by Nancy Warren
“Ah, that’s where Mother’s people are from.”
“I think she’s buried there.”
“In the family graveyard. Good.”
“Did you know anything about Gran’s will?” I finally asked.
“I know she planned to leave everything to you. Did she?”
“Yes. But it seems wrong. You should have it.”
My mother laughed. “What would I do with a knitting shop? I don’t want to run it, and your father and I don’t need the money. I’m happy for you to inherit, just don’t let her force you into staying. You’re a young woman with your life ahead of you. There’s no obligation to continue Cardinal Woolsey’s or step into your grandmother’s shoes. Live your own life.”
I’d wanted to talk Richard Hatfield’s offer over with Mom, but I knew she’d advise me to sell. That’s when I realized I had made up my mind. I wasn’t selling. I wasn’t going anywhere.
Sunday, I woke late, with the delicious feeling of a whole day off. All right, we’d only been open for two days, but it had been a very stressful two days. Deciding I needed some exercise, I changed into jogging clothes, divested myself of all my jewelry, tied back my hair and took myself for a run. I’m not big on jogging, but it’s time efficient and sometimes, when things are bothering me, the simple act of pounding along pavement, struggling to breathe, actually helps calm me. I ran up to The Parks, with its twisting paths. No matter what time of the year, there’s always something in bloom in the gardens and usually undergrads playing some kind of sport. There were plenty of joggers, most of whom passed me, dog walkers, lovers, and as I ran along the banks of the river, ducks, geese and swans. I perked up then. At least I was faster than the swans.
I clocked two miles, decided that was plenty, and returned for a shower.
Amazingly, I did feel calmer when I got out of the shower. I changed into well-worn jeans and a sweatshirt, guiltily taking a break from the hand-knitted sweaters. I did some light housekeeping, giving Gran’s room a good going over now I knew she wasn’t so dead. I picked up a few groceries, chatted online with my friend Jennifer who never asked once when I was coming home.
Had she moved on already?
I hadn’t finished the order the other night, due to unscheduled magic lessons. The shop was too busy when open for any administrative work, so I went back downstairs. Better to do it now when I could concentrate, even though this was my only day off in the week. Running a knitting shop was a lot more work than I’d imagined.
Nyx followed me, as usual. I was so used to my small, furry shadow, that I’d missed her on my run. When I got into the shop, I only turned on the lights behind the cash desk. I walked behind it, pulled out my order book and placed it on the counter and then something, I wasn’t yet sure what, made me look up.
That was my only instinct. Something was wrong and I didn’t know what. I felt a cool chill and glanced around. It wasn’t a vampire in the vicinity this time. It was the front door to the shop that caught my attention.
It was ajar.
Chapter 15
My first thought was irritation. I’d only had the lock changed a couple of days ago. Was the lock defective?
I headed toward it and at the same time I noticed splinters of wood suggesting the door had been forced open. I heard a soft footstep behind me. I started to turn when something hit me over the head. I cried out at the pain first and then felt my legs giving way beneath me.
Lucy! Lucy!” I heard a voice from a long way away. It was male and commanding and I didn’t want to answer it, I wanted to sleep. “Wake up!” the voice said again. My eyes felt heavy and fought my efforts to lift them, but the voice was insistent and in the end it was easier to open my eyes than fight the force of his will.
“My head hurts,” I said, as I opened my eyes. Rafe was bent over me, looking stern. I became aware that I was lying on the floor and struggled to sit up. He helped me and I found myself supported on his strong shoulders. “What happened?” I asked. I didn’t like the feeble sound of my voice, which was trembling and didn’t sound like my own.
“I don’t know. Your cat came and got me.”
I put a trembling hand to my head. It hurt, and I felt sick, and obviously my ears weren’t working properly either. “Nyx came to get you? The trapdoor was closed and locked.”
He squeezed my shoulder gently.” Your cat is not a normal cat.”
I couldn’t think about that right now. The last moments of consciousness were coming back. “The door was ajar. Someone broke in and hit me over the head.”
“Yes, you’ve got quite the lump on the back of your head. You need to go to A&E.”
I was furious. “What is so exciting about this little knitting shop that criminals equate it with the Bank of England?” I wanted to stand up but I was too dizzy. “And I can’t go to hospital. I have work to do.”
“No more today,” he said gently.
He helped me to the visitor’s chair and I sat, hoping the pounding in my head would ease soon. Rafe stayed by my side, as though he were afraid I would topple off the chair and onto the floor. Since I was afraid of this myself, I was quite happy to have him at my side, a protective presence. Also angry. I could feel his anger the way you feel heat coming off a radiator. “You could have been killed.”
It was impossible not to think of Gran killed in this very shop presumably under similar circumstances. “At least my attacker was wielding a club and not a knife.” I had meant the words to come out jaunty and sarcastic but my voice trembled too much for that.
I was angry with myself for not being better prepared after what had happened to Gran. Well, I wouldn’t make that mistake again. “Never mind changing the locks,” I said. “I’m getting a proper security system in here.”
“Excellent idea.”
There was a rapping on the door and I jumped in my chair. Rafe made a sound like a growl and I saw the white gleam of his fangs, the first time I’d ever noticed them. Nyx stood on four stiff legs, her hair sticking out straight. Then a voice called out, “Lucy?”
I sighed with relief. “It’s okay, it’s the police.”
Rafe seemed to center himself and the white gleam of fang was gone. He headed to the door and removed the umbrella he’d jammed under the knob to keep it closed. A uniformed police officer stood there and beside him was Ian Chisholm. The detective made one sweeping glance of my shop and then strode swiftly to my side. “Lucy, are you all right?”
I nodded, pleased to hear him sound so concerned.
“What happened?”
“I thought you didn’t handle break-ins,” I said with another weak attempt at sarcasm.
He and Rafe exchanged a glance, and I felt as though they were talking about me but I couldn’t hear them. I felt ill and weak and frightened and the detective seemed so solid, and normal, a creature of the real world, the one I was most familiar with.
He and Rafe were Light and Dark, Living and Undead. I was in this bizarre state where I felt like I hovered between the two states.
Ian put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Hang on. An ambulance is on its way.”
“But, I don’t want an ambulance. And why are you here?” I could have spared my breath; he was already heading to the back of the shop.
Rafe said, “I called him.” What? I hoped Rafe had remembered to shut the trapdoor behind him when he came rushing to my side. I heard the cool, arrogant tone in which the vampire said, “I found her exactly like this.”
“You haven’t touched anything?”
“No.”
The constable was standing outside guarding the door. I was happy the cops were taking this break-in so seriously. I also wondered what was so special about the back room that both Rafe and Ian should still be in there. What could have been taken? The old mismatched chairs we used for knitting club?
I got to my feet, feeling shaky but not bad enough that I’d faint. My legs were heavy and slow but I got to the curtain, which was pulled partly aside, a
nd glanced in.
Oh, how I wished I hadn’t. Rosemary was lying on the floor. She was on her back, her legs pulled up and to the side, like she was doing a yoga stretch. Her neck faced the other way from her knees and—I’m not sure how I knew—but I was certain her neck was broken.
Ian was squatting beside her. His hands were encased in blue latex gloves. Exactly the color of the Isle of Skye Mohair, which was a very peculiar thing to notice at that moment, but I suspect shock had something to do with it.
I think I made a sound. Of disbelief, pity, horror. Maybe I said actual words, I don’t know.
Both men turned. “Lucy, sit down,” they both said at the same moment.
Rafe took my arm and urged me back to the chair.
Ian followed and squatted in front of me, the way he had in front of the dead woman. His face was closed, professional. As though death was just part of the job, which I suppose it was. “That woman was your assistant, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.” My voice wavered. I cleared my throat and said, louder this time. “Yes. Her name was Rosemary Johnson.”
“Did you expect her at work today?”
“No. The shop’s closed on Sundays.”
“Sir, I found this outside on the pavement.” Another constable came in, holding a note in a plastic evidence bag. “It was blown against the side of the shop.”
The paper was torn from a cheap scratch pad, handwritten in blue ink. She read the contents. “It says, ‘I saw what you did. My silence will cost five thousand pounds. Meet me at the shop Saturday at midnight.’” She glanced up. “It’s not signed.”
“Good work,” Ian said. “Get it to the lab.”
He looked at me. “Does that note mean anything to you?” He jerked his chin in the direction of the back room. “Could Rosemary have seen something that got her killed?”
I couldn’t look at Rafe. Of course it meant something to me. I saw what you did. Had Rosemary seen whoever killed Gran and offered to keep quiet for five thousand quid? It was the only explanation I could find.
But Ian didn’t know Gran had been murdered, so I said, “Could Rosemary have seen the person who broke into the shop the first time we had a break-in?”
He looked at me as though my bang on the head had scrambled my brains, which it probably had. “Five grand’s a lot not to finger a thief. And most thieves don’t turn to murder to cover their crimes.”
It was a fair point. But a murderer covering their tracks with another murder? That sounded pretty plausible.
“Any idea what she was doing in the shop?”
“No. She left at five yesterday. She didn’t even have a key to get back in.” I must have looked as puzzled as I felt. “And why would she break in?”
“Perhaps she was killed elsewhere and carried to the shop,” Rafe said.
“Why?” Ian asked him.
He only shrugged. I hated that we were withholding information from the police, especially information that could help solve Gran’s murder. Even through my pounding head, I knew there was something I’d seen that was important. I rubbed my temples. Nyx jumped into my lap and licked my face with her sandpaper tongue, as though she could feel my distress. I pressed my face into her fur, and then it hit me. “Wait a minute,” I said. “Can I see that note?”
Ian brought it over. I squinted at the words written in ordinary ballpoint pen. Then shook my head. “That’s not Rosemary’s handwriting. Her writing is much loopier, like a child’s.”
I tried to rise but simultaneously two hands came down my shoulders. Rafe on my left, and Ian on my right. I didn’t have the strength to argue and, frankly, they were probably correct to keep me sitting. “I can show you a sample of her handwriting. It’s in the order book.” I looked at the counter where I’d been working. “Where’s the order book?”
The constable glanced at the detective, and then back at me. “Order book, miss?”
“It’s a big, leather bound book, about the size of photograph album. We write special orders and it and then, when we have enough, I put together one big order for the supplier. That’s what I came down to work on. It was on the counter.”
“There’s nothing there.”
“It must be there.” I forced myself to standing and looked, but the desk was empty. The constable looked behind the desk and on the floor and shook her head.
“It’s gone,” I cried.
“What would someone want with your order book?” Ian asked.
But I was looking at Rafe. A big, old-looking leather bound book. Was it possible that someone had mistaken the order book for the grimoire? And were they willing to kill for it?
“I don’t need an ambulance,” I insisted, even as the paramedics arrived to take me away.
Ian got right into my face. “You were knocked out completely and have no idea how long you were unconscious. It’s entirely possible you have a concussion, or possibly worse. No arguments. We’ll get you checked out and in the meantime we’ll begin our investigation.” The trouble with people asking you questions right after you regain consciousness is that you say things you later wish you hadn’t.
“I just have a headache,” I insisted.
He glanced at the broken door. “Is there someone you can stay with tonight? Until you can get that door fixed?” Better still, until they could find whoever had murdered Rosemary and bashed me over the head. I’d never felt so far away from home. “I don’t know anyone in Oxford. I could probably stay next door but I don’t want to worry the Miss Watts.”
Rafe came closer. He’d obviously been listening to the conversation. “I can have the door made secure while Lucy’s in the hospital. And I’ll make sure someone keeps watch.”
The two men looked at each other and it seemed that each stood to his full height. Ian asked, “And who might that be?”
Rafe said, “I’ll do it myself.” There was a strange energy between them, both antagonistic and, I thought, respectful, but I’ve never understood the way men communicate with each other. The face-off continued for a second and then the detective nodded.
That evening, I was sitting upstairs on the couch in what had been my grandmother's living room and I suppose was now mine. They had let me out of the hospital after running tests, all of which seemed to be fine. I had a headache, and a large lump at the back of my head, but no concussion and no serious damage. Except to my temper. I had just about had enough of this. First person-or-persons unknown had broken into the shop, then they had killed my poor grandmother, then my assistant, and they’d stolen my order book. Now they seemed to be after me. Why? Who could possibly benefit but another knitting shop owner?
The knitting shop business is not known for being cut throat.
Rafe had been waiting for me when I got back. I felt like a parcel being passed from one hand to another. The detective had been waiting when I was released from the hospital. He’d claimed he was there for another case, but I suspected that he wanted to drive me home for reasons of his own. However, I was too grateful for the ride to argue. I hadn't relished getting a taxi. To my relief, he hadn’t questioned me anymore, just drove quietly as though he knew I didn’t feel like making small talk after the events of the day.
When he dropped me off and I thanked him, he said, “I know you haven’t been here long enough to make friends. But I’d like to be one of them. If you’ll let me.”
“Yes. I’d like that,” I said, feeling grateful for his thoughtfulness.
The painkillers they'd given me had dulled the pain in my head to a throb. When I got back to the flat, Gran was with Rafe. She hugged me to her. I smelled the scent that always made me feel better. “You made gingersnaps!” I was so overwhelmed I nearly cried.
"I hate the idea of you in danger," she said.
I snagged a warm gingersnap and bit into it. Maybe it didn’t help my aches and pains, but it reminded me I was loved and not alone. "I wish we could tell the police Gran was murdered"
"If you tell them, what's the f
irst thing they're going to do?"
I sank to the couch. "Exhume the body."
Rafe spoke to me with infinite patience as though I was incredibly thick. “And if they exhume the body?"
"They won't find one." I said.
"Exactly. That's why we can't tell the police or anyone else that your grandmother was murdered."
“But that murder must be connected with Rosemary’s. The note said, ‘I saw what you did.’ What else could she have seen but Gran’s murder?”
“You said the note wasn’t in Rosemary’s writing,” Rafe reminded me. “Maybe she was collateral damage?”
I’d been thinking about that in the hospital, where I’d had a lot of time to think, between tests. “I bet the note was written by her son.”
“Randolph?” Gran asked. She shook her head. “He’s not a nice young man.”
“If he’s on drugs, he’ll do anything for money. What if Rosemary did see your killer and went home and told him?”
Gran’s eyes widened. “I remember. She did come that day. My last day. She begged for her job back. She said she needed the money. She looked quite wild.” Gran squeezed her eyes tight. “I told her I’d think about it.” Her eyes were still shut and we both waited in case there was more. “Yes. I said I’d think about it. That son was the problem, I’m sure of it.”
This fitted nicely with my theory. “Maybe she hung around, waiting for your answer. And she saw the murder. She went home and told her son what she’d seen and he decided to make a profit on the knowledge, penning a note supposedly from her.”
“And the killer broke her neck to keep his identity secret.”
Chapter 16
I looked at Rafe. “Why did you suggest to Ian that Rosemary had been moved after she was killed?”
"I couldn’t smell enough death. Besides, the way she was lying looked as though the body had been picked up under the shoulders and knees and put there, deliberately.”
