The Wonkiest Witch

by Jeannie Wycherley

  Entering a small clearing at the centre of the wood, I found a number of benches arranged in a circle. I plonked myself down on one to rest for a moment, noticing that the shadows had grown longer. It was time to turn back. I was intent on heading back to the inn and a feast of cheese and tomato sandwiches, when something odd caught my eye. A burn mark on the ground, where the scrub had been scorched. I poked about with my foot. The scar on the ground had been carefully disguised by twigs and branches and a scattering of organic mulch, but if you looked carefully you could see that the camouflage was an artifice. The ground had been swept clean but something had scorched the earth here, and then the evidence had been covered over.

  I swivelled on the spot peering beyond the trees, and through the undergrowth. Who had been here and why? Had someone been wild camping? It seemed a good spot to do so, but the burn mark was long and thin, not round as you might expect with a bonfire. With the night stealthily approaching it was difficult to make much else out. I decided to return for a better look in the daylight.

  Turning about once more, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Sitting on a branch at eye level, not seven feet from where I stood, was a sizeable bird staring at me with orange eyes shining like headlights. Recovering my composure, I stepped forwards for a closer look. It was a long eared owl, about a foot tall, with mottled pale and dark brown markings, with a rounded brown face and darker irises.

  “Hoo-ooo. Hoo hoo,” it called softly.

  “Hoo-ooo, hoo hoo,” I repeated, and it gazed at me through solemn eyes.

  I smiled. “You’re a handsome beastie,” I said. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you, although it’s a bit early for you to be up and about yet, isn’t it?”

  The owl made no response, not so much as a blink. I nodded at it. “Go in peace,” I murmured out of habit, the blessings I’d been taught as a child. “Live a long and blessed life.”

  I walked slowly and quietly passed its tree, holding my breath, afraid of scaring it. I half expected it to take flight but it remained where it was, feathers unruffled, no sense of alarm. Once I was well clear, I speeded up, intent on reaching the inn before dark. I hadn’t travelled more than a hundred metres when the wiry vibration of the air told me my owl friend had finally taken to wing and was following me through the woods. I watched as he landed on the branch of a tree ten metres away, sitting like a sentinel, observing me as I followed the path home.

  Once more, I slowed down as I passed him, and this time his head swivelled as I went by, observing my progress.

  The whole process was repeated the entire journey, until finally I came to the edge of Speckled Wood. The inn, dark and quiet lay in front of me. It appeared sinister from this angle, the police tape fluttering in a gentle breeze. A scene not for the faint-hearted that was for sure. Why hadn’t I left a light on? I was scaring myself.

  I turned about and gazed back into the wood. My owl friend remained in plain sight, observing me.

  “I have to go in,” I told it, regret in my tone, surprisingly sad to be losing this odd but compelling companionship. There was no-one waiting for me inside the inn. I would be all alone. I hadn’t realised this would bother me until I understood how much the owl’s unexpected company had meant. Now I felt my solitude keenly. Maybe I should have remained at The Hay Loft for a few more nights, among people, however odd or rude they were.

  No, that would have meant giving in. The inn was my home.

  “Thank you for your company,” I said to the owl. “Goodnight.”

  I slipped out of its sight, knowing it would remain in the woods. Perhaps I would see it again the next time I walked there.

  I hoped so.

  I stuffed myself with cheese and tomato sandwiches as I had promised myself I would, and then feeling a little better opted to run a bath. The bath in my private quarters was a large Victorian style tub located directly under the window, horribly scarred but wonderfully deep with enormous stiff taps that required two hands to turn. The boiler had been heating up water since the electricity had been restored earlier in the day, so there was plenty for me. I rummaged in one of my bags to find some luxurious scented bubble bath I’d been gifted at Christmas, along with a 12 pack of tea lights. I lit some of the tea lights and stood them on the window sill out of harm’s way.

  Slipping into the bath I luxuriated in wallowing. It had been an eventful day and my thoughts mulled over the encounters with Talbot-Lloyd and Pimm - those not entirely pleasant - but also Charity, Rhona, Stanley, Gilchrist, Millicent, Jasper and the beautiful owl. They had breathed new life into me. I considered my desire for company. Am I lonely? I asked myself, and frowned. Perhaps a little. I had a few friends back in London, and I’d dated from time to time in the past, but the elusive perfect companion seemed to have passed me by.

  Idly, I drew a large love heart in the steam on the window, and then, remembering a love spell from my early years, I giggled and wrote my initials on one half. AMD. In the centre of the heart I drew a plus sign. After that I was stumped. I didn’t have any initials to add. There was no-one to call upon, no-one to bewitch, even if my powers were of use.

  I drew a question mark instead, and then closed my eyes and inhaled the fragrant steam from the bath until my mind was clear. Opening my eyes once more and with a wry smile at the question mark, I intoned in a low voice, “Here as I cleanse my body, I call upon the gods and goddesses to help me sluice the negativity of my past away. Fill me with joy and expectation of a nurturing future. May heads turn my way; may I find the ones I wish to stay.”

  Then with slightly more force: "I am blessed in this world. I choose to love myself and others. I will love, I am loving, I am loved. I am love!"

  Opening the window wide to allow the steam to escape, I envisaged sending my love into the world. Done with the spell I collapsed back into the water, watching steam from my body curl up and drift outside. It was pleasant to feel the cooler night breeze on my hot skin. I closed my eyes and floated away, until a sudden scratching on the window sill jerked me back to reality.

  I stared in shock at the long-eared owl as it observed me with curiosity through the open window, this pink creature floundering around in the now-tepid water.

  “Hoo? Hoo? Hoo?” it asked.

  I awoke feeling far more positive than I had the previous afternoon, but this new positivity didn’t last long. The post brought the results of the survey and Pimm appeared to be telling me that the inn required underpinning and structural work that was likely to run into hundreds of thousands of pounds. I just couldn’t see it myself.

  In addition, I received a huge box file from Penelope Quigwell with a backlog of bills, paperwork and instructions on how to pay. Bills were owing for maintenance to the cottages in the town, the post office and the convenience store. Nothing appeared to have been paid out by the estate for a very long time.

  Feeling inordinately cross, I sat at the desk in my office and pored over the ledgers trying to make sense of money coming in and money going out. What I needed were some excel spreadsheets to keep track of it all, or an accountant. The latter sounded favourable to me. Sorting the finances would make my head explode. Even a cursory look at the figures suggested that I was haemorrhaging money from the estate faster than I was making it. If I didn’t turn things around quickly, I’d be liable for bankruptcy before I fully unpacked my bags.

  What on earth was I paying Hawke, Joplin and Harrow for, if they couldn’t balance the books and look after the estate in my father’s absence? And what about Penelope Quigwell? How much were here fees? And did she have a copy of my father’s will? I hadn’t even seen that. It might be worth examining just to see how well the estate had been managed since his death.

  I glowered at my mobile, considering where to start. A phone call to Jason, followed by a phone call to Penelope seemed the wisest course of action. A fact-finding mission. But all the while I was dealing with admin, I couldn’t be stripping wallpaper or getting the inn back into shape. I desperately ne
eded help, but the teams of builders, painters, plumbers and electricians that I had initially envisaged, rapidly evaporated as the full nature of my financial dilemma became apparent.

  Absently I pulled at a strip of wallpaper on the wall. I loved the way it came away so easily, torn from the plaster in one long strip, disclosing the smooth surface beneath. I wiggled my thumb nail under another edge and pulled again, peeling the paper away and dropping it to the floor. Within fifteen minutes I had stripped the entire wall next to my desk. The shredded paper lay at my feet, specks of paint scattered across the bare wooden floor like dandruff.

  I sighed.

  I’d have to clean that up now. Procrastination felt better than financial planning.

  Becoming aware of someone whistling tunefully outside, I moved to the open window to investigate. I speculated that the police had arrived to resume investigations out the back, but there were no cars. A lone man dressed in jeans and a red t-shirt walked up the drive, glancing up at the building with open curiosity.

  He ventured inside without invitation, and was tapping at the wall opposite the door when I found him. The main door was standing open. I tended to leave it this way, because there was nothing worth stealing and I appreciated being able to air the building in the fine weather, after all, the inn had been shut up for far too long.

  Who did he think he was?

  “Good morning,” I bristled. “Can I help you at all?”

  He turned to me, and my heart made a little flutter, instantly dousing the flames of my annoyance. He was tall, about six foot two, and muscular, with short black hair and eyes of cornflower blue, and attractive, although not in a magazine model type way. If you studied him closely, you could see his face appeared slightly asymmetrical, his lips a little too full. I could tell his nose had been broken at some point, and yet to me, the flaws made him all the more interesting.

  I flushed a little and smoothed down the front of the old dress I had thrown on, worried what he would think of my round belly and overly generous hips, dusty face, and wayward hair caught up in a lazy ponytail on the back of my head.

  “You’re Alfhild?” he asked. “Millicent sent me.”

  “Alf,” I said, flushing even more. What on earth was going on? Then, confused I asked, “Millicent sent you, because…?”

  “She said you needed help.” He smiled—and when he did, the world seemed a brighter place—and stuck out his hand. “I’m Jed Bailey. I’m a builder by trade, but a kind of odd job bod in these parts. I can turn my hand to painting, decorating, a bit of plumbing. The only thing I don’t really do is electricity.”

  “Wow,” I said, impressed, shaking his hand. It dwarfed mine. “You sound like the kind of saviour I desperately need.” But could I afford it though? I thought of the list of bills languishing on my desk.

  He read my mind. “I’m affordable.”

  “Ha! Am I that transparent?” My face always gave me away.

  “Millicent said you had taken on a huge task here. It’ll be worth it in the end.”

  “It may suck my entire inheritance down the pan.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine it’s going to take a load of cash. I’m happy to help though. And look. I tell you what. I’m a sucker for these old places, and Whittle Inn means a lot to many of the old local folk around here. I can help out here and there between the other jobs I have, while you get on your feet. And you can add to the workforce when you can afford it.”

  “That’s so kind,” I said, and my eyes filled with tears at this unexpected generosity. I hadn’t realised I was feeling so emotional.

  “Is it a deal then?” He politely ignored my sudden loss of control.

  “Deal!” I replied and we shook hands again.

  “Good, then why don’t you show me around?”

  We started in the attic and worked down. Jed raised his eyebrows at the sheer amount of junk taking up space in the loft, but like me, was pleased the roof was in such good shape. On the next two floors, he agreed that we were mainly looking at painting and decorating and perhaps redoing the plumbing and tiling in the bathrooms.

  I showed him my office and living quarters. Again, most of what needed to be done here was cosmetic, with perhaps a few replacement windows.

  The majority of the work needed to be done in all the downstairs areas, with a deep clean undertaken in the store rooms and the kitchen, and instalment of replacement kitchen equipment where needed.

  “I’d somehow like access to the outside too,” I finished explaining my plans to Jed. “At the moment you can only get through to the back garden if you go directly through the kitchen, or walk around the outside of the building, but I won’t want the guests doing that.”

  “Hmm,” Jed responded thoughtfully. “Maybe you could knock through to one of the store rooms.” He led me back into the bar area where I had seen him tapping on a wall earlier.

  “Look.” He rapped against the wall with his knuckles.

  “It sounds hollow,” I said in surprise.

  “That’s because it is. This is a partition of some kind.”

  “Will it go through to the store rooms behind?” I tried to conjure up an image of the floor plan in my mind.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Jed replied and winked. “The next time I come, I’ll bring my tools and we’ll have a look.”

  “Great. When will that be?” I tried not to appear too eager, but failed miserably.

  “Well,” Jed drawled. “I have a job on tomorrow.” I had to hide my disappointment. “But I’m keen to find out what lurks beyond this wall myself.” His eyes danced. “Why don’t I come on over after I’m done, late tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Perfect,” I said, cursing my flushing cheeks. “I’ll supply refreshments.”

  It had been a while since I’d entertained a member of the opposite sex in any capacity. The following lunchtime found me walking into the village, primarily to post numerous letters and pay a few bills at the post office, but also in search of something interesting to cook for supper.

  Rhona greeted me like a long-lost friend and together we examined the vegetables, neatly displayed in baskets outside her shop. “Is your kitchen up and working properly, already?” she asked as I picked out fresh carrots, hoping they were as sweet as they looked.

  “Oh Rhona. If you could see the state of it,” I lamented. “It’s not so much that things aren’t working, it’s more that it doesn’t look like it’s been cleaned in about thirty years. It’s revolting. I’ve scraped off the grease from one of the cookers and I’m using that to cook on, but it makes my skin crawl to go in there. Plus, the dead man was found just outside the kitchen door.”

  “Ew,” Rhona shuddered. “Doesn’t that freak you out? It would me.”

  I shook my head, “No. I have to be honest. The dead don’t bother me.”

  I turned my attention to the available fruit, and scowled disdainfully at skinny stalks of rhubarb. Someone had been forcing their fruit. It wouldn’t taste as sweet as rhubarb that came later in the season. I looked up at Rhona to make that observation, and over her shoulder spotted Talbot-Lloyd heading into The Hay Loft. “They don’t bother me as much as some members of the living do, that’s for sure.”

  Rhona followed my gaze, spotted Talbot-Lloyd and sniffed. “I get what you mean,” she said.

  We watched him disappear and I grunted. “Mind you, I would like to know why this person at the inn was killed.”

  “What the motive was?”

  “Yes.”

  The tinkling of a bicycle bell disturbed my thoughts. “Good afternoon, Rhona,” a woman shouted from across the road, pulling up outside the village hall. Clad in a pale blue summer dress with a straw hat trimmed with the same colour ribbon, she leapt off her bicycle and waved cheerily. Easily in her sixties, she looked a picture of English perfection, posing beneath the pastel bunting hanging around the doors and windows.

  “Afternoon Sally,” Rhona called back, and we watched as Sally lo
cked her bicycle to the bench and disappeared inside the community centre.

  “There’s a WI sale in the Hall this afternoon,” Rhona said.

  “WI?”

  “Women’s Institute. You ought to have a wander over and see what they’ve got. Millicent makes some astounding pasta sauces. I have no idea what she puts in them but they taste … magical.”

  “Pasta sauce?” I said. “That’s a great idea.” Something quick and easy to do would give me more time to chat to—or help out—Jed.

  “And there will be cakes,” Rhona said. “The most amazing cakes.”

  “I’m sold!”

  And I was.

  Clutching a bag full of Rhona’s fresh vegetables, I made my way across to the village hall. I was struck immediately by the level of noise. I could hardly hear myself think. Groups of women were gathered together, laughing, talking and exclaiming.

  At the side of the large room were tables overloaded with all manner of homegrown, or home produced, produce. I spied Millicent nibbling on a slice of cake next to her own laden table. There were jams and pickles, knitted items, lace and even wood turned gifts. To my left, the kitchen area was open and teas were being served. As Rhona had promised there were cakes galore on the counter. Some whole, some sliced. It looked like paradise to a sweet toothed cake eating professional, such as myself.

  Sally smiled broadly as I made my way further into the room, and stepped away from her circle. “Hello,” she said, in a quintessential English accent, with clipped vowels. It was easy to deduce, she rather well-to-do. “We haven’t met. I’m Sally. You’re new to the area, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I replied, “I’m Alf. I’m the new owner of the inn.”

  “Whittle Inn?” asked Sally, her face a picture of surprise. “Yes of course, I’d heard there was a new owner. Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Alf. Let me introduce you to some of your neighbours.” She ushered me firmly towards a group of women, and proudly announced who I was to them. For the next ten minutes I was bombarded with questions about the inn and about the body I’d found. Numerous times I had to explain I didn’t know who the man had been, and that no, I wasn’t scared to live there alone.