by Adele Abbott
Mrs V popped her head around the door. “Did you manage to sort out the sign, dear?”
“Kind of, but Sid is going on holiday, so we’re stuck with this one for a couple of weeks.”
“What will I do if someone asks for Max?”
“They won’t.”
“But if they do?”
“Tell them that Max has retired and it’s just me now.”
“As you wish, dear. Oh, and I managed to get hold of someone who can clean up the graffiti.”
“Good. What did they say?”
“He was a very nice man. I think he said his name is Mr Tatts. As luck would have it, he’s working on a job in Washbridge this morning, so he said he could come in and see you in an hour or two. I hope that’s okay?”
“That’s great. It’ll give me time to pop out for a coffee.”
“I could make you one.”
“It’s okay. I could do with stretching my legs.”
“What’s with the graffiti?” Winky asked when Mrs V had gone back to her desk.
“Someone has sprayed it on the toll bridge near Smallwash.”
“Why would you care about that?”
“Because they wrote: Jill is a witch.”
“It sounds like someone has it in for you.”
“It might not even be aimed at me. Maybe it’s another Jill. Maybe someone doesn’t like her and decided to call her a witch.”
“And maybe I’ll be elected prime minister next week.”
“People do sometimes use the term ‘witch’ as an insult. When my birth mother told me I was a witch, I thought she was just being horrible to me.”
“You must think it’s aimed at you otherwise you wouldn’t be paying someone to remove it.”
“I’m playing it safe.”
“If you say so. Anyway, I’ve had a brilliant idea about the sign.”
“I don’t want to hear it. I’m going for a coffee.”
***
This definitely wasn’t the start to the new week that I’d been hoping for. Maybe coffee and a muffin would cheer me up. On my way down to Coffee Games, there were posters advertising the Clownathon on practically every lamppost. I was secretly quite pleased that Jack would be away on a course on Sunday, otherwise he would no doubt have tried to drag me there.
“Morning!” The bubbly young witch behind the counter was obviously a new recruit. Nothing else could have explained that degree of enthusiasm. “I’m Sarah.”
“Hi. Jill.”
“I’m really glad you came in,” she said, in little more than a whisper. “You’re the first sup I’ve seen in here so far. I was beginning to worry.”
“When did you start working here?”
“Only this morning, but I thought I might have had a few sups through the door by now.”
“To be honest, there are never many sups in here. I’m not sure why. The prices are a bit steep—maybe that’s it.”
“It’s my first time working in the human world, so I’m a little nervous.”
“You’ll be fine. Are you living in Washbridge?”
“Not at the moment. I magic myself back and forth, to and from Candlefield every day. I thought I’d see how it goes before renting somewhere over here.”
“That’s sensible.”
“What can I get for you, Jill?”
“Can I get a caramel latte and—err—I don’t normally indulge, but I think I’ll have one of those blueberry muffins, please.”
What? Who are you to judge? Don’t think I can’t see you with that giant slab of cake in your hand.
“There you go.” She handed me the drink and muffin. “What do you do in Washbridge, Jill, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I’m a private investigator. My offices are just off the high street.”
“I think I know where you mean—I saw them putting up your sign this morning. Do you have a partner called Max?”
Oh boy.
“No, actually it’s just me. There was a mix up with the sign.”
“I see.” She obviously didn’t, but I didn’t have the energy to try to explain. “Do you want a mousetrap, Jill?”
“Why? Have you got mice in here?” I glanced around the floor.
“No.” She laughed. “I meant the game. It’s Mouse Trap day today.”
“Oh, right. No, I’m okay, thanks. I’ll only be here for a few minutes.”
“Nice to meet you, Jill.” She moved down the counter to serve another customer.
***
On my way back into the office building, I bumped into Lucas Morecake and his partner—the delightful Wendy. They’d recently opened an escape room in what had previously been I-Sweat. Lucas was usually happy-go-lucky, but this morning he looked like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“Lucas. Wendy. How are you both? How’s business?”
“Fine.” Wendy snapped. As charming as ever.
“Actually, we have a bit of a prob—” Lucas began.
“Come on, Lucas.” Wendy grabbed him by the arm, and practically dragged him upstairs.
“Is everything okay?” I called after them, but they’d already disappeared down the corridor.
“These two ladies would like to see you, Jill.” Mrs V gestured to the two old dears seated near the wool basket. They looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t think why. “I told them that you might not be able to see them without an appointment.”
“Myrtle asked us to come and see you,” the taller of the two women said.
It was only then that I realised where I knew them from. They were Myrtle Turtle’s sidekicks: Hodd and Jobbs.
“Is Myrtle alright?”
“She’s in a spot of bother, actually.” Hodd glanced at Mrs V and then back at me. “Could we speak in private?”
“Of course. Come through to my office.”
“Would either of you two ladies care for a drink?” Mrs V offered, somewhat reluctantly.
“Do you have any of the hard stuff?” Jobbs said.
“You’re supposed to be off the drink, remember?” Hodd admonished her. “I’ll have a coffee: black, very strong and no sugar.”
Jobbs sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to have the same then, seeing as how I’m not allowed a proper drink. Five sugars for me, though.”
“Five?” Mrs V looked horrified.
“Yeah, I’ve decided to cut back. Apparently, it’s not good for you.”
“Two black coffees it is, then. What about you, Jill?”
“I’m okay, thanks, Mrs V. I’ve had one at Coffee Games.”
“He’s a handsome fellow, and no mistake.” Hodd walked over to Winky who was lying on the sofa. “He reminds me of Old Tom.”
“Is Old Tom your cat?”
“Nah. The last time I was detained at Her Majesty’s Pleasure, Old Tom used to come and beg scraps from us in the exercise yard. It was supposed to be a high-security gaff, and no one could figure out how he got in and out, but he was there twice a day, regular as clockwork. He looked just like your boy here except that Old Tom only had one ear.” She reached down to pick Winky up.
“Don’t bring that thing over here!” Jobbs yelled at her. “No offence, Jill, but I’m allergic to cat hair, as Hodd knows only too well.”
“Sorry, boy.” Hodd gave him a stroke instead. Winky was lapping up the attention, and had his purr set to max volume.
“Hodd, leave that cat alone, and come over here.” Jobbs patted the seat next to her. “Have you forgotten that Turtle is in the nick?”
“What?” I was gobsmacked. “Myrtle is in prison?”
“Only on remand.” Hodd joined us at the desk.
“On what charge?”
“Murder.”
Before I could react, Mrs V appeared with the coffee. “Black, strong and no sugar.”
“Thanks.” Hodd took the cup from her.
“And black, strong and five sugars for you.”
“Thanks.” Jobbs took hers. “You’re a sweethea
rt.”
“You’d better tell me what happened.” I had to raise my voice in order to be heard over Jobbs’ slurping. For reasons known only to her, she’d poured some of the coffee into the saucer, and was drinking it from there.
“They found Rob Evans dead, downstream from the watermill,” Hodd said. “They thought he’d drowned at first, but it turned out that someone had given him a crack over the head before he went into the water.”
“Was Rob Evans a resident of Middle Tweaking?”
“Yeah, but he only moved in recently. He inherited his grandmother’s place after she died. Josie was a little old darling, but Rob is—err—was a complete waste of space.”
“He’d been holding wild parties.” Jobbs had finished her coffee. “He invited all kinds of people into the village—lots of them were drunk or worse. And then there was the loud music until all hours. Most people were too afraid to say anything, but not Turtle. She went in all guns blazing, and told him to show some respect for his neighbours.”
“It didn’t do much good, though,” Hodd said. “He was still having at least one party a week up until the time someone put an end to it.”
“Killed him, you mean?” I said. “You surely don’t think it was Myrtle?”
“Course not.” Hodd put her empty cup on my desk. “Turtle’s a tough old bird, but she wouldn’t murder anyone.”
“Why have they got her locked up, then?”
“It’s the Old Bill. They don’t know their backside from their elbow, as usual.”
“I thought she and Sergeant Cross were friends.”
“They were—still are. But Charlie had to retire some months ago on health grounds. The woman they brought in to replace him is a proper cow.”
“Her name is Rosemary Thorne,” Jobbs said. “She’s young and ambitious. The only thing she’s interested in his her clear-up rate.”
“Still, she wouldn’t arrest Myrtle without some evidence, surely?”
“As far as we can make out, they’re basing their case on circumstantial evidence. Myrtle managed to get word out to us through her solicitor. She said if anyone could get her out, you could. Will you help?”
“Of course. I’ll need to speak to Myrtle. Do you think that can be arranged?”
“I would think so.” Jobbs stood up. “We’ll have a word with her solicitor, and get back to you.”
“What do you call this handsome guy?” Hodd walked back over to Winky, and started to stroke him again.
“Winky—on account of his missing eye.”
“If you ever get fed up with him, I’ll take him off your hands.”
“No, you won’t,” Jobbs started for the door. “Not unless you want me to move out.”
“That would be a bonus.” Hodd grinned. “Thanks for your time, Jill. We’ll let you know once the prison visit has been arranged.”
“I like her,” Winky said, once the odd couple had left. “I don’t think much to her buddy, though.”
“They’re a very strange couple.”
“How do you know them? Were you inside with them?”
“No, I wasn’t! I’ve never been in prison. Not for more than a few hours, anyway.”
“That old Turtle bird came here once, didn’t she? If I remember correctly, she took a real shine to me.”
“Yeah, but I won’t hold that against her. And I’m not sure she’d appreciate you referring to her as an old bird.”
“I didn’t have her down as a murderer.”
“Neither did I. Hopefully, this is all some silly misunderstanding.”
Chapter 3
Mrs V popped her head around my door. “The man is here about the graffiti, Jill. He’s picking out a pair of socks, then I’ll send him through, shall I?”
“Yes, please.”
“It’s not every day a client gives me a free pair of socks.” The man held them aloft. “I chose these, what do you think?”
“That’s a nice shade of green. I’m Jill Maxwell. Please have a seat. My PA said your name was Mr Tatts, I believe?”
“Not exactly.” He laughed and gestured to his arms, which were covered in tattoos. “The name’s Jim Brown but everyone calls me Tatts, for obvious reasons.”
“I appreciate you coming to see me at such short notice.”
“No problem; I was in town anyway. I didn’t notice any graffiti on my way into the building.”
“Actually, the graffiti isn’t here. Do you happen to know the toll bridge on the road to Smallwash?”
“Yeah, my sister lives out that way.”
“The graffiti is on the bridge.”
“Look, I’m grateful for the work, but isn’t it their responsibility to get it removed?”
“Strictly speaking, yes, but you know how long these things can take. I’d like it gone quickly; today if possible.”
“What is it, exactly?”
“It’s the only graffiti on that bridge, so you can’t miss it. It says: Jill is a witch.”
“It sounds like someone has it in for you. Do you know who did it?”
“No, and I can’t even be sure that it’s aimed at me, but I’d like it removed anyway.”
“Fair enough. It doesn’t sound like a big job, and I’ve nothing else on for the rest of the day, so I could go straight over there. How does one hundred and seventy-five pounds sound?”
“That’ll be fine, provided you can do it today.”
“I’ll get straight onto it.” He stood up. “Thanks again for the socks.”
“You ought to get a tattoo,” Winky said, after Tatts had left.
“I don’t think so.”
“You could have one of me, on your arm or ankle.”
“I’m not a big fan of tattoos, but if I ever do have one, it certainly won’t be one of you.”
“Your loss. Anyway, his visit has given me an idea.”
“Let me guess. You’re going to set up your own graffiti removal service?”
“Nah, that sounds too much like hard work. I was thinking that I could start a little sideline, as a tattoo artist. I have quite an artistic flair, you know.”
“No one in their right mind is going to trust a cat to give them a tattoo.”
“I wouldn’t be aiming my services at you two-leggeds. I’m talking about providing tattoos for felines.”
“I think you’re forgetting something. Cats have fur. Duh!”
“You know nothing about felines, do you?”
“I know that most cats have fur, so they can’t have tattoos.”
“You’ve obviously never heard of fur patches?”
“Of what?”
“Humans aren’t the only ones who like tattoos. Cats do too. That’s why someone came up with the idea of fur patches. Obviously, felines have to be discreet when they’re around two-leggeds because they’d be freaked out if they found their darling cat had a tattoo. That’s where the fur patch comes in.”
“So how does this patch work exactly?”
“It allows the cat to have a section of fur removed where the tattoo will be located. When the cat is among other felines, the tattoo can be on display, but when it’s with two-leggeds, it’s hidden by the fur patch.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Don’t blame me; I don’t write this stuff. Anyway, the point is there’s a big demand for tattoos among the feline population, and I expect to make a killing.”
***
These days, I didn’t often get the chance to see Aunt Lucy by herself because, Tuesday through to Friday, she looked after one of the babies, so that the twins could work in Cuppy C. As Monday was her day off from her babysitting duties, I decided to pay her a visit.
“Hi, Jill.” She was in the kitchen, and whatever she was baking smelled delicious. “Cup of tea?”
“That would be lovely. What are you making?”
“Just a few cupcakes.”
“Mmm, yummy.”
“They won’t be ready for a while ye
t, I’m afraid, but there is a new packet of custard creams in the cupboard.” She filled the kettle while I got the biscuits.
“Are you enjoying your day off, Aunt Lucy?”
“It doesn’t feel right to call it a day off. I love having the babies here.”
“They must be hard work, though?”
“Of course, but I don’t mind. They won’t be babies for very long, as I know only too well, so I intend to enjoy them while I can.”
“You won’t know what to do with yourself when they start at nursery.”
“Maybe I’ll have another baby to look after by then.” She grinned.
“Mine? I don’t think so.”
“You and Jack do want children one day, don’t you?”
“It’s not something we’ve talked about yet. We’re only just getting used to being married.”
She poured the tea, and then we went through to the lounge. We’d no sooner sat down than I heard the unmistakable pounding of paws on the stairs.
“I thought we were doing well.” Aunt Lucy smiled.
I’d just managed to put my cup on the coffee table before Barry launched himself at me.
“Steady on, boy. It doesn’t usually take you this long to come and say hello. I thought you must be out with Dot.”
“I was waiting for Rhymes to finish writing my poem.” Barry raised his head, so I could see the small slip of paper tucked into his collar. “Read it, Jill! It’s all about me.”
“Okay.” I grabbed the paper.
Barry is a dog who likes to please,
He’s big and fluffy and doesn’t have fleas,
His favourite things are Barkies and going for a walk,
He doesn’t have a lot to say, but boy can that dog talk.
“Isn’t it brilliant, Jill?” Barry was spinning around in circles with excitement.
“It—err—certainly captures the essence of who you are.”
“What’s essence?”
“It means that it sums you up very well.”
“Rhymes says I should make up a poem about him.”
“That’s a good idea. You should go for it.”
“I can’t write, though.”
