by Holly Bell
The cottage was situated at the edge of Sunken Madley, a quaint English village some 3 miles south of the Hertfordshire border and 13 miles north of The Houses of Parliament. In April, the orchard next door would be snowing pale pink apple blossom over the house. But that was several weeks away.
‘Of course, it went well. Granny and Grandpa do like you, you know,’ Amanda assured him. She kicked off her house shoes and began shuffling her green overalls over her jeans, and wriggling her feet into light tan work boots.
‘Well, your grandfather makes that more obvious than your grandmother does,’ remarked Trelawney.
‘I know. Please excuse me, gearing up, but I’ve got rather behind on all sorts of other little jobs while I’ve been working at The Grange and then recovering from …’
‘Not at all. You go ahead.’ He wondered if it was just possible that Miss Cadabra would allow him to watch her in action. ‘As long as you don’t mind my being here.’
‘Of course not. Do sit down. You must finish your tea before you go.’ Amanda gestured towards the cream Regency chaise longue, whose deeply carved frame required her expert attention. ‘Then I must get on with splicing Mrs Bindish’s leg.’
‘Surgery?’ he suggested, seating himself.
She laughed. ‘I mean the leg of her card table. The Hoover hose got caught round it and snapped it off. It just needs glueing. Although, look at the state of it. If only Mrs Bindish would let me restore it all properly, but she won’t hear of it.’
However, rather than proceeding, Amanda leaned against the workbench under the west window. She raised her dainty cup from its saucer and sipped her tea, before remarking,
‘It’s usually mugs in here. Not often this place sees Granny’s china.’
‘I imagine not.’
‘Well, we know the next step in solving the last mystery in your cold case now: getting your father to help. At least, your next step.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed
‘After all, he is Arlodh now,’ she pointed out.
‘Lord and master?’ asked Trelawney, whose Cornish was nowhere as good as Amanda’s. She smiled and nodded. ‘Hm … Pasco may still feel some loyalty to his former Flamgoyne overlords,’ Trelawney reasoned cautiously.
‘Yes, in spite of his reservations, he may have been proud of some of what they did. Especially if he helped out.’
‘And it’s a more complicated situation now. Given the relationship between … I mean, the more amicable links now with ….’
‘The one extant representative of the Cardiubarn clan? To wit … me?’ offered Amanda ruefully.
‘Just so.’
‘But you’ll ask your father if he’ll try talking to Pasco?’
‘I shall ask.’
‘When do you think you might do that?’ she enquired.
‘As soon as I can, once I get back to Cornwall.’
‘Face to face?’
‘Definitely,’ the inspector confirmed.
‘Will you be leaving this evening?’
‘Oh yes.’
Amanda drained her cup.
‘Shall we take these to the kitchen, just to be on the safe side? If any harm comes to the china, I’ll never hear the end of it!’
It was clear that she wanted him to leave. He knew why. Trelawney wished Amanda would trust him but, as Aunt Amelia and Hogarth, his former boss, would have said, it was too soon.
He tried not to feel put out. But it wasn’t as though he’d never seen her do it before. He had. All right, only on that one occasion, but it was … And he’d seen the report that Viola had sent Hogarth. It was all in there: what Miss Cadabra could do, what she had done.
Perhaps she was just shy, he attempted to comfort himself. Usually, his mother was rather good at reassuring him. But this was something he could never share with her. Not in a million years. She wouldn’t accept it, and it would make her extremely uncomfortable.
Plus, he reminded himself, there was no reason why Miss Cadabra should confide in him. Their relationship was professional. Until this case was solved, she was still his principal, and only living, witness.
‘Allow me,’ he offered gallantly. ‘I’m sure we’re sufficiently well-acquainted now for me show myself out and take the china with me.’
‘That’s very kind of you. I’ve just got so much —’
‘I understand,’ he interrupted, his hazel eyes regarding her kindly. ‘Really. I do.’
Amanda was at a loss for words. What she was hiding was acting as a wall between them.
Perhaps, I shouldn’t be letting it, she thought. But I can’t help it if I’m not ready.
She smiled. ‘Thank you,’ was all she could manage. Trelawney opened the door of the workshop. A draft came in with the faintest hint of spring riding on it.
‘See you next Saturday, Miss Cadabra. Our optimistic teacher is going to try the Argentine Tango out on us! I heard that from your ubiquitous postlady.’
She chuckled, ‘Ah, Joan. Of course you did.’
‘We must try not to let Vanessa down.’
‘See you then.’
Trelawney made his way down the path, a Wedgwood cup and saucer in each hand. He turned to grin at her, lifted the handle of the backdoor with an elbow, then disappeared into the house.
Amanda let out a sigh of relief. She was at once sorry and glad to see him go. Tempest, a large, thick-furred, feline collection of storm greys with citrine yellow eyes, came out from beneath the chaise longue. Amanda’s familiar settled himself on the inspector-warmed seat and stared at her ironically.
‘There’s no need to look at me like that,’ she said, crossing the floor to the base units against the opposite side of the workshop. She turned on the hob under the glue pot. ‘It’s one thing to let him hear and, all right, see me do a couple of spells to save his life and quite another …’
Amanda realised, for the first time, that what she did in the workshop was intensely personal. It was private.
She reached up and selected a Japanese saw from the tool board on the wall. Perran appeared, in what had once been his domain and classroom for his eager granddaughter.
‘Packed him off with a flea in his ear, did you, bian?’ he teased her affectionately, using the Cornish word for baby.
‘Oh Grandpa! Of course not.’ Amanda was assailed by a momentary feeling of remorse. ‘I do hope he didn’t feel that I did.’
Perran gave an enigmatic smile and, nodding towards the horizontal bar between two legs of the injured card table, asked,
‘Are you going to replace that stretcher?’
‘Yes, it’s about to give way anyway and yes, I know Mrs Bindish said she didn’t want anything else done except the leg. But I simply cannot bear to see this beautiful table go to rack and ruin, for want of a little T.L.C.’
‘You won’t charge her the extra.’
‘Of course not, Grandpa. You taught me better than that,’ she added with a gleam.
Amanda eyed her collection of battens, thrust into a hopelessly cracked, giant, antique urn abandoned by its owner. She judiciously selected a length of reclaimed mahogany.
‘I thought Trelawney retired most graciously,’ declared Granny, appearing and reviving the subject of greater interest. Her granddaughter looked up in surprise and amusement.
‘Granny dear, can it be … are you actually praising the inspector?’
‘Credit where credit is due. Young Trelawney, if nothing else, has grown up to be a gentleman.’
Amanda, strangely pleased to hear him given such an accolade, laid the saw on the bench while she clamped the batten into the vice. She made a guide cut in the wood.
‘Ahiewske,’ she uttered cheerfully. All by itself, the saw began a gentle to-and-fro motion. ‘Mecsge ynentel.’ The brush began gently circling in the pot of heat-softened glue. The broken-off leg was on the other side of the workshop. She called it over, ‘Aerevel. Cumdez obma.’ It rose and made its wa
y to Amanda. With each spell her tell became more marked. The tiny brown islands in the sea of her blue eyes grew and coalesced. Her close work lenses helped conceal it but it was something Trelawney had yet to observe. Amanda chose from the chisels on the bench and reflected.
She could, perhaps, have been able to share with the inspector … what went on in the workshop. But it ... it would have been like … undressing. She blushed at the thought and instantly banished it from her mind. They were, at best, colleagues of sorts. ‘I really must get on,’ Amanda said in business-like accents.
‘Yes, you must,’ agreed Granny. ‘That’s why we’re here. You need to continue your training.’
‘Now?’
‘No, but we need to formulate a programme.’
‘Is this about levitating?’ asked Amanda.
‘It’s about you and your … familiar,’ replied Granny with faint distaste. The object of her disdain leaped up elegantly onto an étagère and one-upped her expression of scorn by pointedly ignoring her.
‘I can see through his eyes just fine.’
Tempest turned his profile into a ray of sunshine so that the humans could better appreciate his perfection, and just how lucky Amanda was to have this unique bond with him.
‘Not “just fine”, dear,’ Granny corrected.
‘What your granny means, bian,’ intervened Grandpa, ‘is that you can only see through his eyes if you’re in the bath meditating and then say the spell. What if you can’t get to a bath? Or meditate. What if it was an emergency?’
‘I thought the emergencies were all over,’ Amanda protested.
‘Just in case, then. Besides don’t you want to keep improving your witchcraft?’
Amanda’s face brightened at that.
‘Yes, Grandpa.’
Tempest, loath as he was to agree with anything Senara thought, did concede , if only to himself, that he’d be wondering when his human would graduate from Grade 1.
‘We’ll arrange it then, after the ball.’
‘Good. Well, I really must get on now,’ said Amanda. ‘I’m intending to start back at The Grange tomorrow.’
‘Oh yes … The Grange. Of course,’ agreed Perran.
Senara folded her arms and remarked, ‘Now that should be interesting.’
Amanda nodded, looking up at them with a wry smile ‘Yes … the visitors.’
Chapter 3
Dennis and The Vision
Amanda had hoped for more time: time to settle back into The Grange, and gather her thoughts. In particular, she wanted to consider the mystery of the missing piece. What was the link between Granny and the Flamgoynes? Who gave the game away? What wasn’t her grandmother telling them?
The Grange restoration work had, so far, been only to the ballroom. There had been a week’s deadline for that leading up to the St Valentine’s Day Ball. Now Amanda had a new date for which to prepare.
The gracious dancing space had ivory-painted walls that were divided by beading into large panels. Each framed a sizeable mirror — mostly flyblown, rusted and partly cracked — or a large painting. Amanda had repaired the frames and replaced the glass in two of them, smartened up the parquet, repaired the rat hole in the wainscot, and cleaned whatever she could.
However, there were more panels and frames to make good and mirrors to replace, and her last stint had been rather a rush job. Now she had more breathing space to make further improvements for the Spring Equinox Ball.
The ladies of the house had agreed on a plan of action. For two blissful days, Amanda began establishing a routine. And then on the morning of the third day …
She heard the news, inevitably, in The Corner Shop.
It only happened because Amanda had run out of cream. She didn’t use it. Dairy was off-limits as it was no friend to her asthma. But that day, while withdrawing a packet of Danish bacon from the fridge, she observed Tempest was staring at the shelves pointedly. After a brief search, in vain, she caved in.
‘Fine. We’ll stop off on the way for a pot of Cornish clotted.’
True, thought Tempest, also anticipating a tribute from Mrs Sharma, with whom he had an excellent, if mysterious, understanding. The Sharmas were co-proprietors of The Corner Shop, the chemist, and various other properties, including the premises at the end of the High Street. This was currently being rented by the florists, Youfloric.
‘A quick stop!’ Amanda insisted to her familiar. ‘I’d like to be on time for a 9 o’clock start.’ She checked her watch. ‘OK, a 9.30 start.’
She could have turned up at lunchtime and received the same appreciative welcome from the Grange ladies, but it was her nature to be punctual. Amanda felt that she had dawdled long enough in recovery from recent events and was eager to get back to some semblance of normality with a work routine.
Her British racing green Vauxhall Astra, with gold lettering down the sides declaring Cadabra Restoration and Repairs, was well known in Sunken Madley and its environs. Perran had bequeathed it, along with the business and house, to his granddaughter. By the time he joined Senara on whatever plane of existence they enjoyed, most of the day-to-day running of the family firm had been handed onto Amanda anyway.
Interested parties saw the vehicle draw up and park, and their local restorer and that alarming cat of hers alight. Amanda opened the door of The Corner Shop with a ding, and Tempest haughtily preceded her into its hallowed precincts. It both fascinated and appalled him how humans were drawn into shared spaces. An assembly of cats was his worst feline nightmare. However, The Corner Shop itself did offer certain attractions.
Amanda’s attention was drawn at once to the septuagenarian, dapper figure of Mr Dennis Hanley-Page, who was standing with a misty smile and glazed eyes.
‘Mr Hanley-Page! Are you all right?’ she enquired solicitously.
‘He’s in love,’ explained Mrs Sharma.
‘Hello, Aunty. Really?’
‘You weren’t there,’ Dennis murmured distractedly. ‘If you’d seen her …’
‘Her?’ she enquired.
‘Magnolia …’ he trailed off into rapt reverie.
‘Erm … is that her name?’ asked Amanda, somewhat at sea.
‘Trim.’
‘Is she?
Amanda looked at Mrs Sharma for enlightenment on whom this paragon might be who had so affected their neighbour.
Ding!
Joan the postlady — a lively, attractive, curvaceous blonde of middle years, — entered, passing a taming hand over her short wind-blown curls.
‘Morning, Nalini, Dennis, Amanda.’
‘Good morning, Joan.’
She took one look at Dennis and remarked,
‘I think I can guess what’s happened here. He’s seen —’
‘You couldn’t miss her,’ he uttered.
Ding!
In came Sylvia, the lollipop lady, she of the round stop sign on a pole. It was designed to halt traffic in favour of school children safely crossing the road, twice a day. She exchanged greetings with the three ladies and swept a canny eye of some eighty summers’ experience over Dennis.
‘Seen the vision ‘as ‘e? And I don’t mean ‘er as thinks she is, dearie,’ she added as an aside to Amanda, who remained in the dark as to whom she might be referring.
Ding!
‘Churchill! Heel!’ Dennis’s spell was cracked, if not broken, by the entrance of the village’s oldest and most venerable resident.
‘Hello, Miss de Havillande,’ they chorused.
‘Cynthia,’ Dennis managed.
‘Morning All!’ she uttered robustly, manoeuvring her tall frame into the crowded shop, as the others made room for her. ‘What’s the matter with … ha! Seen it then, I gather.’
‘It?’ asked Amanda in confusion. Dennis responded at once,
‘N-not it ... sh-she! Every inch a lady …’
‘Some car or other he’s nutty for,’ explained Joan prosaically.
&n
bsp; ‘Not some,’ he insisted, and turned to Amanda. ‘A 1973 Jaguar Xj. One of the finest cars Britain has ever produced. With a w-walnut dash and magnolia trim. In almost mint condition.’ Dennis’s eyes were becoming moist with emotion.
‘Ah, I see,’ Amanda replied readily. It all made sense now. As the owner of Vintage Vehicles, cars were his passion. Mr Hanley-Page’s proposals to her Aunt Amelia and Mrs Irma Uberhausfest were sufficient testimony to his ardour for automobiles. They both declined with good humour, knowing that it was their respective cars with which he desired to be more closely united. For Amelia was the possessor of a vintage Bentley and Irma was owner not only of Finely Aged Festivities – party planning for the over 70s — but of a reconditioned VW Beetle former police vehicle, with a Porsche engine, in metallic purple.
‘I shouldn’t think he can drive it any more sensibly that any of his own charabancs,’ commented Cynthia, provokingly. She and Dennis were motoring rivals of long standing.
‘Look,’ urged Dennis, choosing to ignore this sally from Miss de Havillande. He showed Amanda the image on his phone. ‘He let me take a photograph. He said I should sit in the driver’s seat, and what a pleasure to meet a fellow enthusiast. Charming, absolutely charming. We talked for what seemed hours. I’ve invited him to Vintage Vehicles. He’s only staying for the weekend, but he said it will be the highlight of his visit. He’s staying right here; here in Sunken Madley. Brought the ladies up in the Xj.’
‘Ladies!’ expostulated Sylvia. ‘Well, one of them is. Seems like a nice little thing. Not like ‘er friend. Friend! Huh! Wants ‘er for a foil more like.’
‘Right, well, thank you for explaining.’ Amanda looked at Mrs Sharma, who accurately anticipated her needs,
‘Cream?’
