Kitchen Witch

by Cora Buhlert

  Helen walked right up to him. “Mr. York? I’m Detective Inspector Helen Shepherd and I will be investigating your aunt’s death.”

  Nicholas York looked up. “Pleased to meet you, Inspector. Will this take long? Because…” He consulted his wristwatch. His hands and fingers were reddened and raw, probably due to some kind of allergy, since he did not look like the type for manual labour. “… I have a meeting in forty-five minutes.”

  “I’m afraid your meeting will have to wait, Mr. York,” Helen said, “The death of your aunt has been declared suspicious, so we have some questions for you.”

  “Suspicious, really?” Nicholas York repeated, “My aunt was seventy-two years old and had health issues. It was very sudden, I know, but elderly people sometimes do die suddenly.”

  “That may be true, but our forensic medical examiner has reason to believe that your aunt may have been poisoned.”

  Nicholas York’s eyes went wide. “P… poisoned?”

  He brought his hand down on the table with surprising force, considering how calm he had seemed just a moment ago.

  “Damn it, I knew this would happen someday!”

  “How could you know this would happen?” Helen asked, her interest piqued, “Were there threats against your aunt’s life?”

  “Threats?” Nicholas York repeated the word as if he didn’t quite know what it meant. “No, the only threat to Aunt Eudora’s life was Aunt Eudora herself.”

  “So you believe that your aunt may have committed suicide, Mr. York?”

  “Suicide?” Nicholas York shook his head. “No, Aunt Eudora wasn’t the suicidal sort at all. She enjoyed life way too much for that.”

  “So why do you believe she was a threat to herself?” Helen wanted to know.

  “Well, with all that herbal crap she was always taking, an accident was bound to happen sooner or later,” Nicholas York replied.

  “So you believe that it was the herbal preparations your aunt took that poisoned her?”

  Nicholas York ran a hand through his thinning hair. “What else could it have been? She was always drinking that herbal tea. And herbs can be lethal, when taken in the wrong dose. Aunt Eudora would’ve been the first person to agree with that.”

  “But I understand your aunt was a skilled herbalist, Mr. York,” Helen said, “So surely she would have known the correct dosage.”

  “Yes, twenty or thirty years ago, she would have known. But Aunt Eudora was getting on in years. Her eyesight and her memories weren’t what they once were.”

  “Was your aunt displaying symptoms of dementia?” Helen probed.

  “Dementia, old age — I don’t know what it was. All I know is that Aunt Eudora had always been weird and only got weirder as she grew older.”

  “Are you referring to the fact that your aunt reportedly practiced some kind of pagan ritual?”

  “Pagan ritual. God, you make it sound so politically correct, so respectable, as if it’s something that normal people do…”

  “Actually, plenty of normal people practice paganism, Wicca, Neo-Druidism or other alternative religions,” DC Walker pointed out.

  “Well, maybe some ‘normal people’ do, but Aunt Eudora wasn’t one of them. And all that herbal lore, the charms, the chants, the dances and the rituals, it wasn’t some kind of ancient knowledge handed down through the ages…”

  By now, the previously so calm and placid Nicholas York had turned almost savage.

  “No, Aunt Eudora made it all up from whole cloth, taking bits and pieces from all those books on occultism she read. Her father, my grandfather, was a minister, for goodness sake. And she only got involved with all that New Age stuff to spite him.”

  “But given your aunt’s age, your grandfather is surely dead by now,” DC Walker said.

  “Oh, he’s been dead for twenty-five years now,” Nicholas York said. He rubbed his hands together in agitation. “In fact, I barely remember him. But did that stop Aunt Eudora? No. Instead, she started believing that she really was a witch.”

  “Are there any other relatives?” Helen asked.

  Nicholas York shook his head. “Well, there was my mother, Aunt Eudora’s younger sister, but she died a couple of years ago. Cancer. Now there’s no one left except me.”

  “Were you close to your aunt?” Helen asked.

  “When I was a kid, she used to babysit me, while Mum was working. Cause unlike Mum, Aunt Eudora never had to work a day in her life, considering she inherited the house as young woman and could live here rent-free to indulge in her various eccentricities.”

  Nicholas York paused to take a sip from a bottle of mineral water that someone had given him, since nothing in the kitchen was safe to consume until tested for poison.

  “I mean, this whole ‘I’m a witch’ thing was fun when I was a boy and Aunt Eudora took me herb gathering on Hampstead Heath. But I’m an adult now, we’re all adults and this whole witchcraft thing was just embarrassing. For goodness sake, the neighbours were talking…”

  “We talked to one of your aunt’s neighbours, one Ms. Carnes,” Helen said, “She told us that she liked your aunt and found her eccentricities endearing.”

  “Oh please, of course she’ll say that now. After all, no one wants to speak ill of the dead, especially not if the police are involved…”

  No one except Nicholas York, it seemed.

  “But they were all whispering Aunt Eudora behind her back and sometimes even, when she could hear it. But did Aunt Eudora care? No, she didn’t. She was so busy celebrating her precious individuality that she didn’t even notice that it made her a laughing stock.”

  Nicholas York took another sip from his bottle. “We tried to get her help, my wife and I, you know? We tried to persuade Aunt Eudora to move into an assisted living facility. But of course, she would have none of that. She insisted that she could take care of herself, even as her health was failing.”

  “Is this why you visited your aunt this morning? Because of her failing health?”

  “I dropped by to check on Aunt Eudora all the time,” Nicholas York replied, “I live all the way out in Ashford, because I can’t afford to live in London — unlike some people, who got lucky enough to inherit a Victorian home in Hampstead — but I always drive here just to check on Aunt Eudora. And she wouldn’t even let me park in her driveway, because my car allegedly upsets the Feng shui in her garden or something.”

  “Uhm, actually Feng shui is Chinese,” DC Walker pointed out.

  “Like I said, Aunt Eudora assembled her own mythology of bits and pieces from everywhere. As if religion were a Meccano kit.”

  “When was the last time you saw your aunt alive?” Helen wanted to know.

  “Yesterday morning,” Nicholas York said, “I came to check on her and show her some leaflets for some very nice homes for the elderly…”

  Well, that explained the shopping bag Annabel Carnes had seen. Though it raised a new question.

  “Where are those leaflets?” Helen interrupted, “Cause we didn’t find any.”

  “How the hell should I know? I just gave them to her and asked her to look at them. I don’t know what she did with them. For all I know, she might have used them to make paper planes or love spells.”

  “Uhm, boss, I think I found the missing leaflets,” Charlotte Wong piped in, “In fact, I’m currently scraping tea leaves from a leaflet for a place called ‘Shady Acres Home for the Elderly’.” She shuddered. “Ugh, that sounds like a cemetery and not a place where anybody would want to live.”

  “Total namefail there,” DC Walker agreed.

  “See, that’s just what Aunt Eudora was like,” Nicholas York exclaimed, “I drive all the way just to bring her those leaflets and she just tosses them into the bin.”

  “So what happened after you gave your aunt those leaflets?” Helen wanted to know.

  “We made a bit of smalltalk. Weather, telly, family, you know, that sort of thing. I told her about the children and how they’re doing at s
chool. She talked about a program she wanted to watch that night, Jonathan Ross and Mr. Something.”

  “You mean Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell,” Charlotte interjected, “It’s such a brilliant adaptation of the novel.”

  “And then?” Helen asked.

  Nicholas York sulked. “She more or less shooed me out of the house, because she needed to go somewhere.”

  “Do you know where?”

  Nicholas York shrugged. “Hampstead Heath, I guess. She always went there to gather herbs for her teas and salves.”

  “She didn’t grow the herbs here in the garden?” Helen asked.

  “Some of them, yes, but she also picked a lot of herbs on the Heath.” Nicholas York shook his head. “She said wild herbs were better than cultivated herbs. One of the many crazy things she said.”

  “Do you know where precisely on Hampstead Heath your aunt went to gather herbs?”

  Nicholas York considered for a moment. “No idea,” he finally said, “She sometimes took me along to gather herbs on the Heath, but that was twenty-five years ago. I don’t really remember which spots she favoured or whether she still went there.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. York,” Helen said.

  Nicholas York blinked in confusion. “That’s it? I can go?”

  “For now,” Helen said, “But please keep yourself available in case we have further questions.”

  Nicholas York pushed back his chair and got up. He took a few steps towards the door, carefully stepping past Charlotte Wong who was still sifting through the kitchen garbage.

  At the door, he paused. “Uhm, Inspector, when will you be finished here? With the house, I mean. And Aunt Eudora, of course. Cause I’m her only relative and heir and… well, there are arrangements to be made.”

  “We’ll let you know, Mr. York,” Helen said.

  “What a fucking jerk!” DC Walker exclaimed as soon as Nicholas York was safely out of earshot.

  “I totally agree,” Charlotte added, “That poor woman, to have to endure such a faux concerned relative.”

  “Nicholas York may be thoroughly unpleasant and a class one jerk, but that doesn’t make him guilty,” Helen pointed out.

  “Given the way he talked about her, I wouldn’t put it beyond him to poison his aunt himself,” Charlotte said.

  DC Walker nodded. “He certainly had the means, too, considering he visited her almost every day,” he said, “As for the motive, it’s kind of obvious that he’s after his aunt’s house. He didn’t even bother to hide it.”

  “A Victorian house in Hampstead has to be worth a couple of million quid,” Helen mused, “And it was clear that Eudora Pembroke had no intention of moving out. So her nephew decides to help matters along and poisons her, hoping her death will be classified as ‘due to old age’. Yes, it’s possible. But we still need to prove it.”

  “Shouldn’t be too difficult, once we know what the poison was,” DC Walker said.

  “We also need to reconstruct what Eudora Pembroke did yesterday in order to determine how and where she might have come into contact with the poison,” Helen said, “Nicholas York claimed that she went herb gathering in Hampstead Heath, but the neighbour said she saw Eudora Pennington returning home with shopping bags.”

  “Maybe she used the bags to transport the herbs,” DC Walker suggested, “Or maybe she went both shopping and herb gathering.”

  “Talking of shopping, I found some receipts in the garbage.” Charlotte Wong held up evidence bags containing slightly soiled pieces of thermal paper. “All issued yesterday. Tesco Express, Budgens and some place called the New Moon Esoteric Shop.”

  “Now that sounds promising,” Helen said, “Let’s pay them a visit.”

  The New Moon Esoteric Shop sat in a leafy part of Haverstock Hill, nestled between an organic coffee shop on the one side and a book shop of the snooty, gilt-letter kind on the other. The shopfront was painted in a cheerful red, indigo and purple, adorned with gilded stars and esoteric symbols. Gleaming crystal pendants and pendulums adorned the display windows, casting multicoloured highlights over a selection of books, tarot cards and various supernaturally themed knick-knacks.

  A chime jingled, as Helen opened the door. She stepped into the little shop, followed by DC Walker, and was immediately hit by the pervasive smell of incense. Not joss sticks either, but real frankincense smouldering in a brass burner.

  The offerings inside the shop matched those on display in the window. The walls were lined with shelves full of books on any esoteric subject imaginable as well as a sizeable collection of fantasy novels. Chimes and crystals were dangling from the ceiling. One spinner rack displayed dowsing pendulums, another joss sticks in fifty different scent combinations and a third held test tubes containing different blends of incense. There was a table full of incense burners, cauldrons, candleholders and statues depicting gargoyles, dragons, fairies and witches. Another table held a bewildering array of tarot decks and rune casting sets. A cabinet contained magic wands and daggers, another held silver and brass charms as well as gemstone pendants. A cat — black, of course — lounged on a chair in the corner, guarding the shop with inscrutable patience. Behind the polished mahogany counter finally, there was an enormous selection of dried herbs, spices, resins and other substances, all kept in neatly labelled tins and jars.

  DC Walker was thumbing through the fantasy novels on offer, while Helen focussed on the jars and tins behind the counter, when the beaded curtain leading to the backroom was swept aside and a woman entered. She was in her mid-twenties, and certainly matched every stereotype of the pretty young witch. Her hair was ginger and fell to her shoulders in frizzy curls, her eyes were sparkling and moss green, freckles dotted her milk-pale skin. Her appearance was complimented by a swinging gypsy skirt in a floral print and an embroidered peasant blouse tied at the midriff.

  “Welcome to New Moon,” she said, her voice as perky as her appearance, “Are you looking for anything in particular or just browsing?”

  “I’m Detective Inspector Helen Shepherd and this is Detective Constable Kevin Walker.” Helen pulled her ID from her jacket. DC Walker did likewise.

  The friendly smile on the young woman’s face vanished, as she took in their IDs.

  “Whether it’s satanic graffiti, goths having a midnight party in Highgate Cemetery or someone sacrificing a cat on the night of the full moon, I’m not responsible for any of it.”

  She crossed her arms in front of her chest.

  “I just run a shop, like the owner of the bookstore next door. And amazingly, no one has ever tried to hold him responsible for every murder or robbery that happens in London, even though half his stock consists of crime novels.”

  “Relax, Miss…?”

  The woman did not uncross her arms. “Willows, Tara Willows.”

  “There has been no complaint against you or your shop, Ms. Willows. We’re merely here to inquire about one of your customers.”

  “I’m not responsible for my customers’ actions either.”

  “We’re not insinuating that you are, Ms. Willows. In fact, we’re investigating the suspicious death of one of your customers, Miss Eudora Pembroke.”

  Tara Willows’ already pale skin blanched even further. “Eudora is dead?”

  “Miss Pembroke died sometime last night under suspicious circumstances. We understand that she was a customer at your shop.”

  Tara Willows slumped down on a chair behind the counter and wiped her forehead with an embroidered cloth handkerchief. “I can’t believe Eudora is dead,” she finally said, “She was here only yesterday.”

  The cat, sensing the mood of her mistress, jumped down from her chair and made her way behind the counter to rub herself against Tara’s legs.

  “What did Miss Pembroke purchase during her visit yesterday?” Helen wanted to know.

  “Just the usual.” Tara Willows scooped up the cat and settled her down on her lap.

  “Which is?”

  �
��Herbs. Mainly the mixture for her nightly relaxation tea, though she also bought herbs to make tinctures, salads, and so on.”

  “I thought Miss Pembroke grew her own herbs and gathered the rest herself on Hampstead Heath,” Helen said.

  “Eudora used to gather her own herbs,” Tara Willows explained, “But in recent months, her back started to trouble her, so she bought them at my shop instead, since she knew that my herbs were always freshly gathered in the wild under the most favourable conditions.”

  “How often did Miss Pembroke visit your shop?”

  “Two or three times per week, to buy herbs and talk craft.”

  Tara Willows stroked her cat which purred contentedly.

  “Most of my customers are muggles, posers — no offence…”

  “None taken,” Helen assured her.

  “But Eudora… well, she was the real deal. A skilled practitioner.”

  “Of magic, you mean?” DC Walker asked.

  “Whatever you want to call it,” Tara Willows said, still stroking her cat, “And yes, I know you probably won’t believe me, but Eudora knew her stuff. She was an excellent tealeaf reader and she knew more about herbs and their uses than anyone I ever met.”

  Tara sobbed and pressed the handkerchief to her face.

  “Eudora’s death is a great loss to the community.” She rubbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “Sus… suspicious circumstances, you say?”

  “We have reason to believe that Miss Pembroke was poisoned.”

  “Poison?” Tara Willows gathered her cat closer to her chest. “Whatever happened, it wasn’t my herbs that killed her. True, a lot of rituals do use poisonous substances, but I don’t sell such herbs here, because the potential for abuse or accident is too great. I’m a responsible practitioner and so was Eudora.”

  “Relax, Ms. Willows, you’re not a suspect,” Helen said soothingly, “At this point, we’re merely attempting to reconstruct Miss Pembroke’s daily routine to determine how and where she might have come into contact with the poison.”

  “Do… do you know what it was?”

  “There are several possibilities at this moment,” Helen replied, “Did you and Miss Pembroke talk about anything other than herbs and magic during her visit yesterday?”