“In the little cloth pocket there.” Florence pointed. “Purple and white striped paperclips.”
I dug my hand into the pocket, reaching deep with my fingers. And yes, there were several paperclips inside. I drew them out. Purple and white.
“Well done, Florence. I’m impressed as always with your amateur sleuthing skills.”
Florence curtsied in delight and beamed at me.
“This is the same briefcase then?” she enquired.
“It would certainly seem so.”
I just couldn’t comprehend why it kept turning up.
Like a bad penny.
Given the way the Psychic Fayre had ended—with an arson attack on local man Rob Parker’s Porky Perfection sausage van, and lots of bad feeling towards some of the supposed fortune tellers on site—I was surprised to discover that the villagers had decided that the annual Apple Pie Fair would go ahead as normal over the late Bank Holiday weekend.
On a much smaller scale than the Psychic Fayre, and occupying just one field, the Apple Pie Fair had a long history in the village; dating back to Tudor times and the earliest settlements in the area. People came together every year in celebration of the humble apple. This being the west country, there was plenty of locally brewed cider, both fizzy and cloudy—pretty potent in some cases—as well as pies and puddings and preserves, all of which had been made using locally grown apples.
In many ways this fair marked the cusp between late summer and early Autumn. Children could try their hand at bobbing for apples in large plastic troughs, or snap apples which involved trying to catch apples hung on strings from the branches of a tree with your mouth. There was an apple shy where young men could vent their frustrations by throwing small apples at piles of windfalls artfully arranged on a dais. Or an ‘apple press’ which required ladies to take off their socks and shoes and enter a large wooden press, where they walked round and round and crushed the apples underfoot.
I admit to being intrigued by this. Local folklore suggested that in the old days only the younger village women and older girls had performed this task, and it had been some sort of rite of passage. A way to catch the eye of some hunky agricultural worker perhaps.
When the proprietor of the press caught me looking, he waved me over to give it a go, but I decided for the sake of my own sanity to give it a wide berth. I wasn’t in the mood to catch the eye of any man just at the moment, thank you. Relationships, I’d decided, were the cause of too much angst.
So, like the old spinster I rapidly appeared to be turning into—and not caring one jot anyway—I circled the field in search of Millicent.
And there she was, proudly displaying her own large number of appley-type potions alongside her own edibles. As she appeared to be busy, I joined her at her stall to help out. Millicent was well respected in the community, someone whom many people liked to turn to for minor coughs and colds and such like, so I wasn’t surprised at how popular her wares were. I fiddled with her colourful display, beautifully packaged with handwritten labels, and decorated with twists of home-dyed rattan string and tiny posies of late summer flowers. I inspected with great interest the Potion for the Easement of Muscle Aches, the Potion for the Eradication of Verrucae and Corns, the Wish-a-Mole-Away Body Wash, not to mention the Banish your Blues Bubble Bath and the Mute Miserable Memories Mouth Tonic.
“No blackberry cordial?” I asked. “It worked a treat for me.”
Millicent regarded me from under a wide-brimmed purple sunhat carelessly strewn with clashing orange felt star shapes. “I’ve run out of plague cadaver samples.”
I grimaced. “You told me you were kidding about that!”
“You’re so gullible, Alfhild.” Millicent straightened the table cloth and avoided looking at me, so I couldn’t tell whether she meant I’d been gullible then, or I was being gullible now. I decided I didn’t want to find out.
“Shall I go and buy us a cup of tea?” I asked instead.
Millicent laughed. “No! You only just arrived here, and we haven’t made enough money yet. Why don’t you concentrate on selling the merchandise?”
For the next hour I did as she suggested. I don’t have a problem with being passionate about food, and many a time I’d enjoyed Millicent’s hospitality, so selling the cakes and preserves came easily to me. Millicent had baked her usual array of Victoria sponges, as well as fairy cakes, brownies and blondies, and flapjacks. She had also offered to sell cakes and bread for the ladies in her WI group, so our tables groaned under the combined weight of some seriously impressive baked items. I let Millicent attend to those who needed something a little more potent—and was amazed at just how popular her medicinals and potions proved to be.
When trade slowed down briefly, I excused myself. I partly wanted to take the opportunity to explore the fair a little more, and possibly spend some money on the raffle or the hook-a-duck. I also desperately needed to quench my thirst so intended to grab that cup of tea after all.
Millicent waved me away in amusement and I skirted around the apple press once more, giggling at the girls with their summer dresses tucked into their knickers and squealing at the cold slimy squishiness of the apple pulp between their toes.
I waited patiently to buy some tickets at the raffle table. There were the usual boxes of chocolates and bottles of wine, a couple of soft toys and some unwanted Christmas gift sets. Nothing I particularly desired, but all proceeds were split between local charities, so I felt it important to support them. Whittle Inn had sent down a couple of bottles of spirits and one of Florence’s special cakes, a magnificent raspberry and white chocolate gateaux. Now I wouldn’t have minded winning that back, but I guess that just wouldn’t have been British.
In the centre of the field, a square had been roped off and a group of children were engaging in a tug-of-war, marshalled I was pleased to note, by Stan from Whittle Stores. He’d finally recovered from his poisoning in the toxic waters of Whittle Folly, and although he had lost a great deal of weight, his wife Rhona assured me he was going to be fine in the long term.
On the opposite side of the field to Millicent, I had another pleasant surprise when I found a van with fancy green and gold livery. It seemed Parker’s Porky Perfection, a sausage catering wagon, was back in business. I skipped over and beamed at him when it was my time to be served but of course, he really only knew my Fabulous Fenella guise. Even though as Alf I was his landlady, we hadn’t really gotten to know each other with me as myself.
I ordered two teas and carried them over to a small side table where all the sachets of sauces and little paper packets of salt and pepper and sugar were kept, so that I could steep the tea and add a sugar to each. It was at that stage that I became aware of someone watching me.
I glanced up and peered into the throng of people in front of me. Some were engaged with the tombola, others were heading for the display ring. There were some Brownie Guides manning a bookstall. It wasn’t immediately obvious to me who had been looking my way.
My witch twitch was on high alert though. Feeling a little anxious, memories of The Mori fresh in my mind, I reached out with my senses, seeking the party interested in me. At first, I could feel nothing and almost dropped my search. Humans have an innate ability—almost a sixth sense which developed in prehistoric times to help them survive—to sense a full face, human or animal, when it is turned upon them. Witches are able to utilise that sense further.
I was about to dismiss my exploration when I scuffed the edges of someone else’s magickal persona. Too close to my position to be Millicent, I doubled my efforts to scan the crowds.
Then I spotted him.
A man of average height, tidy haircut and a neat moustache. Wearing a suit. At a village fete? Who wears a suit in a country field? That’s what gave it away.
He met my eyes with a frank and open stare, as though he had nothing to hide and I had nothing to fear. Nevertheless, my hand found its way into my pocket and curled around my wand. The lessons I’d
learned with Silvan would always stand me in good stead. Controlling the adrenaline that might once have threatened to overwhelm me, I softened my knees and breathed easily.
He glanced behind himself then took a few steps back, holding his hands up in a peace gesture. I released the hold on my wand, picked up my teas and followed him. I caught up with him just before the display area. A troupe of young children, wearing sparkly shorts and t-shirts, were about to begin a dance display. They stood in lines, a few giggling nervously, others waving at parents and siblings in the crowd.
He waited for me, on the periphery of the crowd, making an effort to blend in, but failing. Wearing that suit meant people were looking twice at him, when they would otherwise have barely noticed him. Close up, I observed his clothing was strangely old fashioned, the jacket a longer length than men chose to wear today, and the shirt collar stiff and oddly formal.
“Mr W Wylie, I presume?” I asked as I reached him. I was guessing, but the description that Florence had given me tallied well.
He gave a quick nod of his head, his eyes scanning the crowd. It struck me then how anxious he was. He didn’t appear to be any sort of threat to me, but it seemed clear that he considered I—or someone else around us—might be a threat to him.
“I have your briefcase,” I told him. He raised a finger to his lips, and I fell silent. We turned to watch the children. There appeared to be a problem with piping music over the tannoy and so the display had been held up. Some of the kids were becoming restless. One little lad pulled his neighbour’s pig-tails and I worried she would start to cry.
We stood shoulder to shoulder, he was slightly shorter than me, and he leaned over a little to speak low in my ear without looking at me. “I need your help.”
“Alright,” I replied. I would always try and help anyone in need if I could. “How can I do that?”
“I left something at your inn.”
Was that all? “Well, by all means come and collect it. We have a substantial amount of lost property in storage. We—”
“It was hidden.”
“When you stayed before?” I was confused. “Seriously… Why not just come to the inn?”
“I’ve tried to find it and failed. I need to know if you have found it or whether it’s been removed?”
I looked sideways at him. The man was making no sense. He hadn’t been back to the inn since the Psychic Fayre. Not as far as I knew anyway. Although the missing reservation suggested someone had been tampering with my records.
“What is it you’ve lost?” Perhaps if I knew that I could help him.
He tugged at his moustache in agitation. “I’m sorry. I really can’t say.”
I turned to him and he ducked away as though I would strike him. I held my hands palm-up in concern, trying to quell his nerves. “Mr Wylie—”
He took a step back, his eyes wide. “You don’t understand. It’s dangerous for me to be out in the open like this.” His eyes darted around the crowd. I followed his anxious gaze wondering who or what he was looking for.
“Mr Wylie, let me help.”
He looked at me properly for the first time. We locked gazes. His eyes were a deep dark blue, the colour of a night sky. The sparkles I could see there reminded me of the stars. Entrancing.
“How do I know I can trust you?” he whispered. “Trusting people doesn’t always end well.”
I recognised that feeling. “I won’t let you down,” I tried to promise him. “If you’re on the level with me.”
He edged closer and I turned to face him so that we were almost chest to chest, his lips level with my chin. “Did you find my friend?”
A loud bang from behind me startled us both. I dropped my teas and reached for my wand, swinging about. A couple of metres from me a child opened her mouth and began to scream. A forlorn string draped from her hand, flaccid rubber lying in the grass beneath her feet. Her balloon had popped.
I laughed shakily. “It’s alright.” I swivelled back to Mr Wylie to reassure him, but he’d disappeared. I turned around and about, slowly, trying to see which way he’d gone, peering into the groups of people milling around the fete with their ice creams and tombola prizes. I used my witch senses, attempting to sense the trail he’d taken but I could find no trace.
He’d dissipated into the ether.
I arrived back at the inn a few hours later laden down with some of the produce Millicent hadn’t been able to sell, a sad looking pastel pink soft toy I’d won in the raffle, and a bottle of freshly pressed cider vinegar for Monsieur Emietter to try out at some stage. My feet were killing me after all the standing up and walking around, but I needed to help out with dinner service before I found some time to relax.
Eventually, clutching my soft toy—I hadn’t had a teddy bear for years—I climbed the stairs to my bedroom and popped him on my bed. Mr Hoo, from his place on the bedstead, eyed the usurper with great distrust.
“I’m sure you’ll become great friends,” I told the owl, scratching his head. He produced his familiar twitting sound and seemed content enough. “I’m going to call her Blossom. Like apple blossom. That’s a nice name, isn’t it?”
“Hooooo.”
I smiled. “My feet are like plates of meat.” I threw myself on to my bed and pulled off my shoes and stockings. “I could do with a foot massage. I don’t think either of you can help me with that.” I glanced out of the window, thinking about George. Then Jed. My stomach squeezed with dismay as I considered what I’d had and lost.
“Some things just aren’t meant to be,” I told myself softly. “Perhaps they aren’t real. Were never real. Perhaps they were too real.” I sighed. “What do I know? I know nothing about love.”
Sudden tears surprised me. I dashed them away in annoyance, determined not to give in to such maudlin feelings.
“I’m going to run a bath,” I announced to Mr Hoo and Blossom, and slipped into my en-suite to turn the taps on. I picked up a jar of bath milk, a freesia and basil concoction that Millicent had gifted me, and poured it into the water, watching as the milk bloomed into clouds that rolled and broiled in the water forming shapes and images. Naturally I allowed what I saw there to suggest meaning… What sort of witch would I be if I didn’t take every opportunity to divine my world?
I frowned to see Mr Wylie there among the billowing clouds, and as I lifted my head to think about the encounter I’d had with him at the Apple Pie Fair earlier in the day, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was somewhere with me now at Whittle Inn.
I turned the taps off and dried my hands, then padded out into the corridor that ran the length of the first floor in my bare feet, looking up and down it. No ghosts. Nobody around at all. I could hear music coming from downstairs, gentle Elizabethan music. Luppitt Smeatharpe, alone, playing to our guests in the bar.
From above me came the sounds of people walking around in their rooms, the creak and groan of old timbers and wooden floors. But on this floor only silence. I walked slowly along the corridor. Beside my rooms—bedroom, bathroom and office with its little kitchenette that I had never had occasion to use—there were eight guest rooms on this floor. Two small ones and six that I considered ‘state rooms’ because they were larger. Three of them had their own turret. One of these was the unfortunate Throne Room. For now, it was still closed up and awaiting some love and attention. I made a mental note to contact George again and ask whether the police could release it back to me.
I paused outside the door, resting the palm of my hand on the cool painted surface. I reached out, feeling the energy in the room beyond, sensed the slight movement within, the minute disruption of the air on the other side of the wood. Mr Wylie was inside.
I gently turned the handle and walked in. The lighting in the room was subdued but I could clearly make out Mr Wylie, standing in front of the large hole in the wall, peering inside. He turned without surprise. He’d expected me to join him.
“I didn’t imagine I’d find you here tonight.” I kep
t my voice low. “You know I mean you no harm. I meant what I said at the Fair. I’d like to help you if I can.”
I stepped closer to him and realised in horror that he was crying. Tears sparkled brightly as they ran from his eyes, damp trails shimmered on his cheeks.
“Mr Wylie? Are you alright?” I asked, panicking that he’d been hurt in some way.
He pointed at the gap in the wall, at the place where we’d found the skeleton. “Is that where my friend was? What happened to him? Did you find—?”
“Alf?”
Charity was in the corridor, looking for me. Like a fool I’d left the door open behind me. I turned to shut the door. As I did so, a flash of blue light brightened the room, and from the corner of my eye I noticed Mr Wylie suddenly spinning rapidly. In the time it took me to turn back to look at him properly, he’d disappeared.
“Mr Wylie?” I called. “Mr Wylie? I’m sorry. Come back.” But I was talking to empty air.
Charity heard me calling and popped her head around the open door, looking at me curiously, evidently wondering what I was doing all alone in this room.
“Sorry, Alf,” she said. “Hope I’m not interrupting.” She waited and I could tell she wanted to find out what I was up to. “Are you looking for someone?”
I shook my head. “What’s up?” Frustration at the turn of events bubbled inside me. What had Mr Wylie been trying to ask? What had he lost? Who was his friend?”
Charity pouted. Admittedly, it was unlike me to keep her out of the loop. “I can’t find the key to the cellar. Do you have a spare?”
I nodded. “On my desk.” I led her back to the office and rummaged underneath a large pile of paperclips, rubber bands, memos, business cards and post-it notes until I found it. Hard to lose given that it was eight inches of black iron. “Where’s the other one got to?”
The Mysterious Mr Wylie: Wonky Inn Book 6 Page 6
