by H. Y. Hanna
“There was no need for such vicious behaviour,” grumbled Viktor, rubbing a swelling on his forehead. “A slight miscalculation on my part, that was all.”
Caitlyn sighed. “Look, Viktor—why don’t you leave the ‘investigation’ to me? I’ll do some asking around the village, okay? I promise I’ll tell you anything I learn.”
The old vampire protested indignantly and Caitlyn spent most of the drive back to Tillyhenge trying to mollify him. Finally, they came to a compromise where Viktor would accompany her but remain outside the buildings and let her do all the talking. As they arrived in the village green and parked the car, Caitlyn caught sight of the pub and had an idea: if Pierre Rochat really had come to Tillyhenge earlier in the day, he might have gone in for a drink. After all, the village was tiny and there were no other cafés or restaurants offering refreshments.
Leaving Viktor skulking around outside, she went into the pub and found Terry, the landlord, at his usual spot polishing glasses behind the bar. Caitlyn had a soft spot for the loquacious publican. Yes, he was a bit of an old woman and he could talk until the cows came home (and probably until after they were milked too) but he was one of the few villagers who had always been friendly and pleasant to her, despite her association with the Widow Mags, the “village witch”.
The pub was Terry’s pride and joy; his primary preoccupation in life seemed to be protecting it from drug dealers and maintaining its reputation as a respectable, law-abiding establishment. As such, he kept a fierce scrutiny on all patrons who entered, checking them with greater vigilance than a police sniffer dog. He was also always on the lookout for anything “dodgy” in the village, and constantly pestering the police hotline with reports of “suspicious activity”.
He looked up now as Caitlyn approached the bar and said, shaking his head, “Bad business, this murder…”
“Were you there that night?” asked Caitlyn.
“No, but my missus was, told me all about it when she came back… Whole village is talking about it anyway—vampire murder, they say… Bollocks to that! No such thing as vampires… bound to be some local criminal… drugs, I shouldn’t wonder… you never know where these drug dealers turn up… got to keep an eye out for them all the time… that’s what I do… I run a clean establishment, me, and I’ll have no drugs in my pub… that’s what I say to my missus—”
“Uh… yes,” cut in Caitlyn before he got on his favourite hobby horse. She knew that once Terry got started on the subject of keeping drug dealers out of his pub, it would be impossible to get him off the topic. “Um… so did you happen to see the victim, Pierre Rochat? I heard that he arrived in the village earlier in the day—I thought he might have come in here for a drink?”
The landlord gave her an approving look. “You’re a smart lass. That’s what the police asked me… Aye, he did… I served him myself… real nice gentleman, he was—not the type you’d think would get mixed up with criminals and such… but that just goes to show, doesn’t it? Like I always say to my missus, you can never tell from the outside… these drug dealers look all respectable and—”
“Did you chat to him? Did he say what he was doing in Tillyhenge?”
“Wasn’t too talkative, to tell you the truth… told me he was an antique jewellery dealer but wouldn’t say much else…”
“Was he alone?” asked Caitlyn, wondering if Pierre Rochat had arranged to meet someone. “Did he speak to anyone?”
Terry shook his head. “Kept to himself. Sat at the corner of the bar, there, and had his drink.”
“When did he come in?”
“Must have been ’bout three o’clock? Lunchtime rush was over and not teatime yet… normally a pretty quiet time in the pub… though if you get a coach of tourists arriving, bloody hell, things get busy… specially those Japanese groups—always wanting ‘afternoon tea’ and ‘clotted cream’—I’m a blooming pub, not a teashop! My missus reckons we ought to start serving afternoon tea on them posh platters and charge twenty quid for the pleasure… twenty quid, I ask you! But she reckons the tourists would pay it and gladly—says she’s been to a tearoom in Meadowford-on-Smythe that’s doing rip-roaring business—The Little Stables, it’s called—”
“Oh, I’ve been there!” said Caitlyn with a smile. “They’ve got the most delicious scones.”
“Hmm…” Terry pondered this for a few seconds, then shrugged and said, “Suppose I could do with the extra business… have to be careful, mind, with all these tourists—you get all sorts… Dutch tourists, for instance… I hear there’s a big drug scene in the Netherlands… and Columbia… and those Albanians are dodgy too—”
“So you didn’t notice anything odd about Pierre Rochat?” asked Caitlyn, trying to steer the conversation back to the murder.
Terry shrugged. “Didn’t know he was going to get himself murdered, did I? Would have been watching him more. Was more interested in that English teacher chap, to be honest.”
“Lionel Spelling?” said Caitlyn, jerking upright. “He was here in the pub? At the same time?”
“Came in a few minutes after the Rochat fellow… dressed in those ridiculous clothes—”
“Did he speak to Pierre Rochat?” asked Caitlyn eagerly.
“No, no… sat at the other end of the bar and asked for his usual: elderberry wine… now, what kind of a drink is that, eh? Told the inspector, I did… there’s something fishy going on with that young man—”
“Did he stay long?”
“Eh? No, left soon after the Rochat chap… didn’t even finish his drink… not that I’m surprised… namby-pamby stuff… a pint of ale’s what a real man should be drinking—”
“Er… Thanks, Terry—it’s been great chatting to you!”
Caitlyn gave him a smile and hurried out of the pub, her thoughts churning. Was it just a coincidence that Lionel Spelling had come to the pub when Pierre Rochat was there? Or had the two men arranged to meet? Terry had said that the two men sat at opposite ends of the bar and hadn’t talked to each other… but maybe that was done on purpose, to conceal their connection. They could have pre-arranged to meet there and then Rochat might have given Spelling a covert signal to follow him, right before he left the pub.
I’ve got to speak to Lionel Spelling again, thought Caitlyn.
Viktor pounced on her as soon as she stepped out of the pub. “You were an age in there,” he said reproachfully.
“I’ve learned something interesting,” said Caitlyn, and quickly repeated everything Terry had told her.
“Aha… excellent sleuthing!” said Viktor, rubbing his hands with glee. “We shall go to the workers’ cottages now and I shall use vampire hypnosis to interrogate this Mr Spelling—”
“We are not going anywhere,” said Caitlyn. “I am going to the cottages by myself and I’ll speak to Lionel Spelling, not hypnotise him, but you’re not coming with me.” She saw Viktor’s crestfallen expression and softened her tone. “Look, Viktor, it’s better if I do it alone, okay? You’ll just… complicate things.”
The old vampire’s shoulders drooped and he looked crushed. Caitlyn hesitated. Now she felt really bad. But she took a deep breath and hardened her heart. She knew that she was right—it was best if Viktor didn’t accompany her.
“There’s a new crop of fruit on the gooseberry bush in the Widow Mags’s garden,” she said, giving him a persuasive smile. “Why don’t you go back to Bewitched by Chocolate and wait for me there?”
Viktor nodded silently, turned and shuffled off. He looked so dejected that Caitlyn almost called him back. But she bit her tongue and resolutely turned in the opposite direction, heading for her car and setting off towards Huntingdon Manor.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When Caitlyn entered the Manor parklands, instead of following the driveway all the way up to the main entrance, she took the turn-off that led into the woods around the back of the house. This second driveway ended in a small farmyard which housed some of the Manor’s farm vehicles and quad bik
es. She parked the car and followed the winding pathway that led off from the farmyard, farther into the trees.
She had barely gone a few steps, however, when she heard a rustle in the bushes behind her, followed by a muffled thump. She turned swiftly but saw nothing behind her. After a moment, she started walking again, but within minutes the rustling started again, this time in the bushes next to her. There was a blur of motion in the air, a soft whooshing sound, and then another muffled thump as a tree trunk nearby shuddered from a sudden impact. A series of grumpy squeaks filled the air.
Caitlyn sighed. She knew that sound.
“Viktor? Are you following me?” she called, peering into the undergrowth.
Silence.
Caitlyn took a step deeper into the forest. “Viktor… I know you’re there.”
There was a moment’s pause, then a fuzzy brown fruit bat crawled sulkily out from behind a bush.
“You’re supposed to have gone back to wait for me at the chocolate shop!” cried Caitlyn.
The fruit bat made indignant squeaking noises and Caitlyn sighed again.
“All right, all right… you can stay but you can’t come to the cottage with me—you have to wait here.”
The little bat gave a grumbling squeak and flopped along the ground until it reached a tree trunk. Slowly, it began climbing the tree, using its bony little claws to hook into the bark as it hauled itself up. It looked so laborious that Caitlyn almost reached out to help but she resisted the urge, knowing that Viktor would probably be offended. She watched him affectionately as he made his way up into the lower branches. She would never have dared tell him to his face but Viktor was rather cute in his bat form, with the fuzzy brown fur covering his head and body, and his pointy little face and big black eyes… He looked more like a baby fox wearing a little black cape than a scary Halloween fiend.
She waited until he was hanging comfortably from a branch, his leathery wings wrapped around him like a blanket and his fuzzy little face peering at her upside down, before giving him a nod and saying, “I’ll be back soon.”
Then she turned and headed towards the cottages.
They were not joined together but they sat close to each other, side by side, each with a patch of garden in front. She didn’t know the number of Lionel Spelling’s cottage but it was easy enough to guess his from the outside. One cottage had a mountain of gardening paraphernalia piled by the front door—shiny new gumboots, gleaming spades and trowels, pretty gloves in a floral fabric, and a huge watering can, as well as an assortment of potted plants and flowers lining the path to the front door—whilst the front of the other cottage was bare, except for a few weeds. She guessed that the first cottage belonged to Gertrude Smith and, as she got closer, she saw a dog bowl on the front steps with the word “DOG” etched on the side.
Caitlyn walked past and went up the path to the second cottage. There was no bell so she rapped the old-fashioned knocker. No one answered. She waited a moment, then tried again. Still nothing. Frustrated, she stepped back from the door and leaned sideways to peer into the window, but the curtains were drawn and she could see nothing.
On an impulse, she walked back to the first cottage and knocked on the door there. After a few moments, Gertrude Smith flung open the door and stood on the threshold, eyeing her with suspicion. Rocco the terrier stood next to his mistress, wearing a similarly suspicious expression and growling deep in his throat.
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested!” Gertrude snapped and started to swing the door shut.
“No, wait!” said Caitlyn, catching hold of the door. She gave the woman a friendly smile. “We met at the Open-Air Cinema the other day—do you remember?”
The woman went pale and took a step back. “Yes, I remember,” she said, her voice strained.
“Are you all right?” asked Caitlyn in concern, surprised at the change that had come over the woman. She put out a hand and touched her gently on the arm.
Gertrude Smith shook her off. “I’m fine. Just don’t like to be reminded of that night, that’s all.” She gave a shudder.
“Oh, I’m sorry… I suppose it was rather upsetting—did you happen to see the body?”
The other woman gave a tight nod and swallowed convulsively, going even paler. Caitlyn was surprised. The last thing she had expected was for a practical, matronly type like Gertrude Smith to get squeamish about seeing a dead body. Still, you never knew how people responded to death, did you?
She cleared her throat and said, “I was actually looking for your neighbour—Mr Spelling. He doesn’t seem to be in… have you seen him around today?”
“No.”
Caitlyn tried again. “Do you see a lot of him? I mean, the two cottages being so close—”
“No,” she snapped. “I don’t go sticking my nose into other people’s business.” Then she relented and added, “I do see him sometimes, when I’m out in front, doing the weeding and such…”
She gestured to the gardening tools by the front door. Caitlyn followed the direction of her hand and took in the pile again. The equipment looked almost like a gleaming display at a garden centre.
“Did you see him on the night of the murder?”
Gertrude’s expression tightened again. “No.”
She really wasn’t making it easy.
Caitlyn glanced around and tried again. “Um… so… are you here on holiday?”
“Yes. I fancied a quiet break in the countryside.”
Caitlyn nodded at the gardening paraphernalia. “It looks like you’ve been busy.”
“Yes, I love gardening,” said the older woman smoothly. “Nothing like getting your hands in the soil and smelling the roses.” The words sounded strangely clichéd and Gertrude seemed to realise this. She gave a gruff laugh and said, “I’ve been working in the corporate world for too long. Now I’m enjoying the slower pace and country pastimes, like going for walks… and doing my own baking…”
She waved a hand and Caitlyn realised that the other woman was clutching a rectangular cookie. The scent of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves wafted up and Caitlyn sniffed appreciatively.
“Mm… that smells delicious. Did you bake that?”
Reluctantly, the woman held out her hand. “Yes—would you like to try?”
Caitlyn took a piece and bit into it. It was a thin, crispy cookie, with a warm spicy flavour, unlike anything she’d tasted before. “Mmm… These are really good! What are they?”
“They’re speculaas—traditional Dutch biscuits.”
“Oh… are you from the Netherlands?”
“My family was originally from there, yes. And you? Your accent is quite unusual. I thought you were English at first—but at times you sound slightly American.”
“Yes, I—”
A volley of barking from farther in the cottage interrupted their conversation.
Gertrude Smith spun in surprise. “What on earth—? Rocco?” She glanced around but the terrier was nowhere to be seen.
She hurried into the cottage and, after a second’s hesitation, Caitlyn followed. They burst into the kitchen-dining room to find a scene of chaos. Rocco the terrier was running in circles around the table, bouncing up and down, and practically howling in frustration. At first, Caitlyn thought that he was barking at the large bowl of fruit in the centre of the table, but then she realised that there was something perched on top of the bowl.
A fuzzy brown fruit bat.
It was hugging one of the bananas and busily munching one end, an expression of contentment on its pointy little face.
Caitlyn groaned. What was Viktor doing in here?
“AAAaagh!” shrieked Gertrude Smith. “A bat! A nasty little bat!” She ran to a cupboard and returned a moment later brandishing a broom.
“No… wait…” protested Caitlyn, but she was thrust aside as the older woman charged towards the dining table, waving the broom.
Rocco barked furiously, his mistress’s agitation making him even more manic.
Caitlyn gasped as he leaped suddenly into the air and scrabbled to climb onto the table. He was too short to reach but he managed to get his front paws hooked on the edge and hung there, snarling and barking at the fruit bowl. The little bat jumped up, startled, and launched into the air just as Gertrude brought the broom down on the centre of the table.
WHACK!
The bowl of fruit exploded, apples and oranges rolling everywhere. Gertrude shrieked and swung the broom again, thrusting it wildly in several directions. Rocco raced in circles, barking excitedly, whilst the little bat gave ear-piercing squeaks as it flapped clumsily around the small room. It was absolute pandemonium.
“Get away! Get away, you filthy vermin!” yelled Gertrude, waving the broom.
The fruit bat crashed into the dresser, sending several plates and cups crashing to the ground, and hung precariously on one of the shelves.
WHACK!
The broom came down again, swatting the bat off the shelf and onto the floor. Rocco lunged, his teeth narrowly missing the little bat by inches as it jerked out of the way.
“No!” gasped Caitlyn, rushing forwards into the melee.
She could see that Viktor was cornered. Bats couldn’t take off easily from the ground and he needed to climb up somewhere high enough to launch off. She had to distract the dog. But she didn’t dare just grab Rocco—she had a feeling that the terrier could easily turn around and sink his sharp teeth into her hands. Maybe she could get his attention with a toy? She cast desperately around and spied a dog bed in the corner, with a stuffed toy rabbit in the rumpled blankets. She rushed to grab it but Gertrude caught her arm, yanking her backwards.
“What are you doing?” the other woman demanded. “Don’t touch that! Rocco doesn’t like anyone touching his toy!”
Oh, for heaven’s sake… Caitlyn shot the woman an impatient look, then seized an apple that had fallen onto the floor instead. She lobbed it towards the terrier, who yelped with surprise as the apple bounced against him. The moment’s distraction gave the fruit bat the chance to scuttle past the dog and climb onto one of the chairs.
