by Nancy Warren
"Did you know that Gemma's father and Dominic Sanderson were best mates at school? Here at Oxford. Gemma’s father claimed to be the true author of the Chronicles of Pangnirtung "
Understanding dawned in his green eyes. "Hodgins." He nodded. "Martin Hodgins. That’s why the name was vaguely familiar. I’d read about the scandal somewhere. So, Gemma Hodgins is his daughter." He looked at me, puzzled. "You don't seriously believe Martin Hodgins was the true author, do you? He was completely discredited at the time. He's in the Wikipedia entry as a footnote. Or a joke."
"What if it's not a joke?"
He shook his head. "Do you have any proof of this at all?"
I couldn’t tell him about the manuscript we’d liberated from her hotel room. "No, I don't have any proof. But it's interesting, don't you think? That Gemma was attacked and her father murdered within a week of each other?"
"We don't have confirmation on the identity of the corpse yet."
I made a rude noise. "Who else could it be?"
"All right. It's probably Martin Hodgins. But, unlike you, I don't go haring off making assumptions. He pointed his finger at me. "I deal in proof and evidence."
I deal in magic and mayhem.
"That's why you were there, last night, wasn't it? Because of these wild suspicions of yours. I suppose Gemma put the idea in your head that her father was the real author of the Chronicles of Pangnirtung."
"As a matter of fact, she did. Of course, she's a loving daughter. But, what if she's right?" It was my turn to jab my finger towards his face. "I think a man who had as much at stake as Dominic Sanderson does might go to great lengths to keep his fame and riches and his reputation. What do you think?"
"I think you should leave the policing to the professionals." He glanced at the packages I was wrapping. "And stick to your knitting."
Before I could come up with a sufficiently annihilating response, he'd stomped out of my back room. A minute later I heard the bells chime as he went back out the front door. They no longer sounded like happy bells.
Chapter 16
I was too annoyed to wrap any more packages. I decided to stretch my legs and walk the ones I’d done down to the post office. First, I took a few minutes for myself, pacing back and forth until the tingly feeling in my fingertips had eased. The last thing I needed was to be walking down Harrington Street or, even worse, hectic Cornmarket Street, and have all the packages in my arms go up in flames by spontaneous combustion.
By the time I was sufficiently in control of myself to go back out front, my arms full of packages, Meri and Violet both stared at me with wide eyes. Violet said, "I never knew you had such a temper."
"Of course you did. I remember how mad I was at you when we first met."
She tipped her head in acknowledgement. "All right. I didn't know you had such a temper where the dishy inspector was concerned."
"Ha. If you think he’s so dishy why don’t you take him off my hands?"
She tossed her hair, and the pink stripe dyed down the front of her black hair shook like a birthday party ribbon. "I would, but he doesn't seem to have eyes for anyone but you."
For some reason this irritated me even more. I grabbed the biggest carry bag I could find and shoved packages into it. "I'm going to the post office and then I may go for a long walk. If anyone needs me you can ring me on my mobile.”
A brisk walk to the post office helped clear my head and cool my irritation. I was given printed pages containing tracking numbers so I could make sure all the parcels got to where they were going. There was real satisfaction in mailing off all these packages to people around the world who relied on my knitting shop.
I wasn't in a hurry to get back, and Violet and Meri were clearly well able to take care of the shop without me. I walked up to the University Parks, which was a good place to think. Even in the cold weather there were a surprising number of joggers, and people walking dogs and pushing strollers. Students holding hands. I chewed over what Ian had said. That someone had broken into Gemma's hotel room. She’d had no valuables. I didn't believe for a moment that someone was so passionately interested in her soap and bath bombs they’d broken in to get them for free. The only thing worth stealing was that manuscript.
But, was I jumping to conclusions? Just because Rafe and I had found value in the manuscript didn't mean that whoever had broken in felt the same way. Could it have been Darren? In his rage, had he broken into Gemma’s room?
I wished now, that instead of yelling back at Ian, I had probed a little more about exactly what had been done to her hotel room. The crazed ex would act differently than someone searching for hidden treasure, in this case a chunk of manuscript.
So who'd been in her room, and why?
As I walked past a young couple who were steaming up the cold day, getting very intimate on a park bench, I was determined to find out.
I walked along the bank of the river Cherwell. It was too cold for the punters who plied the flat boats up and down in the warmer weather. It was almost too cold for the ducks and geese. They huddled together, looking as though they wished they’d flown south when they had the chance. I didn't blame them. At least I had somewhere warmer to go and I decided to head back. A man jogged past me in tiny shorts and a singlet, his skinny white arms pumping back-and-forth. He streamed sweat and I basked for a moment in the cloud of warmth as he sprinted past.
I passed through the gate and pushed the button for the crosswalk light. Traffic was sparse but, with the left and right thing, I hesitated to jaywalk. I was waiting patiently, my thoughts far away, when the rumble of motorcycle, that I’d vaguely noted, grew louder. I glanced to my left and, in horror, saw a bike bearing down on me.
It was headed straight for me. I leapt back, and the wheels came up onto the indentation where the sidewalk ramps down, level to the road. I screamed and threw myself backward, stumbling and falling hard on my butt. I scrambled back and he missed my toes by an inch and then the engine screamed as he roared off again, not racing away, but turning the bike to have another go at me. I was sprayed by bits of gravel and muddy water and as the bike turned I saw the green decal of a rocket ship. The words Fuel Rocket had been amended by a Sharpie pen so they read Babe Magnet. I did not think many people vandalized their own stickers that way. It was Darren.
I was frozen for a second, sitting on the cold ground frantically trying to think of the right spell. Make me disappear? Make him disappear? Protection spell. Protection spell. Think!
The bike turned and started toward me. The black helmet seemed particularly sinister with the visor pulled down. My words stumbled and started and my voice shook, but words appeared in my head as though someone else had put them there. I swear I smelled tuna, which reminded me of Nyx and how I wished my familiar was here.
The words didn’t make much sense to me. I decided then and there that if I survived I was going to learn Latin. I recognized the word vitreus, which I thought meant glass. And I thought protego must mean protect. For the rest, I just read them out loud without any idea of their meaning. I believed in magic, but I didn’t always believe in my own talent with it. For all I knew, I’d just fixed somebody’s window. I scrambled to my feet and started to run. I’d dropped my carry bag with the tracking numbers in it but I couldn’t worry about that.
As I ran, I heard the engine roar, coming closer, and then the most satisfying sound. Like a rock hitting a windshield.
Bang.
I turned my head over my shoulder and saw bike and man fall to the ground. But I wasn’t stupid enough to go near that psychopath killer. I kept running.
When I was certain he wasn’t chasing me, I ducked behind the wall of a red brick apartment complex, pulled my mobile phone out with shaking hands and hit Ian's number.
"Detective inspector Chisholm," he said, as though he didn't know perfectly well who was calling.
"I want to report a hit-and-run." My voice came out high and far too hysterical for my liking. I swallowed. Get a grip
.
"What?"
Then, I realized I was about to make fool of myself, so I amended my complaint to, "Attempted hit-and-run."
"Lucy? What happened?"
I told him, succinctly, exactly what had happened. "Darren is a menace and a dangerous one. How much evidence do you need before you arrest him?"
“Is he there now?”
“Would I be standing here talking to you if a murderer was beside me? No! I’m pretty sure I heard him ride away. I’m hiding behind the wall of an apartment complex.”
“Good. Do you want me to come and get you?”
Now that I wasn’t dead and the intensity of my adrenalin flow was less like Niagara Falls and more like a dripping tap, I was calmer. The last thing I wanted was the police rushing to my side. “No. I’m going back to the shop. I’m not hurt.” Though I was pretty sure my butt and hip were going to bloom with bruises. They were already sore.
"Take me through it, again. Take a deep breath first. Slow down. And tell me exactly what happened."
I was so angry I was shaking. Reaction was setting in. I didn't know if Darren had actually intended to kill me, but I did not think that encounter would have ended well for me if not for the magic spell. It had seriously been magic the way the words had appeared in my mind like a teleprompter was installed in my brain.
He muttered something that I think included a curse word or two. "I'll have him brought in for questioning. I'll need you to come in and make a statement, though."
Why did the victim always end up with extra work? It seemed so unfair. However, I understood he was only doing his job, so I agreed. I’d been in a bad mood when I started my walk, and, by the time I limped into the shop, I was in a worse one.
Violet looked up anxiously, the minute I walked in the door. "Oh, Lucy, thank goddess."
I was surprised at her vehemence, and then Nyx all but launched herself into my arms and snuggled against me, purring madly. I could feel her heartbeat frantic against my palm. I buried my face in her fur. "It's all right, Nyx. It's all right." I smelled tuna and recalled smelling that same tuna-breath smell when the exact spell I’d needed had appeared in my head. “Thanks, pal,” I whispered.
"Whatever’s been happening?” Violet raised her voice. “Nyx was like a caged lion. And, I mean, exactly like a caged lion. Walking back-and-forth, back-and-forth and meowing piteously in the front window. I was frightened to let her out in case she was having some kind of fit."
I glanced around but there was only one customer in the corner talking intently to Meri about a crochet pattern. I beckoned Violet over and explained, in a low voice, what had happened.
Like Ian, she asked, "Are you all right?"
I nodded. "I think so. I tripped on the sidewalk as I was trying to get away. I bruised my hip. Nothing a hot bath won’t help." I’d just put the bag containing all the tracking numbers in the back. Then I realized the bag was gone. It must have fallen from my shoulder when I fell. I still had my small backpack, but the carry bag must be on the pavement where I’d fallen. I told Violet but she shook her head. “You’re not going back there. I’ll drive you later. Was there anything valuable in the bag?”
“No. But if someone doesn’t get their package, I want to be able to track it.”
“Lucy, you have more important things to worry about. Look at you!” Violet grabbed my hands and with a brrrp, Nyx crawled up and balanced on her belly, so she hung over my shoulder. It would have taken brute force to separate us. I knew Nyx had saved me. I think we both needed to stay connected for a while.
Violet said, “Oh, your lovely mittens are ruined. And you’ve scraped your hands.”
I hadn’t even noticed, but she was right. My bright red mitts were torn, and underneath my palms were streaked with dirt and a couple of scrapes were bleeding. Violet said, “Meri? Lucy and I are going upstairs for a few minutes. You’ll be all right?”
Meri looked slightly harassed but one glance and I could tell she understood something bad had happened. “Of course. I shall be fine.”
My hip protested as we climbed the stairs but Violet was right. I needed to clean the dirt off my hands, change my clothes and maybe there was some antibiotic ointment in the bathroom.
Because it was the middle of the day, there were no vampires in the upstairs flat. I’d have liked a hug and some fussing from my grandmother, but otherwise it was a relief not to have to answer a lot of questions.
Violet ushered me into the bathroom and insisted on taking off my mittens herself. “They’re ruined,” she announced. “Such a shame.”
A pair of ruined mittens was the least of my problems. She bathed my hands in water and soap and then patted them dry. Nyx made a sound of disgust, probably because it was so unmagical, and Violet said, “Be quiet, you. Naughty puss.” To me, she said, “You don't need magic for everything.”
That was a relief, since I was so bad at magic my cat had to send me spells by telepathy.
Violet helped me undress, which involved removing Nyx from my shoulder. She jumped to the bed and sat, staring at me, as though not trusting me out of her sight. Smart cat.
Once I was wrapped in my bathrobe and had fuzzy slippers on my feet, Violet took me out to the kitchen. I felt like a child being fussed over by her mother but I was really happy to have someone fussing over me. I felt shaken, bruised and stunned. Having a crazed killer after you in broad daylight will do that.
I sat down very slowly, wincing as my bottom settled painfully onto the chair. Nyx barely waited for me to stop wincing before jumping onto my lap. I didn’t care if she made the pain worse, I needed my familiar right now. The way she was purring, I thought she felt the same way about me.
Violet put the kettle on and I thought, with some amusement, how very English that was. Nothing like a cup of tea to cure every ill from heartbreak to attempted murder. I said, “The tea’s in the Queen Elizabeth’s Royal Jubilee canister on that shelf there.” I pointed to the bright blue can with the royal coat of arms, as though she could possibly miss it.
“You’re having my special tea.” Then, as I watched, she went into Gran’s cupboards. At the back were the dried herbs she kept in packages, and some bottles of liquids I hadn’t known what to do with. It seemed Violet did. She pulled out bags and bottles, muttered and shook her head. “Really, Lucy, you need to keep your pantry better stocked, and with fresher herbs.”
I suspected she didn’t have cooking in mind, so I kept my mouth shut and watched. She put bits of dried herb into a teapot, and added something that looked like old mushroom, or twigs, or maybe yak dung. She poured boiling water over the mess and waited a couple of minutes. Then she lifted the lid, inhaled the steam, shook her head and added more yak dung. After another minute, she repeated the lid-lifting, sniffing process and then, seeming satisfied, she found a tea strainer in the cutlery drawer and a large china mug commemorating the birth of Prince George. Into the royal mug she poured a brew that was the color of regular tea, but smelled like a stagnant bog.
She pushed the evil-looking concoction at me and nodded. “Drink up,” she said briskly.
“You’re not having any?” Not only was I thinking that misery loved company, but I wasn’t entirely sure I trusted my witchy cousin. I’d feel happier if we both drank her stinky tea.
She raised her eyebrows. “I’m not wounded and bleeding. Come now, it will make you feel better.”
Nyx was curled on my lap and since she wasn’t hissing and spitting I decided to trust the tea. I took a sip and all my worst fears were confirmed. It tasted like a stagnant bog—that someone had peed in. My face screwed up in disgust. “This is revolting.”
She shook her head at me. “You are such a baby.” Then she got up and fetched a pot of honey so old the liquid had crystalized. She pointed at it and gave an order in a language I didn’t understand and the solidified honey obligingly melted to a gorgeous, golden liquid. I dropped in a large spoonful into my mug and stirred it around. It didn’t make the b
rew taste good, but at least I could choke it down, stopping at regular intervals to gag and moan.
“Drink your tea,” she insisted when I’d stopped to gasp.
“Calling that muck tea is an insult to tea everywhere.”
“You’re stalling, Lucy. Drink it while it’s hot.”
When I’d got about halfway through the drink, I realized that my hip wasn’t hurting anymore. I shifted experimentally and to my surprise, my aches were all but gone.
I opened my hands and saw that the bleeding had stopped, though the skin was still broken and smarting. Nyx raised her head and licked my palm. Her sandpaper tongue smarted but even as I pulled my hand away, I saw that the scrapes were closing.
I offered her my other palm and she obligingly cat-kissed it all better.
After that, I stopped complaining and finished my tea. My fellow witches, both human and animal, looked pleased when I was done. Violet said, “I’ll leave you the recipe for that. In fact, I’ve got a few indispensible potions you should have. Love potion, obviously, a calming tea, one that helps ease pregnancy aches, and, of course, the healing potion you’ve just drunk.”
We hadn’t always been the best of friends, but I felt we were both reaching for a tentative friendship. I suspected she’d always be competitive, but she’d also been there when I’d needed her. I wouldn’t forget that.
In between forcing down the evil-tasting potion, I’d shared all the details of the motorcycle attack. I left out the bit where Nyx had passed me the spell. Maybe I was a little competitive too, where Violet was concerned. Let her think I was getting on with our family grimoire and actually learning the spells. When I’d finished my recital, she said, “I’m very glad you're pressing charges. He nearly killed Gemma. We know what he's capable of."
And then she patted Nyx on the head. "And you've got a very loyal familiar, there. I believe, if you hadn't arrived home soon, she'd have cast her own spell to go and find you.”
