Blood and Broomsticks

by Jean G. Goodhind

  She sighed, eyeing the mix of green faces, hooked noses, and ghoulish masks bobbing like jetsam on a boiling sea. Pieces of purple and red plastic had been fixed over the ceiling lights. The gas-powered wall lights – the originals from around 1890 – flickered and hissed, warming the room and the dancers alike.

  The prospects for enjoying herself at this party were not good. If she stayed too long she’d get drunk or die of starvation. All she’d eaten so far was a few crisps, a slice of salami, and a vol-au-vent filled with something that might be cottage cheese or might just as easily have been baby sick.

  Beating her way through gyrating bodies to where the food had been, proved a waste of time. Crumbs, a few cocktail sticks, and a lone sausage roll from which somebody had already taken a bite.

  Out of the corner of her eye she spotted three bottles of wine that still looked full. Grapes were food, and weren’t five pieces of fruit a day good for one’s health?

  Holding her stomach in, she managed to slither through more gyrating bodies in the general direction of the wine bottles. At last she got there and was just about to pour when the sound of a familiar voice made her toes curl.

  ‘No police bodyguard tonight?’

  She twisted from the waist, looked up, and felt a swoon coming on.

  The tall man looking down at her wore a black evening suit, a black cloak, and a set of fangs that Dracula would have been proud of.

  John Rees. Prince of Darkness.

  Honey self-consciously stretched her neck. If he wanted a bite, the bigger the target the better.

  ‘A little mishap,’ she said while thinking how good John Rees looked in black. ‘I like your teeth,’ she added while giving one of the oversized incisors a stroke with her finger. ‘Had the chance to try them out yet?’

  ‘I need a willing victim.’ His grin said it all.

  Honey felt her knees turning to jelly at the thought of his teeth – and his mouth – upon her neck. ‘The victim usually faints first.’

  ‘From fear I take it. Or would it be a desire for sex with a tall man in black?’

  ‘Or the fact that her corset is laced too tight.’ Now it was Honey that was grinning.

  ‘I’m good at undoing knots. Corsets are a speciality. As for these teeth, well I think they might get in the way of serious smooching,’ he said, and took them out.

  ‘You’d make a good Count Dracula. The teeth definitely give you some bite.’

  The crush in the overcrowded room pressed them closer. Honey could smell his aftershave. Better still her bosoms were touching his chest.

  He smiled. ‘Cosy.’

  ‘Careful. Those teeth are awesome.’

  ‘All the better to eat you with.’

  It was a distinct possibility given the press of the crowd.

  The dream was shattered when the formidable incisors dropped out.

  ‘Whoops! I feared I might lose them. They’re not my size, but that’s it when you buy things sight unseen. I got them from an online joke shop. I think they were made for a kid of about ten. Bit of a tight fit,’ he said and flipped the fangs into a handy plant pot. ‘That’s better.’

  It was better. Honey admired his typically American teeth; all of them straight and pearly white.

  One long arm snaked through the congestion and lifted a wine bottle from the Edwardian chiffonier that was doing a turn as a wine table. He had to lean across her to do it, almost taking her into his cloak like Christopher Lee in one of the old Hammer Horror films. If this was about to become a fate worse than death, then she was all for it.

  ‘So,’ he said as he poured a blood-red Shiraz into her glass. ‘I take it by his absence that you and the DCI had a falling out.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ She couldn’t admit the truth just yet, not until she was sure; not until she’d got used to it …

  Stroking the rim of her glass with one finger, she studied the blood-red wine rather than face looking at him. He would know what the truth was if she did. Seeing as her face was an open book, he probably already did know. Lying had never come easy to her – not that it was really a lie. At present things were uncertain and until she was one hundred per cent sure, she would not admit that her relationship with Doherty was final. It was in a kind of limbo. That’s all.

  ‘I hope that it is over. You know I’ve always admired you from afar. Never got in with a chance while the cop was around.’

  His comment brought a hot flush to her face. He’d never explicitly said before that he was attracted to her. Both of them had kind of known, but now here it was, out in the open. Either that or the menopause was about to wash over her.

  She decided on the former, pulled a so-so face, and looked up at him.

  John Rees’s eyes were ice blue and seemed to have their own cutting edge – like twin laser beams. They were twinkling at her and there was an amused twist to his mouth.

  ‘What?’ she asked, unable to stop smiling herself.

  ‘I’ve got a confession to make.’

  She shrugged her shoulders. If this was some kind of guessing game, she was right out of it.

  ‘I did hear a rumour from my local garage that you’d pranged the most important thing in his life. Ahmed collects books,’ he added so she’d be in no doubt of the rumour’s provenance.

  Damn. She’d been found out, but that didn’t mean she had to confess. A little bluffing was in order.

  ‘Well there’s a dark horse. I had no idea. I presume the books are on the film industry.’

  John shook his head and produced an enigmatic smile over the blood red wine. ‘Nineteenth-century classic erotica – The Kama Sutra, The Perfumed Garden, et cetera. That kind of thing. Mostly Asian. He reckons it’s an important part of his culture, and so it is.’

  ‘A bookworm.’

  ‘And a mechanic. So. There you are. Your secret’s out.’

  The fact that Doherty had actually declared his car to be the most important thing in his life was galling to say the least. Turning the conversation to Ahmed’s book-collecting habits hadn’t thrown John Rees off the scent.

  ‘Ahmed is a gossip.’

  ‘He can’t help it.’

  Honey shook her head. ‘I can’t believe it of Steve. Did he say that? Really?’

  His grin widened. ‘Does it mean I’m in with a chance if I say yes?’

  John’s eyes had always held an obvious attraction. When he looked at her as he was looking now, she felt like a pinned butterfly, an object of attraction in a much-loved collection.

  She felt a sudden constriction in her throat and a corresponding fizzing in her erogenous zones. So here it was. At last, out in the open. This was the first time John had actually laid it on the line that he fancied her and suggested that they get close up and personal. Up until now they’d only flirted and skirted around what was going on underneath the morning coffees and book recommendations.

  There were no words that would make sense. The proximity of her breasts and his chest overrode the prospect of polite conversation.

  The wine was a good leveller. Despite the fact that they were packed tightly together like sardines in a tin, she clinked her glass with his. ‘Let’s play it by ear. Cheers.’

  He clinked hers right back. ‘Cheers.’

  It wasn’t easy to unclamp from each other, but she needed the bathroom. Getting there meant squeezing around the edge of the room. On the way she got squashed up against the French doors that looked out over the paved patio.

  The room was noisy so she didn’t hear the metal gate when it opened, but she did see it. The sight of two sheet-covered figures coming up the garden path made her pause. Not much imagination had gone into their outfits; each man – they looked too big and bulky to be women – wore a white sheet, two holes cut in the eye area so they could see where they were going.

  The bathroom was along a passage leading to the back of the house. Sprinkling water over her face helped her cool down, but thoughts of John Rees kept her hot. The man was
propositioning her in order to be Doherty’s replacement. But hey, perhaps she didn’t want a replacement. Perhaps there was no need of a replacement; after all, she and Doherty hadn’t declared formally that their relationship – their engagement – was over.

  Her reflection confirmed that her cheeks were still pink and her eyes were sparkling. The black hair of the wig fell forward around her face. At least it might help hide her blushes; it had certainly hidden a lot more of its owner, Clarissa, than it did of her.

  There was nobody in the reception area. The new arrivals had obviously been let in and had joined the party.

  John was waiting for her in a handy spot between the drinks and what little food was on offer. One thing would have led to another if they hadn’t been in company. The party was in full swing, the singing, laughter, and conversation drowning out any in-depth intimacy.

  The absence of food was alleviated with drinking wine but even that was close to running out.

  Luckily Alison had brought her own cake and there was plenty enough to go round.

  Honey looked at John and whipped a blob of cream off his nose.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind another slice.’

  Being taller than most people there he peered over heads to check the cake stand.

  ‘All gone.’

  Honey’s stomach rumbled – at least that was one sound nobody would hear amongst this noise.

  She held onto John’s shoulder while she shouted in his ear.

  ‘Looks like a visit to either a fish and chip, kebab shop, or McDonald’s on the way home.’

  With the approach of midnight, the party spilled out into the reception area where a set of stairs ascended up to the first floor and a Sheraton-style desk was set diagonally across the corner dividing the window and the fireplace. Spiderman and a girl in thigh high boots were sitting on it, apparently leaning against each other for support. As with a number of other woman there, the girl was sporting long black hair, her face the colour of hoar frost. Unlike the other Morticia Addamses present, her skirt was practically non-existent and the thigh high boots were laced up into something vaguely resembling a garter belt.

  No wonder she’d attracted the attention of Spiderman, thought Honey. Those strips of elastic were just waiting for somebody to climb up them.

  The last presents were handed over, the last congratulations offered to boozy accompaniment.

  Honey had already handed over the handmade chocolates Smudger the chef had made. She’d noticed that only the box was left, trodden underfoot. It was bound to happen, a consequence of the lack of decent catering.

  Once the witching hour had struck and the party was deemed to be over, mobile phones pinged into action calling taxis or relatives to take them home.

  ‘Has anyone seen the Crooks?’ Maurice called out. ‘I need to pay the bill.’

  Alison was hanging onto his arm, positively stewed. ‘Crooks by name, crooks by nature. Let them stew!’

  ‘We can’t do that, darling.’ Maurice patted Alison’s arm and just caught her before she fell off her extra-high heels. The birthday girl was well-oiled but wore a disappointed expression.

  Can’t blame her, thought Honey. Things had not exactly gone according to plan.

  ‘This is a bit of a crush,’ said John as they tried to make their way out into the hall, Honey’s hair snagging on the nose of a purple-faced witch. ‘Take my hand.’

  ‘Well,’ said Alison looking pink cheeked and less happy than a birthday girl should look. ‘You’d have thought these people would have come out to wish me happy birthday after spending all this money on a party in this … this … crummy dump!’

  She took a swipe at an antique Blackamoor figure, missed, and fell back into Maurice’s arms.

  Maurice shrugged. ‘I’m not hanging around. They’ll ring me when they want their money.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ve changed into pumpkins,’ offered Honey. ‘Or werewolves,’ she added, her eyes fixed on the tufts of hair sprouting above Maurice’s shirt collar.

  ‘Or gone to bed,’ added John.

  The last option was the most obvious, but a party had been going on and some were still in a party joking mood.

  ‘Perhaps they’re real witches and have shot off to go dancing naked round a bonfire,’ somebody said.

  ‘Anyone know where that might be? I’m up for that,’ said Maurice the Werewolf.

  Alison tittered and threw him a playful slap.

  Honey gathered up her shoes, dangling them from her fingers; even a witch had no spell for dealing with sore feet.

  ‘I could do with some fresh air,’ she said to John. ‘The sooner we get outside the better.’

  ‘I’m with you on that one. All these witches and ghouls in one place are making me feel claustrophobic.’

  There was a crush of people between them and the front door.

  ‘It’s jammed,’ cried the man who was trying to open it. There was a rattle of a door being tugged. ‘It’s definitely stuck.’

  Spiderman appeared, flexing his muscles as though he was the real thing. ‘Here. Let me have a go. Stand back everyone. Stand back. Give me room.’

  There was little room to stand back, but those gathered did the best they could. Honey and John were close enough to see him spitting on his hands then cracking his knuckles.

  He fiddled with the lock. Nothing happened. He tugged. The door rattled on its ancient hinges but didn’t budge.

  There was a thudding sound and more rattling as Spiderman gave it a hefty kick. Unfortunately his strength was pure illusion, gained as it was from half a bottle of Highland malt; the kick sent him sprawling backwards.

  He fell into the crowd and crashed to the floor where he lay spread-eagled, his eyes bleary behind the scarlet mask.

  ‘We’re doomed!’ somebody cried, then cackled. ‘For all eternity!’

  The revellers were beyond cracking jokes, concerns being made about babysitters, catching the seven o’clock train to London in the morning, and being fired by the boss if they didn’t turn up.

  A voice of calm cut through the mayhem.

  ‘It’s locked. We need to get the key.’

  Looking at John Rees being so calmly confident, Honey felt one of those funny tingles that’s a mix of pride when you know somebody brave and the sudden need to know them better. This man was so in control!

  ‘That room first, I think,’ said Honey pointing to the room she’d seen Doris Crook come out of.

  John suggested everyone else stay put while he and Honey went snooping.

  ‘Sit tight, folks. We have the advantage of having Bath’s Crime Liaison Officer here with us. We’ll get out of here yet. No point in us tramping all over the place.’

  ‘Disturbing the evidence,’ murmured Honey, blushing at being introduced in her official capacity.

  ‘No,’ he murmured back. ‘In their present state they’re likely to fall into the nearest bed and not come to until mid-morning. By the way, you’re a fetching shade of pink.’

  ‘Down to my toes.’

  He grinned. ‘Seeing as we’re in company, I suppose I have to take your word for that.’

  The broad door marked ‘Private’ through which the Crooks had passed seemed the best place to start. Made by Georgian craftsmen with deference to women who wore big skirts, it opened smoothly despite its age. A tiled passageway lay dead ahead before making a sharp right turn. To the left was a door marked ‘Kitchen’.

  Feeling as though the air was tightening around her, Honey opened the kitchen door, the tiles cool beneath her bare feet. She’d left the high heels to one side of the front door.

  Catering kitchens hold onto the smell of the food prepared there earlier; in the case of the Moss End kitchen, the air smelled as though no food had ever been prepared here. An ordinary domestic dishwasher was humming away churning hot water over dishes.

  Honey walked round the stainless steel preparation table sitting in the middle of the room.

  ‘Nobody here,’ s
aid John.

  Honey approached the American-style fridge, a huge stainless steel thing purposely designed for large families – not really suitable for a commercial operation, though that all depended on how much business came your way.

  John heard her take a deep breath before she opened it.

  ‘Hey. Go easy. You sound as though there’s likely to be a body in there.

  ‘No. But there might be some food.’ She looked. ‘Not much. Strange. Just a sad looking lettuce, four cartons of yogurt and half a pint of milk.’

  ‘Nothing to tempt you?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ She frowned while eyeing the contents as though they were holding on to some sort of secret. ‘It doesn’t make sense. This is a guest house. Either they’ve no guests staying overnight or, if there are guests, the only breakfast they’re likely to get is a pot of yoghurt and a lettuce leaf.’

  John stood close behind her. Normally his closeness would be welcomed and in the present circumstances – i.e. with Doherty still nursing his wounded car, her mind would have focused on his closeness and nothing much else. As it was she was nursing a feeling of unease. Something was very wrong. Firstly, not enough food for Alison’s birthday bash; she simply couldn’t believe that they’d got the figures wrong. So why hadn’t more food been bought? Even if they had got it wrong, any catering establishment worth its salt would have at least enough stock to last them a week. Moss End didn’t have enough to last until the morning.

  She pointed this out to John.

  ‘You’re the expert,’ he conceded.

  Satisfied that the Crooks were not stuffed into a handy larder, fridge, or deep freeze, they explored the passageway outside. There were two doors one side, one on the other, and directly in front a large external door which had a glass panel at face height. On looking through they could see a small gravelled patio and steps leading up to the main body of the garden.

  One of the doors on the left was a loo and the other a utility room complete with washing machine, dryer, and iron. There were a host of shelves at one end stacked high with white cotton sheets and pillowcases. Towels were piled on another shelf to their left.