight and immaculate. Pruned box hedges butted against the neat home. “Is she renting?”