Blood and Broomsticks

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Honey was cold. She didn’t know where Maurice had got the key to the back door, but it explained a lot of things. Her thoughts went back to Alison’s party. A group of guests had trooped up the pub to purchase some much-needed drink. Maurice had ostensibly gone with them, or at least he said he had. But one of the others who went reckoned he’d got lost on route.

  ‘It’s a straight walk but old Maurice got waylaid. Had a leak did you, old chap?’

  Maurice had laughed the joke off and said that the cold weather affected his waterworks. He preferred the sunshine of South Africa.

  ‘Up you go.’

  He pushed her up the stairs, pointing the muzzle of a gun into the small of her back.

  ‘I suppose that’s unregistered.’

  ‘No, but that doesn’t prevent it from shooting live bullets.’

  ‘Someone will hear it.’

  ‘I doubt that very much.’

  He marched her up the first flight of stairs then the second up to the attic bedrooms. They went up in darkness. Honey wondered at her chances of flicking on a light switch. A sudden light in a darkened house would shine out like the beam from a sea bound lighthouse. Lindsey and the others were only across the road and if they looked up from their tea and tittle tattle long enough, they might see it. Might. What were the chances of changing might to must?

  Making a brave stand and living a bit longer fought an ongoing battle for a while. Living a bit longer finally won out – at least for the time being.

  Three stairs down from the top landing she was almost sure she heard the meow of a cat. Hopefully it was a lucky black cat and of immense proportions; big enough to eat murderous Maurice. Before he murdered her.

  The attic rooms were eerie and cold. A draught limbo danced through the ill-fitting windows. Honey shivered.

  Light from the street lamp outside formed a chequerboard effect of alternate orange and black. It was only barely enough to see by, but enough to see that not much had changed. The police tape was still stretched across the door to each room. Rhino’s bedding was gone, courtesy of the forensic boys, and something scurried and scratched behind the skirting boards.

  She mused as to whether Rhino actually saw the vermin that was doing the scratching; probably appreciated the company.

  She tripped when Maurice pushed her roughly into the room that had not been occupied by Rhino.

  ‘Steady. Wouldn’t want you to break your neck accidentally. If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.’

  ‘And you can do it for me.’

  ‘Correct.’

  She’d read somewhere how fear can hone your senses and make you superhuman. Whoever had penned that particular gem of wisdom hadn’t been close to being thrown out of a window.

  Honey stared at the four small panes that made up the whole; like the kind of a window in a house a child might draw. She knew it wasn’t a sash but pivoted on fixings embedded into the wooden frame. Boris and Doris had been shoved out through the lower aperture.

  ‘I have to point out I could still do with losing a few more pounds. That’s a pretty small opening.’

  Maurice laughed. ‘Honey, I really love your sense of humour. Alison said you’d always been funny. She reckoned it made up for your taste in clothes and complete absence of beauty regime. And fat people are always funny. That’s what she said.’

  ‘So nice to have friends like her.’

  Honey made an instant promise to herself that if she ever got out of this, she was going to tell Alison exactly what she thought of her dated clothes and plastic tits.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Maurice. ‘I’m not so stupid as to shove you out there. I don’t have a point to make, just tracks to cover.’

  ‘Well that’s a relief. I can’t stand heights.’

  He laughed again, one hand clasping his stomach, the other holding the gun. ‘You’re absolutely killing me.’

  ‘So glad I can keep you laughing till the very end.’

  ‘Oh, but you’re a dry one. Alison was right about that.’

  ‘Are you really serious about Alison?’

  He took out a man size cotton handkerchief and mopped at his streaming eyes.

  ‘What a bloody stupid question at a time like this. Most people go with “can I make a last request”.’

  ‘Just asking.’

  ‘Well seeing as you’ve asked I may as well answer. It depends whether I still have a use for her. She’s a good alibi one way and another.’

  ‘Marriage?’

  ‘That’s not funny. That’s silly.’

  There were plenty of times in her life when Honey had needed to think on her feet. Like the time she’d been trying to coax a cat out of a tree then saw the reason why the cat had taken shelter up there in the first place.

  The Rottweiler switched his attention to her, teeth bared, jowls slobbering with the need to bite something.

  The cat had looked pretty surprised to see her shin up that tree and sit on the same branch. The fire brigade had been surprised too – and amused.

  However, this particular scenario with Maurice ranked high above the encounter with the Rottweiler; in fact it outranked every other scrape she’d ever got into.

  She played the card that might at least get her behind a lockable door.

  ‘I need the bathroom.’

  ‘No point.’

  ‘I may wet my pants.’

  ‘OK. You pee, I’ll stand and watch.’

  Honey wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s gross.’

  ‘It works for me. The bathroom has a bolt on the back. I would not want you sliding it across. Beating it down would waste valuable time.’

  Using the bathroom had been her number one card. What next? The perpetrators of crime liked to boast. Doherty had told her so. She’d been snuggled up to his naked torso at the time. The possibility that she might never snuggle up to him again sent a jolt through her body.

  Honey, if you want another of those flesh touching moments, get in there and appeal to his lousy, rotten, murderous ego.

  ‘Well, I can see you’re on the ball,’ she said brightly.

  Maurice took time out from trying to lift the wooden cover of the water tank.

  ‘I need a hand with this. Get on the other end of it. And don’t try anything.’ The gun waggled at her.

  ‘I can see you’re serious.’

  She got on the other end of the wooden cover. She couldn’t see the water within, but she could smell it; slightly metallic because it hadn’t been used of late. Hanging baskets only required water during dry months.

  Use every opportunity to get under his skin. Ask questions. Get to know him.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ The first thought that entered her mind was to ask him why they were removing the lid of the tank. No point. She already knew the answer – or thought she did. Boris and Doris had had their heads bashed against the wall of the water tank. Unlike the old lath and plaster walls of the attic, the lead lining of the tank was unyielding. Easy to smash a skull against it. Try it against the bedroom wall and the old plaster would cave in before her skull did.

  Musing on these profound and less than happy thoughts, Honey helped him lift the lid. Whatever wood had been used it was damned heavy. There were nails all around its edges proving that at one time it had been fixed down.

  She used both hands, he used one. She thought about dropping it. The thought of it landing on his toes and the gun going off made her change her mind.

  ‘Why did the men wearing bed sheets tip the victims into the urns?’

  They heaved the lid on its end so it rested against the wall.

  ‘They were stupid. They were making a point.’

  ‘By dropping them into the urns? What’s the significance?’

  ‘I already told you. They were stupid. They wanted to make a point. Now I am making a point. Strip.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Strip off your clothes.’

  ‘I’ll catch my death of cold!’
/>
  ‘That’s exactly the point. You will die quicker without any clothes on.’

  ‘You’re going to throw me out of the window with nothing on?’

  ‘No. That will be far too messy and noticeable. I am going to immerse you in one of these old water tanks. Nobody will find you for months, at least not until the house is sold or a possible purchaser notices the smell of your decaying body.’

  ‘Nice scenario.’

  He pointed the gun. ‘Strip.’

  Honey unzipped her padded jacket and laid it to one side. Her hands shook as she peeled off her sweater, then her skirt. Everything she’d taken off was warm and much appreciated by her chilly body in this weather. Goose pimples erupted where she’d never thought them likely to exist. Even her teeth started chattering;.

  Keep your head warm and your body stays warmer longer. She kept her hat on. It was hardly the most flattering of hats, being woollen, of blue and grey Sinclair and vaguely resembling a tea cosy. Maurice must have been clued up on survival tactics too. He reached out and snatched her woollen hat.

  ‘Hey, that has sentimental value. My mother knitted it for me and you can’t believe that it’ll keep me from freezing to death all by itself!’

  Gloria Cross had never knitted a thing in her life. But these were desperate times.

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong.’ Maurice shook his head. ‘You look stupid wearing a hat and your underwear. Your boots too. Take them off. And your tights.’

  ‘My tights? Excuse me, but here again I don’t think they’re likely to make much difference,’ she said, disliking the prospect of standing in just her underwear before a man who was basically a stranger.

  ‘I know that. It’s just that I dislike tights. Alison only wears stockings. They are sexier. I might as well enjoy the view.’

  Much as she disliked pandering to his likes and dislikes, taking things slowly might keep her alive a bit longer – long enough for Lindsey and the others to come looking for her.

  Slowly, very slowly she pulled her tights down over one leg at a time. OK, they weren’t stockings, but she did her level best.

  The house had been left unheated and it was November. Even the most seasoned exotic dancer would have had trouble holding a smile let alone a sexy pose.

  Finally the tights were on the floor along with everything else.

  Aware that Maurice’s eyes were raking her from head to toes – loitering on the in between bits, she hugged herself.

  Please. Not the underclothes!

  Her bra was not the prettiest one she owned, but it was the most comfortable. Ditto the pants.

  He did a twirling motion with the gun. ‘Turn round.’

  A sinking feeling, as though she’d swallowed a pound of pig iron, settled in Honey’s stomach. This was it. He was going to knock her on the back of the head and then shove her in the water tank.

  ‘Those pants are hideous. Alison wears thongs. Mostly lace thongs. They divide the buttocks most attractively.’

  ‘They’re like dental floss. Yuk. Very uncomfortable.’

  ‘Alison was right. You don’t do yourself any favours. What have you got against lace and half cups?’

  Honey ignored his question. A soft shape glided across the floor behind Maurice. He didn’t see it, but Honey had seen it.

  Peregrine, Mrs Hicks’ cat, and where the cat was Mrs Hicks wasn’t far behind.

  The mouse that had been scratching behind the wall suddenly made a run for it – straight between Maurice’s legs.

  The cat shot through them too. Totally unprepared, Maurice staggered, reached out with the hand that held the gun to steady himself. The back of his hand was grazed by a nail sticking out from the upended wooden lid.

  ‘Fuck!’

  He staggered backwards. The gun fell with a soft plop into the water tank.

  Honey darted for the stairs, but Maurice was too quick. A pair of strong arms wrapped around her.

  ‘Your bath awaits you!’

  The South African’s muscles had been acquired in remote regions where women were few and men were men.

  Although she struggled, he picked her up and dropped her into the tank, holding her in with one hand. With his free hand he heaved the lid on top of her, stooping only to grab the cat and throw that in too.

  The cold was intense. Peregrine, probably as frightened as she was, lay on her chest. Honey’s chin was under water. She could feel the cat’s claws digging into her bra. Whatever she did she had to calm the poor creature or she’d be scratched to death.

  Through chattering teeth she talked baby talk, telling him how clever he was and she knew Mrs Hicks would find them.

  She said all this in a hushed voice, lying there in the darkness, her body slowly lapsing into hypothermia. The water reverberated to the sound of Maurice hammering each nail home with nothing more than the heel of his hand.

  She was in a water-filled coffin. Freezing water and the possibility of being clawed to death; Honey’s teeth began to chatter. Despite the darkness she forced herself to keep her eyes open. The cat’s furry coat helped. As long as she kept her back arched he wasn’t knee-high in water. Bless him, he even settled down and began to purr. Did he know something she didn’t?

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Olivia Hicks was careful not to let the gate slam. She held a finger to her pursed lips.

  ‘We need a pincer movement,’ Mary Jane whispered, the hefty weight of a tyre iron lying over one shoulder.

  Gloria Cross, who had been testing the weight of her handbag by swinging it around her head, agreed with her.

  ‘You go round the back that way,’ she barked. Gloria pointed at the gap between the main building and the coach house. ‘Lindsey, you go around that way.’

  She directed her granddaughter in the other direction, to a set of steps, the top treads shrouded in mist.

  Surprised at her grandmother’s leadership skills, Lindsey sprang to it, disappearing into the darkness at the top of the steps, Mary Jane similarly hidden between the alleyway between the two buildings.

  Mrs Hicks was standing silently, her eyes closed and both hands resting on her walking stick.

  Gloria touched her shoulder. ‘What do you know, dear?’

  Olivia’s eyes flicked open. ‘He’ll come through there.’

  She pointed to the patch of absolute blackness Mary Jane had disappeared into.

  Honey’s mother winced. ‘Is Mary Jane in danger from this Maurice person?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Mary Jane has a strong aura.’

  ‘And a hefty tyre iron,’ murmured Honey’s mother.

  The two elderly women positioned themselves at the end of the alley. The only light came via the street lamp out in the street behind them.

  Olivia explained quietly that the alley led to the back of the house and garden. ‘Beyond that are fields.’

  ‘So whoever comes out of the house has to come this way.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Gloria took a deep breath. ‘And we’ll be ready for whoever it is.’

  Once the brief light from the street was behind her, Lindsey felt her way along the end wall of the house in total darkness. The earth was soft beneath her feet.

  Passing around the rear corner of the house, the ground became more solid.

  The house loomed dark and brooding between her and the road. Something screeched in the field to the rear of the garden.

  Her attention was drawn to a sudden thud somewhere along the back wall of the house. A door! Her guess was confirmed when she heard the sound of feet walking over gravel.

  Her mother!

  Just as she was about to shout out, she felt a hand on her shoulder. A soft voice whispered, ‘No.’

  She nodded to whoever it was then thought better of it. If she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her. She reached to pat the hand resting on her shoulder and felt – nothing!

  At the other end of the garden, Mary Jane was looking up at the stars. The mist
had lifted, though she guessed only temporarily. Beyond the garden she could see the branches of denuded trees seeming to scratch the sky.

  She was feeling uneasy about her friend; she wasn’t yet in the spirit world, but if they didn’t find her shortly she would be.

  The mist whirled in again, obscuring the fields and the trees.

  Going into trances could sometimes be downright inconvenient. Her concern for Honey was bringing on a trance; not that they weren’t useful.

  She closed her eyes. The wall of the old coach house was cold but was just about the only thing holding her upright. If she could just concentrate …

  In that instant when her eyes had slammed shut, Maurice Hoffman stole past her. Neither saw the other in the darkness. Both were absorbed in the things they did best; Mary Jane with the paranormal, Maurice Hoffman with murder.

  The street lamp beyond the wall lightened the darkness at the front of the house. Mary Jane eased herself away from the wall. Maurice Hoffman was silhouetted against the light from the street.

  Unaware that he’d been seen, Maurice smiled with satisfaction. He’d parked his car some distance away, back towards the main A4 road.

  He couldn’t help smiling to himself. What a night! Honey Driver had fallen for his invitation to meet without a second thought. How stupid was that? And what fun he’d had, watching her undress, admiring her body while pretending that he didn’t think much of it. The truth was that she was more to his taste than airhead Alison. Still, Alison was alive and Honey Driver would soon be a deep frozen ice lolly.

  Hands shoved in his pockets, head down, it came as something of a surprise when he looked up to see two women ahead of him. One was leaning on a stick, the other had fluffy hair and was wrapped up in fur. She was swinging what looked like a handbag around her head.

  ‘Isn’t it a little late for you ladies to be out and about?’ he said, his charm dripping off his tongue like honey from the comb. He thought of the cat he’d thrown in on top of Honey.

  ‘Have you lost something?’

  ‘You could say that.’ It was the one with the fluffy hair who spoke. She sounded pissed off.

  ‘If it’s a cat you’re looking for, I nearly tripped over one back there.’