A Spelling Mistake

by Nancy Warren

“Nevertheless, you won’t leave this castle alone.”

  “I don’t appreciate the lack of trust,” Bartholomew said with outraged dignity. Lochlan didn’t budge, so reluctantly, he accepted the escort.

  I looked around. They were all getting ready to go out somewhere. When the living population was sleeping was when the vampires could roam freely. I was very much in the way. “Well, I guess I’d better go home.”

  “I’ll escort you, Quinn,” Lochlan said.

  I appreciated his old-fashioned protective manners, but I was an independent woman. “That’s okay. I’m perfectly capable of getting home by myself.”

  “I insist. You never know what creatures are lurking out there after midnight.”

  There was a humorous glint in his eye. Sometimes I had to remind myself that he came from a time when chivalry was a real thing.

  As we walked out of the castle, I said, “Did you ever joust?”

  He laughed. “Now you’re taking me back to my boyhood.”

  “You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

  I thought I could grow to love history if I saw it through the eyes of someone who’d lived it.

  As we walked back downstairs and through the great gallery, Sean was about to leave. “Great job,” I told the pub owner and caterer. “The food was fabulous.”

  “I think everyone had a good time,” he replied. Modest. I liked that.

  “Quinn’s right. You did an excellent job,” Lochlan said. “Thank you.”

  “No worries. Oh, I found a pair of glasses when I was cleaning up.” He waved a pair of gold-rimmed glasses in the air.

  “Those belong to Giles Montague,” I said, recognizing them immediately. “He’s staying at O’Donnell House, so I can take them to him if you like.”

  “You’re not going to the bed and breakfast at midnight, are you?”

  “No. I’ll go in the morning. I’m sure if Giles hasn’t missed them by now, he won’t need them before the morning. I’ll email Karen anyway to let her know I’ve got them.”

  I tucked the glasses into my bag, and we followed Sean out of the castle.

  Lochlan put my bike in the back of his Landrover and drove me home. He unloaded my bike when we got to my cottage, insisted on helping me secure it and very properly escorted me to my door and then said goodnight. It was so weird, almost like a date, and I had this kind of strange feeling of disquiet coursing through my veins. On impulse, I said, “Do you want to come in?” I didn’t have anything particularly racy in mind. I just thought we could both wind down from the evening. Maybe talk about how we were going to stop Candace from cashing in on her dead ex-husband’s fame.

  He hesitated and then said, “I would, but I promised my printer friend a game of chess. And he did do us a favor.”

  I felt suddenly embarrassed. “No. Of course. Have a good night. I hope you win.”

  I let myself into the house, and the sense of unease only grew stronger. Then I heard a sound I was beginning to know all too well. The opening music for a certain television show. I stomped up the stairs. “Biddy? What are you doing here?”

  The old witch wasn’t just in my house; she was lying on my bed, her horrible, mangy familiar beside her. They both turned beady, unpleasant eyes on me. “You’ve let that girl fill my house with strangers. What do you expect? I have to go somewhere.”

  Her old leather bag looked particularly bulky, and the antique carriage clock that had been on top of my mantelpiece in the bedroom was missing. “Give me back my clock.”

  She started to argue with me, pretending she didn’t have it, and I just stood there and glared at her until reluctantly she pulled it out.

  “Fine. But for what I could sell this timepiece for, I could have bought fifty hectares of the finest land and three hundred head of sheep to graze it.”

  “Now you can buy a clock. And you’d be welcome to buy your own and not steal mine.” It wasn’t even mine. The clock belonged to Lucinda, the witch who had had the shop before me.

  Biddy turned back to the TV, which was blaring full blast. Maybe in the middle of the day or early evening I’d have been quite interested in the price of a watercolor by an obscure British painter, but it was after midnight, and I was tired. “Biddy, I need to go to bed now.”

  She heaved a huge sigh as though this was a terrible imposition and shuffled about two inches over on the bed. As she moved, the scent of decay and earth emanated from her like a rank perfume.

  I put my hands on my hips and glared at her. “You can’t stay here.”

  “Well, where would you have me go?”

  “You’ll be going back to witch jail if you’re not careful. You know that if Pendress Kennedy ever finds out that you’re here, she’ll send you back.”

  She snorted. “Let her try.”

  I had no idea which of them was the more powerful, and I really didn’t want to be part of a showdown. For now, I was really hoping we could all just try to get along. But Biddy was not an easy person to get along with.

  Instead of leaving, she turned the volume up even higher.

  This was too much. “Are you going deaf?”

  “I’ve been ever so hard of hearing since I was dug up,” she admitted. She dug a bony finger into her ear and flung out a lump of dirt. Onto my bedspread. Lovely.

  Then she turned her attention back to Antiques Roadshow.

  An even worse smell curdled the air. Either Biddy or her familiar had farted.

  I’m normally a peaceable witch, but I’d had a long night, led up to by several very long days, and I was not going to put up with this.

  I drew on my powers and pointed to the TV.

  “Goddesses of the north, south, east, and west, I call on thee.

  When this witch wants to watch TV.

  Anything but Antiques Roadshow will she see.

  So I will, so mote it be.”

  The station immediately flipped to BBC news. “Ha,” I said, “take that.”

  Biddy mumbled something under her breath. I assumed she was grumbling because she’d have to find something else to do now that I’d taken away her favorite show. But, to my horror, the station flipped back again.

  “Oh, no,” I cried. “What did you do?”

  “I reversed your spell, you foolish witch.”

  I cried out with rage and frustration. I grabbed the remote and punched buttons, but there was nothing to be seen but the Antiques Roadshow. I was so mad, I stomped over to the wall and yanked the power cord out of the wall.

  I could see she was about to magic the TV back on when I pointed my finger at her. “I’m warning you. You turn that TV on one more time, and I’m calling Pendress Kennedy.”

  I was like a kid threatening to tell on her to Mom. But, surprisingly, it worked. Biddy O’Donnell wasn’t afraid of many things, but I had a sneaking suspicion she was afraid of Pendress Kennedy. I didn’t blame her. So was I.

  With a sniff, she said, “Never have been treated so poorly by my own kin.”

  And right back at you.

  She got up, and Pyewacket rose too, arching her back and hissing at me. Since Pyewacket’s neck had never been quite right since she was hanged, her head wobbled to the side and got stuck there. The two of them left, and I heaved a sigh of relief. Then I immediately changed the sheets on my bed.

  I tried the TV, but the old hag had out-spelled me. No matter what I tried, the only thing that would play on my set was Antiques Roadshow.

  I only wished I could sell one extremely old witch.

  Chapter 9

  In spite of the drama and stress, I slept surprisingly well. I bet that when I did the accounting for the month, I’d be pleasantly surprised.

  I got up, brewed coffee, and Cerridwen, who I hadn’t seen all night, stuck her head through the cat door and sniffed before entering the premises.

  “It’s all right. They’re gone,” I told her. Only then did she come inside the kitchen. I fed her and apologized for my horrible ancestor. A bowl of food did
much to recover Cerridwen’s goodwill. I thought I’d better return Giles Montague’s glasses before he set off back to London.

  Before I left my cottage, I sprinkled salt across both entrances to the house and cast the whole house under a protection spell. Maybe Biddy could cross my threshold anyway, but I wanted to remind her she wasn’t welcome to come and go whenever she pleased.

  When I got to O’Donnell House, Karen looked delighted to see me. “Come in,” she said. “They’ve been talking nonstop about the gala.”

  I stepped in, and sure enough I heard the sound of laughter and camaraderie. It was nice.

  “Too bad you couldn’t come.”

  “I know. I wanted to, but I needed to get the food prepared for the breakfasts this morning.” She dropped her voice. “These early reviews will be so important, you see. I really pulled out all the stops.”

  I walked into the dining room, pretty sure I’d be welcome, and sure enough Giles rose to his feet. Philip then followed suit. Irving gave me a wave, and Chloe nodded.

  “Quinn,” Giles said. “It’s lovely to see you. This saves us coming to the shop to bid you goodbye properly. Please, sit down and join us. Can I pour you some coffee?”

  Since this wasn’t his house, but Karen’s, I glanced up at our hostess. She said, “Yes. Do sit down and have some coffee.”

  “Sure, if it’s no trouble.” I wanted to hear what they had to say about last night, too. Especially as it concerned a certain manuscript. From the jovial atmosphere, it seemed they’d decided to greet Candace’s bombshell as good news.

  “And have some breakfast,” Karen added. “I’ve the full Irish breakfast, eggs benedict, kippers, or Irish oatmeal, fruit and yogurt—”

  “Stop. If you’re absolutely sure, I’ll have the full Irish breakfast.” I hardly ever indulged in the full Irish breakfast, and it was a treat well worth having. Especially when somebody else cooked it.

  She winked at me. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”

  I returned Giles’s glasses to him, and he thanked me profusely.

  Everyone was there but Candace. I remarked on this, and Irving made a face. “I think our Candy tucked into the Irish whiskey a little too deeply last night. She’s probably sleeping it off.”

  Karen walked in then, carrying a heavy tray laden with plates of food and sending out the most mouthwatering smells of bacon, coffee, and sausages.

  She placed big breakfasts in front of everyone but Chloe, who had chosen the healthy fresh fruit and yogurt option.

  We all tucked in to our breakfasts, then Giles said, “I’d have missed my glasses last night if I hadn’t been so knackered I went straight to bed. I was going to ask Candace for a look at that new manuscript she’s discovered.”

  The British agent said, “Don’t worry, old chap. I’ll make sure you get it as soon as I’ve had a good look at it.” His choice of words was interesting. Not that he’d read it, but that he’d have a good look at it. Made me wonder whether he suspected Bartholomew hadn’t written this miraculously discovered work.

  Irving rubbed his nose and said, “Yeah, about that. I think Candy’s going in a different direction.” He pushed his fork into a fat mushroom. “She’s asked me to be her agent.”

  Philip Hazeltine threw his napkin on the table and rose so quickly, his chair jerked backwards. “I knew it. I suspected you were up to something, you swine.”

  Giles looked from Chloe to me. “Gentlemen, please.”

  Philip said, “Ha. He’s no gentleman. He’s a cad and a bounder.”

  Irving spread his hands, a smug smile spreading over his face. “Just other words for a literary agent.”

  Karen came in carrying a fresh plate of toast and glanced around. It must have been a shock to her to walk into the kitchen leaving behind a convivial atmosphere and walk back five minutes later to a tense standoff.

  She didn’t say anything, just slipped the toast on the table.

  Giles, once more the peacemaker, said, “Gentlemen, please. Let’s sit down and discuss this like civilized people. At least, let’s wait for Candace to appear. She can tell us her plans herself.”

  Philip looked as though he was ready to storm out but reluctantly picked up his napkin and sat down again. I was very pleased to see this, as I really wanted to enjoy my full Irish.

  I tucked into my fried eggs and bacon, beans, mushroom, and sausage. Even the toast was delicious. And what was it about Irish butter? It was just so creamy.

  Philip stabbed a triangle of toast into a fried egg the way he’d have thrust a dueling saber into Irving’s plump belly.

  “I have a contract with Bartholomew Branson,” he said.

  Irving cut into his fat sausage. “But contracts expire when the person who signed them dies.”

  I had no idea if this was true but suspected it was.

  I thought Philip knew it too. He glared from Irving to Giles. “Can’t you do something?”

  Giles shrugged his thin shoulders. “I’m only the editor.”

  Irving said, around another bite of sausage, “Yeah, about that. We’re going to be shopping the new manuscript. See if we can get a better deal.”

  Suddenly, Giles didn’t look so urbane and so much like a peacemaker. He looked coldly furious. “I have edited every Branson novel. I discovered him when he was nobody. Why, he’d turn in his grave if he knew how you were treating his trusted team. We’ll see about that.”

  Irving finished his breakfast in about half the time the rest of us took and mopped the last of the egg yolk and grease off his plate. He said, “Hate to eat and run, folks, but Candy and I need to get on the road.”

  He reached over for the silver carafe in the center of the table and poured coffee into a clean mug. “I’ll take her up some coffee. I’m sure she’ll tell you all her plans when she comes down.”

  No one stopped him from leaving. Chloe and Giles glanced at each other, but almost by silent, unspoken agreement, I could tell they didn’t want to talk anymore in front of me. Which was fine by me.

  Irving whistled as he walked up the stairs, which I thought was pretty crass. We all knew he’d won. He didn’t need to rub it in.

  I heard his heavy footsteps go up the stairs. Giles pulled his urbanity back around him like a cardigan and complimented me on the splendid launch. I’d barely replied when weirdly, I heard Irving’s heavy footsteps thudding back down the stairs as though he were running. He burst into the dining room. He was bright red in the face and sweating.

  I wondered if he might be having a heart attack. His mouth opened and shut as he stared around the room. All of us stopped eating and stared back.

  “Which of you did it?” he shouted.

  “Did what?” I asked.

  “Which of you killed Candace?”

  Chapter 10

  There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Giles said, in a voice more shocking because it was so quiet, “Did you say Candace Branson is dead?”

  “Not just dead. Murdered.” He was standing there, big and red-faced and sweating as though he’d got stuck.

  I swallowed a bite of toast, and it seemed to jam in my throat. I jumped to my feet, recalling hearing Irving’s feet stomp along the upstairs corridor and stomp back again. He hadn’t been gone very long. “Are you sure? Maybe the Irish whiskey really knocked her out.”

  He just shook his head.

  I hadn’t particularly liked Candace Branson, but I also wasn’t prepared to take Irving’s word for it that she was dead. Not if there was any chance at all that she might still be alive. I had to edge my way around Irving to get through the doorway, and then I ran lightly up the stairs. I felt as though I were hitting a patch of cold fog as I got upstairs. I headed for the front bedroom and found that Irving had been right.

  She was definitely dead. I felt the darkness almost pushing back as I ran into the room. To make matters worse, Biddy was there, gazing down at the corpse with cool detachment.

  “She’s been strangled,” Biddy sa
id to me. I could see she was right. The dead woman lay across the bed. She was on her back, her eyes wide and her face discolored. Livid bruises marked her neck. I glanced up at Biddy.

  “Did you see who did it?”

  “No, love. I was watching the telly.”

  Of course, she had been.

  “What about last night? Did you see her at all?” I knew that Biddy wasn’t one to respect closed doors. Especially as she considered this was her own house and I’d thrown her out of my cottage.

  She shook her head.

  “I came a few times, and once I even put the television on as a suggestion like. There were some very nice ceramics that I wouldn’t have given a tuppence for, went for hundreds of quid, they did. But all she did was get in a huff and stomp over and turn off the television. She was too busy reading them pages.”

  I glanced sharply up at her. “What pages?”

  Biddy opened her hands. “How would I know what pages? A stack of separate papers with writing on them. Like household receipts.”

  “Like a book manuscript?”

  “I never had much time for reading, myself. Wouldn’t know.”

  I glanced around, but there was no sign of the manuscript. “Did you see where she put it?”

  But Biddy faded away and then disappeared as the sound of running footsteps grew nearer. Karen and Giles and Philip looked as though they were going to come crashing into the room.

  “Stop,” I said before any of them crossed the threshold. “She’s dead. There’s nothing we can do for her. And Irving’s right. She was murdered. We can’t contaminate the crime scene any more than we already have.”

  I sounded like a bad actor in a cop show, but the truth was I’d had some recent experience with murder scenes. Irving lumbered up last, bringing up the rear.

  “Has anyone called the police?”

  Karen nodded. “Chloe called 999. Police are on their way.”

  I stepped back out of the room and, using my T-shirt to cover my hand, carefully shut the door. “No one else must go in there until the police arrive,” I said.