The Wonkiest Witch

by Jeannie Wycherley

  “How’s everything else up there?” she asked and watched me as I replied.

  “It’s all … fine,” I said.

  “No other problems?” she asked and I shook my head.

  “No.”

  “That’s good. Have you seen the news today?” she asked.

  “The news?”

  “The local newspaper is running a story on the man that was found at your inn. They have an artist’s impression. The police are trying to discover who he is.”

  “Do you have a copy?” I asked, curious to see the likeness.

  “No, I have my papers delivered so I was reading about it at home this morning. Rhona will have plenty though.”

  “Yes.” Of course she would.

  “Did the police talk to you again?”

  “Detective Gilchrist came to see me,” I said.

  “It’s such a strange thing to have happened, isn’t it?” Millicent asked conversationally. “Of course, Whittle Inn always had a bit of a reputation for attracting some rather eccentric characters?”

  “Did it?” I asked, genuinely interested in the history of the inn, of which I knew relatively little. “What sort of eccentric characters?”

  Millicent looked around to make sure we weren’t being overheard, and then made a swivelling motion with her finger, to include me and herself in some sort of secret circle.

  “Our sort,” she said in a low voice.

  “Witches?” I clarified.

  “Yes, of all persuasions and flavours.”

  “Mad, bad and dangerous to know? That kind of thing?”

  “Oh indeed,” Millicent giggled. “I told you I used to visit the inn to play with your father when I was a girl? Why I remember some very dashing wizards from back in your father’s youth. They could turn a young girl’s head. But then there were the very sinister ones, the dark witches and wizards, and some incredibly disturbing warlocks.” Her face fell and she looked grave. “You know, it wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if someone had used a curse against the poor man.”

  I nodded. “That’s what it sounds like to me, too.” However, it seemed unlikely we would ever know, I thought. “Hopefully, it will just be a one off.” I glanced out of the window and noticed that the light had changed. “Oh no,” I said. “Did they forecast showers today?”

  “It’s hot enough for a storm, certainly,” Millicent said, fanning herself.

  I waved Gloria over and asked for the bill. “Sorry Millicent, I need to get back to the inn. I’ve left the windows open upstairs. I wasn’t expecting rain.”

  “Oh that’s no problem, my dear girl,” Millicent exclaimed, “let’s do it again soon.” I dropped ten pounds on the saucer Gloria had provided to settle the whole bill, gave Millicent a quick hug and made my way outside, where the air hung hot and sticky. Thundery showers seemed increasingly likely.

  Dashing across the road to the village shop, I greeted Rhona, and quickly grabbed eggs, mushrooms, red cabbage, red onions and the local newspaper, intending to race up the road to the inn. However, while Rhona rang up my purchases I flipped through the paper to the article on the death at Whittle Inn on page five.

  The artist’s impression gave me little clue as to who he was. A sharp faced man in his mid-fifties, with a receding hairline, making him look rather like a monk. What hair he had left, was dark but speckled with grey, and about two inches long circling his bald crown. He had a gap between his two front teeth. Not an attractive man.

  I scanned the article. There was very little in it—the police were obviously relying on the description and the image for potential leads into the man’s identity.

  Paying Rhona, I started home, waving at Millicent once more in the window of the cafe, and walking quickly up the hill, past the row of cottages, heading out of the village to the inn.

  It was then that I replayed the conversation I’d had with the older woman over tea. Why had she assumed the man had been cursed? The article hadn’t mentioned a cause of death at all, and it wasn’t widespread knowledge. Why would Millicent have assumed a curse rather than a hundred other ways he could have met his end?

  Was Millicent all she seemed? The thought had me shivering in surprise, and when the first enormous raindrops began falling, I took to my heels and ran as fast as I could towards the safety of the inn.

  Out of breath by the time I reached the lane leading to Whittle Inn, I paused near the rusty gate and took shelter under a large oak tree. Placing my bags on the ground I leant against the trunk. I caught my breath, doubled over, while listening to the comforting pitter-patter of raindrops hitting the large green leaves above my head. It was a typically quiet weekday afternoon, with little traffic on the road, so I didn’t have to worry about being seen, or looking stupid.

  Eventually I straightened up, and to my surprise I heard a gentle hooing. I peered up into the oak tree but couldn’t see Mr Hoo. It seemed far too early for him to be out and about anyway. Dusk was still hours away. Deciding I must be hearing things I bent down to pick up my bags. From somewhere behind me came the crack of a branch. I spun around. Leaving my bags where they were, I moved out of the shelter of the tree, scanning the area behind me, peering through the foliage there.

  Rain beat loudly against the canopy of leaves. I held my breath, straining to hear anything else.

  A faint crackling noise originating from somewhere near the inn drifted my way. I frowned. Someone was out here, close by, maybe just in front of me, perhaps only a few feet away, hiding among the trees, watching me as I waited and listened for them, but the crackling noise worried me. I turned my head, looking towards the inn, unsure what to do.

  The rain eased slightly, and the breeze brought a hint of damp wood smoke. Someone, somewhere was having a bonfire.

  Except it was the wrong time of year for a bonfire, and too early in the day for a barbeque. In any case the only property in the vicinity was the inn. Cold dread flooded through my veins, and everything else was forgotten. Leaving my bags, I ran hard up the lane, one hundred yards, two hundred and three. The crackling sound grew louder, and I cried out in fear.

  “Please,” I begged aloud, “not the inn. Not my inn.”

  Rounding the final bend in the trees so that the inn lay in front of me, my gaze darted wildly around, seeking trouble. The scent of smoke was stronger, and the sound of flames louder, but nothing looked amiss. The door was locked, the windows intact. I couldn’t see a fire.

  I ran around the side of the inn, towards the back, and at last I found the source of both the noise and the smell of smoke. The stable block was on fire. Orange flames licked at the side of the building, poking their hot tongues of fierce hatred through broken windows. I considered grabbing a fire extinguisher from the inn, but even twenty feet from the flames I understood it was much too late for a fire extinguisher. Nothing would calm this beast. At all.

  I took to my heels once more, back down the lane, my legs pumping faster and faster, until I skidded heavily to a stop in front of the oak. I rummaged around in my hand bag for my mobile, but I couldn’t find it. Practically in tears now, frustrated and angry with myself, I tipped the bag upside down and dumped keys, tissues, letters, lip balms, sweets and miscellaneous crap all over the ground. Sifting quickly through all of my rubbish yielded no phone. I must have left it in the tea shop.

  I ran shaky hands through my hair. Nothing for it but to run back down to the village. Why hadn’t I had a phone line installed at the inn yet? What a ridiculous oversight. I turned for the road and the village just as a sleek black car shot out of the next turning and zoomed off towards the village. I yelled and ran into the road after it, but it didn’t stop. Fortunately, a car driving up behind me had to swerve to narrowly avoid me. It screeched to a halt.

  I recognised the woman in her dark green mini. “Sally!” I cried. “Thank goodness. Can you help me? The inn’s on fire! Do you have a phone I can borrow?”

  It took the fire brigade several hours to dampen the fire do
wn and extinguish it completely. I surveyed the smoking ruins of the stable block with dismay. There would be no renovating this and turning it into a luxury villa for more discerning guests. The site would have to be completely cleared.

  More expense at a time when I could ill afford it.

  Detective Gilchrist arrived on the scene at about the same time as Jed. The storm had passed and the sun was out. I squinted as I watched them walk up the lane together. Jed gave me a hug and I had to fight back the tears I wanted to shed in the face of his compassion. I didn’t want Gilchrist to see me feeling weak.

  Gilchrist spoke at some length with the lead firefighter, before heading my way to take a statement.

  “It’s a rum business this, isn’t it?” Gilchrist said gravely. “Were you near when the fire broke out?”

  “No. I was down in the village having tea,” I said. “I fancied a treat, otherwise I would have been here. I could have stopped this.”

  “Perhaps it’s better that you weren’t,” said Jed.

  “Maybe it was an accident,” I said. “Loose wires or something?”

  “Definitely not an accident,” Gilchrist confirmed. “The investigating fire officer says an accelerant was used, and they found a petrol can in the hedge behind the stable.”

  “Kids then?” I said hopefully, but Gilchrist led me back towards the inn. He pointed at some dark puddles on the ground.

  “Notice anything?” he said, and squatted next to the puddle, agitating the water with his finger. I watched as swirls of colour danced greasily around each other, purple and green and blue. “Somebody was trying to burn the inn down, Ms Daemonne.”

  “Oh,” I said as fear lodged like a stone in my throat, leaving me mute with horror. I remembered Lyle, the landlord at The Hay Loft. What had he said? “That place is a death trap. It wouldn’t surprise me if it burned to the ground.” I’d considered it a throwaway comment. What sort of people was I dealing with here? I was at risk of losing everything.

  “Do you have insurance?” Jed asked. I shook my head. I had nothing, except the inn and the estate and all the debts that went with it.

  “You haven’t received any more threats?” Gilchrist asked.

  “No.”

  “Threats?” Jed repeated. “What threats?”

  I looked up at the inn, at its solid and growing familiarity. I sensed it waiting for me to act, so I pulled myself together, took strength from its strength, found anger to replace the fear that might otherwise have immobilised me, and finally located the voice and emotion to go with it.

  “No,” I said, “no more threats.” I turned to Jed. “Just a stupid little note designed to scare me. But it doesn’t.”

  “Nonetheless, Ms Daemonne, I would urge you to reconsider staying here until we can discover what is going on, and apprehend the person or persons involved.”

  “This is my home, Detective,” I said firmly. “There is nowhere else I will feel safe, so this is where I’m staying.”

  “I—” Gilchrist began to say and I glared at him. He backed off.

  “Listen. I can stay with you,” Jed said, and both Gilchrist and I looked at him with new interest.

  “I mean, there’s plenty of space, and …” he shrugged. “It might be good to have a man about the place.” He looked doubtful, and I smiled.

  “Do you have your own sleeping bag?” I asked.

  Later, when the fire engines, officers and police had departed, and Jed had driven back into the village to collect some belongings, I carefully walked the perimeter of the inn, repeating the mantra of the previous evening; Guard this space from all ill will and all those who wish us harm. There was no doubt in my mind that the spell I had weaved to ward off negativity and bad feeling had saved the inn from a dismal end.

  Yes, it was a blow to lose the stable block with its extra rooms, but at the end of the day this was a problem that was surmountable. Losing the inn would not have been so easy to shake off, under any circumstances.

  I was thankful the spell had worked, given my rustiness as a practitioner, now I needed to reinforce the magick and guard the inn. This would be vitally important if I decided to head up to London and leave the inn in Jed’s care.

  Once I’d finished the circumnavigation of the perimeter, I walked across the drive so that I could gaze up at the whole of the front of the building. I admired the windows with their bottle glass, each small square pane individually crafted by hand. In my mind’s eye I stroked the great wooden beams, black with age, caressed the peeling paint work, smoothed the tiles on the roof. And most of all, I embraced the wonky walls, and drew them into my heart.

  I recognised that in order to preserve this aging example of archaeological quirkiness, I would need to draw on my own heritage, on the very part of my being I had denied for so long. I would have to step up and become the witch my mother had always wanted me to be. I would need to reach out to the Elders, to those who could assist in my quest, and I would have to unleash my innate powers and practice the skills I had long neglected. I could only hope that those hostile inhabitants of Whittlecombe village who thought they had me on the run, were ready.

  Instead of being floored by the fire, I dug deep and unearthed a newfound positivity. Having Jed around certainly lifted my general mood, and I found working with him fun. I started to visualise a proper future for the inn and began to collect my thoughts in a notebook, sketching plans, writing down ideas, sticking photos of furniture and furnishings that I fancied in between the pages. I wanted to go for a light-and-easy-but-traditional look, iron bedsteads juxtaposed with white or cream bedding, refurbished oak furniture, wooden floors and plenty of rugs, flowers and pictures. And I wanted to restore the bar to its former glory, with a dazzling array of colourful optics in front of mirrors polished to perfection, gleaming in the firelight.

  “Look at this drawing,” I instructed Jed over breakfast a few days after the fire, handing him my well-thumbed notebook. “We could create a check-in area, over in the corner, near the main door and next to the stairs.”

  “Can’t your guests just check in at the bar?” Jed asked, spooning muesli into his mouth and chewing hard. “That’s what they do at The Hay Loft.”

  “I know,” I sniffed, “and that doesn’t seem very welcoming to me,” I said. “I want the people who stay here to feel that Whittle Inn is a little more distinguished.”

  “More upmarket you mean?”

  “I don’t know about upmarket. Just different to that. I worked for a while in the bar of a boutique hotel near Regents Park. It only had twelve bedrooms, and they were tiny. But each bedroom was different to the other, and guests could choose which style they preferred. I liked that. We could theme the rooms.”

  “Like a blue room and a green room?”

  I sighed and smiled wryly. Men. “You could think of it that way, yes. I was thinking more of naming them after film stars or writers.”

  “Okay. A JK Rowling and a Stephen King room? Good idea. Frighten the clientele away.”

  I laughed. “Well yes, I need to work out exactly the kind of customer I’m trying to attract and that will help me decide on a theme. I don’t want to enter into bitter rivalry with the Hay Loft particularly. I don’t think that will do either of us any good.”

  “So whom then?”

  “I have a few ideas,” I said, chewing on the lid of my biro. “These are all decisions I need to take before we start on painting and decorating, of course.”

  “Have you decided what you want to do in here?” Jed asked, gesturing around at the large L shaped bar area.

  “Yes, I have. Come with me.” I jumped up and grabbed Jed’s arm. He resisted at first as he hadn’t finished his breakfast, but I tsk-tsk’d at him and he followed me to the back of the old store room.

  “I’d like some Georgian doors or similar to open out here,” I said, and then dragged him back through the bar, down the corridor, through the kitchen and out of the back door. “It’s important to me that we
have a nice seating area where the guests can enjoy the garden. I want to have this entire area landscaped. It’s a perfect place to look out at the woods and just chill out.”

  He nodded. “What about the stable?”

  We both studied the area, me with great sadness. “For now, we’re going to have to clear the site completely, so that it’s not an eye-sore when people come out here. At least we’ll have a wonderful view.”

  I stopped.

  Behind where the stables had once stood, the tree line was thinner. A number of older trees had burned with the stable, and beyond those, younger, thinner trees stretched back for about eight feet. The gaps allowed me to see the field beyond. Farm land, that hadn’t been tended in many a year.

  I didn’t own that land.

  I could clearly see people in the field. Two men, walking towards the edge of my boundary.

  “Who are they?” I asked Jed, directing his attention to the men, both clad in wellington boots and flat plaid caps. He shook his head and I followed his lead as he ducked and crept towards the line of trees.

  We carefully made our way through the sparse foliage and hid ourselves low to the ground. I nestled among the ferns and undergrowth, pressing my face against one side of a fallen tree trunk. The smell of damp earth and the lingering scent of smoke tickled my nose, while small insects buzzed around my face. I brushed them away and listened as the voices came closer.

  “We can build as far as here for now, give or take a few metres,” a familiar voice was saying. I peered carefully over the edge of the tree trunk, but the men were turned away from me. “This meadow land stretches down to the road, and then back this way you have a couple of hectares of forest area you could utilise.”

  “What if we misjudge?”

  “Misjudge the boundaries? And go further, you mean?”

  “Let’s say, we colour outside the lines?”

  The first voice harrumphed his amusement. “That’s difficult to say. There’s every chance the planning department could insist you pulled down any houses you built.”