Finding the body on my new back doorstep had shaken me to my core. I’d opted not to disturb it any more than I already had, it being apparent to me that no-one sporting that particular skin tone could possibly still be alive. Over and over I replayed the moment the hand had flopped into view at my feet, and lamented the fact that The Hay Barn had neither a bar in the room, nor a 24-hour bar downstairs. Instead, I soothed myself by nursing a cup of overly strong tea made in the tiniest cup in the world, with the smallest possible pod of long life milk, before showering and trying to settle myself enough to sleep.
Alas, sleep eluded me for the most part. I lay on the comfortable bed, in the immaculate room with my eyes wide open, comparing Whittle Inn to The Hay Barn, somewhat unfavourably. The Hay Barn was everything that I would have intended for Whittle Inn. The furnishings were hardy, plain and comfortable, the décor contemporary. The food on offer was the usual fare of lamb shanks, gammon and egg, and steak and chips. The Hay Barn offered everything a visitor to the area would want or need.
I was worried. Did the existence of The Hay Barn necessarily mean there wasn’t enough room in the village for another inn? That would be the case if I attempted to offer something very similar, surely? Where did that leave me with my own plans? How could I make Whittle Inn different?
I tossed and turned and then when the dawn made itself known, I listened to a cacophony of birdsong. For some odd reason, the rambunctious twittering was enough to finally send me into a deep sleep.
I awoke, feeling groggy and headachey a little after nine. I considered rolling over and sleeping some more, certainly at home in Lewisham I would have done, but that thought brought me to my senses. I no longer had a home in Lewisham. I had a new life here in Whittlecombe and I was required to check out of The Hay Barn by 11 am. Breakfast was waiting for me downstairs, and I needed to meet the police back at Whittle Inn at midday.
Breakfast was served directly to me in the dining room. I noted with glee the greasy smudges on the table, and the salt grains that had worked their way under the laminated surface. The Hay Barn, far from perfect after all, required a deep clean.
Feeling smug, I opted for an English breakfast, the full works – including a juicy sausage, hash browns, and mushrooms. It looked good but tasted bland, the bacon being too thinly sliced. And the plates weren’t china, instead mass produced from a well-known Swedish superstore. I tucked in anyway, and mopped up the juices with an extra slice of toast. I was supposed to be watching my weight, but I had a feeling the extra calories might come in useful today, and I needed some comforting.
I wiped my fingers clean on the paper serviette with some distaste as the waitress descended on my table with a teapot in one hand and a coffee pot in the other. She was a short young woman, aged around twenty or so, with hair dyed bright red and piercings in her eyebrow and nose. “Would you like any more coffee or tea?” she asked and I opted for coffee. I needed the lift.
“Thank you,” I said, wondering whether to ask for more toast.
“You’re welcome. Do you have any plans for today?” she asked cheerily. I looked up into her open face. She seemed genuinely interested. I checked out her name badge. Charity.
“I kind of do,” I said. “I’m the new owner of Whittle Inn. I’ve plenty to be getting on with.”
“Really?” exclaimed Charity with great excitement. “Then you’ll know all about the murder! The whole village is buzzing with the news this morning.”
“Murder?” I said, wondering whether the police had confirmed this. I guess you didn’t need to be a detective to figure out that it probably was, assuming that the body had been killed elsewhere, wrapped in material and dumped. I wasn’t quite so sure this scenario was the only possibility, but I would bow to the police’s superior knowledge.
“That’s what they’re saying.”
I frowned, wondering who ‘they’ were.
Charity noticed the look on my face and grimaced. “Sorry. It’s not very nice for you, is it? Will you be staying with us for a while? How long before you’re intending to move into the old inn?”
“Today with any luck,” I replied. “If the police release it back to me, and if I can get the water switched on. Which reminds me, I need to make some phone calls.” I fished around in my bag for my mobile.
Charity smiled. “Well if you need anything, give me a shout. I guess you’re my new landlord too. I live in Snow Cottage,” she said, as if that meant anything to me, but I guessed it was the name of one of the cottages belonging to the estate.
“Thank you, Charity. That’s really lovely of you.” I waited for her to walk away and started thumbing through my contacts for the numbers I needed.
When a shadow fell over my table for a second time, I assumed that Charity had returned, but this time it was an older gentleman, with a shock of neatly cut white hair, wearing an expensive tweed jacket and baggy corduroy trousers. I didn’t recognise him.
“Did I hear you say you’re the new owner of Whittle Inn?” he asked shortly, his plummy accent pointing to an over-privileged background of public school and Oxbridge. He put my teeth on edge straight away.
“Yes,” I said, refraining from adding ‘you did hear that if you were eavesdropping on a private conversation.’ I didn’t offer any further explanation. He waited a moment and then when I wouldn’t play ball with him, he sniffed. A contemptuous sound if ever I heard one.
“It’s in a fair state of decay, the old inn, isn’t it?”
“It seems structurally sound to me,” I replied smoothly. “Nothing that can’t be taken care of, I’m sure.”
“Have you thought about bulldozing it?”
“No.” The cheek of the man.
“I mean to say,” he carried on blustering as though I hadn’t already replied to him, “have you seen the list on that building?”
“I should think the inn’s been wonky since the day it was built,” I said and smiled. “Rather like the leaning tower of Pisa. Historically lopsided.”
He harrumphed. “You should talk to my lawyer. I’ll give you a good price for the inn and the land it’s standing on.”
“Should I?” I asked, politely enough, but inside I was beginning to bristle. “And who exactly are you?”
“Gladstone Talbot-Lloyd.” He held out his hand and at first I thought he wanted to shake mine, but as I put mine out in automatic response I saw that he was actually offering me a business card. “This is my lawyer’s card. He’ll deal with everything.”
Dumbfounded, I took the card and looked up at him. “I can assure you, Mr Talbot-Lloyd, I won’t be putting the inn up for sale. I fully intend to open it up again and make a success of it.”
“Then you’re a fool,” he sneered. “You should have stayed in London. A young woman like you can succeed—in some small measure at least—up there in the big city. Down here, we don’t take kindly to jumped up entrepreneurs and the like.”
“I’m no jumped up entrepreneur,” I seethed. “I have years of experience in hospitality. I’ll be working hard to make my business a success.”
“It won’t be enough. Take my word for it,” Talbot-Lloyd sneered. As if I would take anything he said and give him a penny for it. “You need a name. You need to be someone. You need family behind you. My understanding is you have no-one.”
His words stung, but the truth at the core of them pulled me up sharply. Perhaps he was right and I wouldn’t be able to achieve what I’d set my heart on. He’d said I needed a family behind me. What family could I draw upon? I had no-one. They were all dead.
But now as I considered them – my father and his family, all the generations who had lived in the inn before me – I found my anxiety dissipated. My mind cleared and my fury ebbed away. This man had no idea who or what he was dealing with. Clearly.
“Do you believe in ghosts, Mr Talbot-Lloyd?” I asked innocently.
“What?” he puffed his chest out, “What are you talking about? Of course I don’t believe in
ghosts.”
“Well perhaps you should do.” I stood up, straightened my spine and looked him straight in the eye. Generations of my father’s family must surely have been haunting the corridors of Whittle Inn for centuries. No doubt they walked there still and would be keeping me good company. “My family are totally behind me, in spirit if nothing else.”
I walked away. At the exit to the dining room I turned back and harrumphed back at him. “The inn is not for sale, Mr Talbot-Lloyd. Good day to you.”
Forty minutes later I remembered why London had held such an allure for me as a seventeen-year-old, whilst my Somerset home had not. The nearest taxi firm operating around Whittlecombe was located miles away, the bus service was negligible, and it looked like it would be faster for me to walk to Whittle Inn than wait for a ride.
I set out at a brisk pace, happy that I hadn’t brought much into the village with me the previous evening. I’d left all my bags behind at the insistence of the police who hadn’t wanted me to disturb their scene any more than I already had done.
The day was fine, the sky blue and the sun climbing high, and a walk would be far from unpleasant. I observed the shop and post office from across the road, and decided to pop in and collect some necessities. With any luck the power and water would be restored to the inn before the end of the day, and it would be great to make tea and a sandwich in my own kitchen.
The door stood ajar so I walked straight in. Time had obviously stood still here in Whittlecombe. The old fashioned counter, and the shelving behind it, reminded me of pictures in history books. One wall displayed colourful jars of sweets, and another tins and packets of food. The third wall was covered in soap powder, washing up liquid and other household necessities. I’d get all my necessities, right here, right now, but if I wanted lemongrass and mushroom ketchup, I’d probably have to order online or take a trip to a larger supermarket in the nearest town.
I hovered by the newspapers. The local rag had got hold of the ‘murder at the inn’ story and now Whittle Inn was plastered over the front page for all the wrong reasons. I cringed.
“Good morning, madam,” chimed a perky voice behind the counter. I turned to observe a plump lady wearing a cream pinny smiling at me. “Can I be of assistance?” she asked.
“Hello, good morning, and yes,” I said and her beam broadened. “I need a few things … erm … tea, milk, butter, sugar, cheese, bread.”
“That sounds like the making of a grand picnic,” the woman said. “Are you on holiday? Staying somewhere close?”
I had to come clean. The shop was another property leased from the estate. Sooner or later she would have to know who I was. I hoped she wouldn’t hate me but I’d never had a great relationship with any of the landlords I’d rented property from. How could you not see them as money-grabbers?
“My name is Alfhild Daemonne. I’m the new owner of Whittle Inn and I’ve inherited all my father’s properties.” I flushed slightly, and ducked my head so the woman couldn’t see my embarrassment.
She studied me seriously for a moment, looking me up and down. Then she shook her head in disbelief and broke out into another wide smile. “Well, fancy that!” She skipped out from behind the counter. “It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Rhona Marsh and I run the shop here with my husband, Stanley. We knew there was a new owner, but imagined we wouldn’t get to meet them.”
“Why’s that?” I asked as she pumped my hand up and down.
“Well … you’ll find there’s many absentee landlords in these parts nowadays. They buy up the property and let it out, and their agents do all the work and organise the maintenance. It’s impersonal, I feel.” She scrutinised my face. “I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, Ms Daemonne.”
“Oh call me Alf, please.”
“Alf. Such a laddish name for a beautiful woman!”
I laughed, liking Rhona more and more. Her openness and honesty and gentle flattery was a breath of fresh air. There were no sides to her. She began to gather together the things I’d asked for.
“So what are your plans?” she asked curiously. “Will you stick around?”
I nodded and looked through the window, across the road to The Hay Barn. “Yes. I had planned to restore the inn, now I’m not so sure what I’ll do with it.”
She followed my gaze. “Too much competition, you think?”
“Yes.”
“Mm,” she pursed her lips thoughtfully. “It’s all about how you find your market isn’t it?” She gestured around at the shelves. “It’s about knowing what to sell and to whom. Once you have that nailed you’re home and dry.”
“Sage advice,” I said, unsure how to attract a different clientele to such a small village. I glanced at the newspaper headline again. “I suppose I’d better get back. The police will be waiting for me.”
“That’s a terrible introduction to your new home,” said Rhona. “Such a shock for you. Who was he? Do you know?”
“I know very little,” I said and picked up a copy of the newspaper to add to my pile of goodies. Perhaps I could find out something new by reading the story. “It’s so sad though.”
“It is. Whittlecombe is generally such a sleepy little village. You must wonder what you’ve let yourself in for.” Rhona laughed merrily. “Won’t you be worried, being up at the inn on your own?”
I thought about my encounter with Talbot-Lloyd and remembered the vision I’d had of my father’s family.
“I think I’ll be fine.”
“How are you getting back? I didn’t see a car.”
“Looks like I’m walking,” I said, eyeing the weight of the bag she was about to hand over to me with dismay.
“Nonsense,” Rhona replied. “We can’t have that. A valuable new customer like yourself. I’ll get Stan to run you.” Before I could protest she had stuck her head behind the door and was calling for her husband. “It’s not a problem,” she said, cutting me off. “Now is there anything else you’d like, given that you won’t have to carry it by yourself anymore, or shall I ring this up for you?”
I found Detective Gilchrist leaning against his car waiting for me. My new friend Stanley unloaded the boxes of supplies I’d asked for—I’d figured I might as well take advantage of the lift back to the inn and buy up half the little shop’s cleaning materials—while I presented myself to the officer, a little tardily to be fair. The story of my life.
“Good afternoon, Ms Daemonne,” he said and arched an eyebrow. He was a good looking man, late thirties, tall and blonde, Scandinavian looking you might say, heavy set and slightly grizzled.
“Have you been standing there all night, Detective?” I smiled, hoping he would forgive me for my late arrival.
“It certainly feels like it.” Gilchrist rubbed a huge paw over his eyes and face. I had a sudden yearning to reach out and stroke the stubble there myself. That would never do.
“I have the makings for tea and coffee,” I announced excitedly, gesturing at the boxes Stanley was busy unloading. “If I have electricity too, I could make you a drink.”
“That would be great,” Gilchrist said and I turned for the front door.
“Oh,” I said, pulling myself up short. “Am I allowed back in?”
“Yes, forensics are finished. They found nothing in the inn of any use, no disturbance or forced entry so you’re free to get on. They’ll need access out the back for the rest of the day probably, so I would avoid using the back door or garden, if you don’t mind?”
“No, of course not. That’s fine,” I said and with some relief pushed open the main door to the inn.
“Where would you like these?” Stanley called from behind me.
“Just in here, please,” I instructed, flicking switches on the wall. To my delight, the lights blinked on. “We have electricity,” I crowed. Yes, it did feel like a triumph. What I found less delightful was the way in which the sudden illumination highlighted how much of a mess the bar was in, and in all its technicolour detail.
My bags remained where I’d dumped them the previous day. I fished out the small kettle I’d brought with me and quickly searched through the boxes Stanley was fetching, in order to locate the coffee, milk and a bottle of water. I intended to let the water run through the system for a while before I trusted it to be properly drinkable.
“I have these plastic mugs if that’s okay? Sorry they’re not very fancy,” I said, holding up one pink beaker and one purple one. “I wasn’t sure what I’d find here, or how usable anything would be, so I brought what I thought would be essential.”
Gilchrist smiled, “Very enterprising of you. I don’t care how it comes so long as it’s wet and it keeps me awake.”
“I’ll make sure it’s strong then.”
Stanley brought in the last of the boxes. “That’s all for now,” he announced.
“Thanks so much,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”
“No problem, my love. Let us know if you need anything else. We’re always happy to deliver around the village.”
“Would you like a coffee?” I asked brandishing my jar of instant.
“No, I’d best be getting back. I’m sure Rhona will have a list of other jobs I have to complete before lunch,” he winked at me, and I waved him away with relief. I only had two beakers, and given that I fancied another hit of caffeine myself, I didn’t want to give mine up.
I handed Gilchrist his drink and we pulled out a couple of chairs from the pile to sit on.
“What news do you have for me?” I asked. “I understand it was a man, and that’s about all I know.”
“It was a man,” Gilchrist confirmed. “An older chap. We think in his late sixties, early seventies. He had no ID on him, so at this stage we have no idea who he is or where he came from. There had been no attempt at a forcible entry. The property was secure, no forced doors or windows, nothing broken, and as far as it is possible to tell, there doesn’t appear to be anything here that shouldn’t be. Have you noticed anything missing?”
The Wonkiest Witch Page 3
