Our hostess poured out some tea into our cups from an exquisite teapot that looked like it had once been used in a British ambassador’s home. She then held up some chunky brown cubes with tongs and asked, “How many?”
David stared at the cube like it was hair and bone while I said, “Just one, please.”
Mrs. Fearwyn dutifully dropped the cube into my cup, and I stirred it into my tea. David meanwhile had gone from staring at the now-dissolved cube to watching me.
“What?” I said as I held up the tea cup. “You’ve never seen turbinado sugar before?”
Taking a sip of my tea, I rolled it across my tongue to get a full sampling of its flavor.
“As your official consultant,” I continued. “I can also tell you that this tea is made up of ginseng and pomegranate with a trace of agave nectar for extra sweetener. So, unless you have an objection to good health, good fortune or good sex, I think you’ll be fine.”
Looking a bit sheepish, David said, “One cube for me as well.”
Mrs. Fearwyn dispensed the sweetener without comment and then poured herself a cup. She then sat down, and we all sat in silence as we savored the subtle blend that Portia had made for us.
After David had got halfway through his cup, he said, “Mrs. Fearwyn, as much as I appreciate your invitation, I regret to inform you that you are a suspect in an ongoing murder investigation.”
“Yeah, about that,” another voice said from the shadows.
A pair of yellow eyes suddenly materialized in the gloom, and a black cat stepped out of it…Shade.
“I kind of already told her all that, Chief,” Shade went on to say. “Sorry to steal your thunder, spoil the surprise or whatever.”
My turn to give a disapproving stare but Mrs. Fearwyn just gave a shrug that struck me as being positively French in its indifference.
“We know that you were supplying Nebula Dreddock with Wraithsgourd up until a couple of months ago,” I said, getting my mind back on the conversation. “Why did you quit?”
“Why do you think?” Mrs. Fearwyn snapped back, her eyebrows knitting together; likely at the memory of a bitter exchange she and Nebula had once shared. She turned to look at me.
“Because Nebula Dreddock was haughty, rude and made it to where no amount of money would ever be worth putting up with her?” I offered.
A slight ghost of a grin tugged at the Witch Fearwyn’s mouth as she nodded.
“Be that as it may,” David said, trying to take control of the conversation. “I’m going to need a complete listing of all hazardous substances in your possession.”
“Warrant first,” Portia insisted, making the matter non-negotiable.
“Actually, there was something else I was hoping you could help us with,” I said, grabbing David’s hand under the table to let him know I needed to do the talking.
David looked annoyed at my interjection, but Portia gestured for me to continue.
“There were two objects taken from Nebula’s private collection,” I explained. “A scarab amulet which dates back to the 14th Dynasty, and this pre-Roman era English scroll written in Ogham. Any idea why these might be taken from her residence?” I asked as I laid out the photographic evidence of the scarab and the scripture for her to see.
The Witch Fearwyn’s small eyes grew a little wider, in what seemed like mild alarm. Whatever these objects were, their disappearance was something she regarded as a serious matter. She abruptly got up from the table to go to a cabinet in the back corner of the large room. I heard the scrape of a key turn a lock before she opened it up.
Goddess, just how many locked secrets does this lady have?
She came back with a large scrapbook that she cleared away the tea set for so that she could lay the volume in front of us. Her aged but nimble fingers quickly flipped through the pages. Shade hopped up on the table to get a good look himself.
“I thought this was more Druida Stone’s thing,” David noted as he mentioned Glessie’s head librarian and amateur historian. We watched as Portia flipped through the dusty pages.
“She helped compile it, as it happens. She might drive everyone bonkers with her imperious rule of the library but Ms. Stone is an exemplary historian. A perfectionist fact-checker.” Portia said, not pulling her eyes from the turning pages.
“For reasons I won’t explain — so, don’t ask — I am charged with keeping documentation of every Class One spell, botched or otherwise, performed on the Isles. I’m sure you're aware that the Soul Snatcher’s charm is a definite case of Class One magic?” David and I both nodded sagely, and each of us not knowing what the heck she was talking about. That’s what being out of the magic circle did to you. It kept you ignorant. Finally Portia found what she was looking for and turned the book to face us directly. Shade took one look at it and gave out a fearful hiss before jumping down to the floor again. He promptly jumped into my lap to curl and curled into a tight ball.
Portia tapped her pointer on the left side of the book, which had detailed notes on the exact replacement ritual (which we now both knew as the Soul Snatcher charm) that Cressida Dreddock had attempted to use on her sister just before her committal to Midnight Hill. The notes were written by the Witch Fearwyn’s own hand; an ancient form of English that was hard for me to follow along with. But near as I could tell the ritual was an improvised one of Cressida’s own design, using syncretic sourcing of everything from Druidic tradition to Egyptian rebirth as written in the Book of the Dead to accomplish its aims.
The right side of the page mentioned all the objects used in the ritual: a holly staff, various hieroglyphic inscriptions, a statue of Set and an image of the Morrigan. Do I even need to mention that the Khepri amulet and a full translation of the scroll were among the items on the list? Whatever my problems with Mrs. Fearwyn’s handwriting, it did the proper job of conveying the necessary gist of what Cressida was attempting to accomplish.
David’s frown fell further as he looked over the pages himself. “Lady Justitia save us,” he said. “If I’m reading this right, there’s a distinct possibility that Cressida may have been making another stab at this ritual with a few less herbal enhancements than last time.”
“Or maybe with them for all we know,” I added. “Ravingsbatch has already messed with her mind. Who’s to say she wouldn’t use it again? She was obsessed before this ritual. Add crazy, and anything is possible.”
“All the same,” Portia mused thoughtfully as she studied the pages. “Although I’m not familiar with this particular spell, and I’ll add that the instructions are incredibly hard to come by, so there’s no real way of knowing, but I’m almost certain that “cinnamon” isn’t a traditionally used ingredient for this charm.” She tapped a long and bony finger on the allegedly out-of-place element.
“Do you think you could find the full and accurate directions and instructions for this charm?” I asked Portia, hopefully. “Are there any other ingredients or artifacts that don’t look true to the original spell?”
The Witch Fearwyn sighed. “Well, every witch knows that the Ravingsbatch is the most critical ingredient to balance in the SS charm. But, the rest of the elements and artifacts that make up this spell are such an exhaustingly lengthy list, that I’m not sure there’s a witch alive that knows the exact components.” She looked at us expressionless, as David reached for the evidence.
David gave Mrs. Fearwyn an extension of his sour look as he held up the book. “Am I going to need a warrant for this?”
“No,” Mrs. Fearwyn said with an offhand wave. “But, I’d like it back.”
“I’ll make sure you get it back as soon as possible,” I assured our hostess as I got to my feet, pulling David up with me.
Mrs. Fearwyn gave me another ghost of a smile. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the promise I’d made or the fact that I was steering the Chief Para Inspector around like a lost puppy.
Shade was standing by the door as Mrs. Fearwyn showed us out. She stooped low enough to giv
e my cat an affectionate rub before all three of us went back outside. She closed the door behind us without a farewell. I grabbed my broom on the way down the porch.
David used a blank sheet from his notepad to mark the page before finally closing the book.
“You do realize, Hattie, that you have just made a promise that you may not be able to keep?” he asked. “If this turns out to be evidence of a crime, she may never get this back.”
I gave him a look. Did men understand anything? “I just figured an empty promise from the granddaughter of one of Mrs. Fearwyn’s oldest friends might be less hazardous to the health of the Chief Para Inspector than whatever was on the tip of his tongue.”
David stopped short, breaking my grip on his arm. “Are you saying I’m stupid, Hattie?”
“I’m saying that there was a very decent chance you were going to say something that would earn you some nasty but well-deserved pain if I hadn’t stepped in,” I said, hands on my hips with the broom pointing at David like an accusing finger.
David’s face scrunched up, a sign that my point had hit home. Since he’d never admit that out loud, it was much of an admission as I was going to get. Instead, he said, “I know that your Grandma and Mrs. Fearwyn were friends. But, I still can’t fathom why the two of you get along as well as you do.”
“If you’re looking for an explanation, I’ve got none,” I admitted as I got back on my broom. “We’ve just always been able to see eye-to-eye.”
David was unhappy with the answer but knew it was an honest one. He was just climbing onto the spot behind me when suddenly he yelled out. His cry was loud enough to echo across the swamp and rebound back to us.
“Whoa, sorry, Chief,” Shade said. “I really thought that your uniform was thick enough to take the brunt of my claws.”
“Well, it’s not, you stupid cat!” David snapped. “So, grab the straw like usual, would you?”
“Hey, no need to be mean,” I said as we got underway. Suddenly, having company for the flight home lost its appeal.
“What she said, Chief,” Shade agreed.
I didn’t bother turning around. Shade was enough of a social butterfly to know when it was time to stop being cute. So I focused on getting us out of the Gorthlands as quickly as possible before Shade did something else to tick David off.
The statue of Lady Justitia, modeled on the Old Bailey in London, was the perfect beacon for me to find the precinct. Following the usual protocol, I set it down in the back of the station house, where certainly magical protections kept all Unawakened from even being in the area, let alone witnessing anything unusual.
I recognized the constable from earlier this morning stand outside the back door as I set the broom down. He gave a respectful tip of his hat as he said, “Good to see ya ‘gain, Ms. Jenkins.”
“Likewise, Constable,” I said with a little smile.
“E’erythin’ alright in Gorthlands, sir?” the constable asked David.
“Well enough, constable,” David admitted as he dismounted. “No need to take any further action at this time.”
“Tha’s good then, sir,” the constable said, looking like there was something else he wanted to say.
“Oh, out with it, man,” David said, displaying a great deal of impatience. “What’s wrong?”
The constable swallowed. “Well, sir…’fraid I got a bit a’ bad news on one of our suspects.”
“And that is?” David asked, changing from irritated to concerned in his tone.
“Ms. Cressida’s ‘scaped from Midnight Hill again,” the constable said. “Doctors didn’ give it no nevermind. She does this, they says, round this time a’ year, like, an’ she’s ne’er gone long.”
Given what had happened to her sister, and the mental landscape of the patient in question, I felt a lot less confident than the doctors.
“Any clues on where she might be?” David asked.
“Runnin’ it down now, sir,” the constable admitted. “Doctors did mention a bloke what was her last caller. Perfect match for our mystery man in the sketch that golem tol’ us ‘bout.”
Chapter 8
David spent a few minutes chatting things over with the constable, leaving me alone with Shade.
“Hey, boss lady,” Shade said after completing his first full body wash. “If it’s cool with you, I’m gonna high-tail it back to the Angel.”
“You’ll tell Millie what’s going on?” I asked. “Minus a few details that fall under the heading of ‘police business,' of course?”
“Lemniscate’s honor,” Shade swore, comically getting his right forepaw to the tip of his eyebrow.
I nodded, and he took off to the north. The apothecary was only about five blocks away. I figured he’d get there in a few minutes. Besides, there was no need for me to worry about Shade -- him being the "man about town" that he is.
David finally finished talking to his constable, and the latter went back inside. As to the chief himself, he came over to me and said, “At this rate, I am probably going to owe you a lifetime’s pass on every minor offense you do from now on.”
“Because, you need yet another favor,” I finished.
David tilted his head slightly to the side with a chagrined smirk. “We’ve put out an APB on Cressida and our mystery man. But I also want some eyes and, if possible, info, on our victim’s past and present romantic partners.”
“Which calls for a woman’s touch more than it does a constable’s summons,” I concluded.
Looking to ensure no one was around, he slipped me the files on Venetia and Flute, which I promptly wedged between the returned, empty jars in my delivery basket.
“Judging by what I heard on the radio inside, Flute is working at the station today,” David said. “But I’ve got no idea where Venetia hangs his hat when he isn’t at Nebula’s.”
“You let me worry about that,” I said with a reassuring pat on his chest. “I’ll let you worry about the other two. Deal?”
“Deal,” David said with a crooked grin. For just a second, I thought I saw something in his eyes that went beyond camaraderie. Then he turned around, and I took off toward the Moon.
Partly because he had other things to worry about, partly because I didn’t want to make him feel stupid, I didn’t have the heart to tell David that he had already told me where to start looking for Venetia. It was the ‘hanging the hat’ reference that made me think of it.
I didn't go by the Fingernail Moon too often—on my off-hours, the place is too much of a meat market full of guys that I’d have to be monstrously drunk to ever consider good prospects. But, I did like to swing by when I could. It was a friendly place, and all in all, good people frequented the establishment. Plus, they truly did have killer food. In keeping with the rest of the architecture of the neighborhood (and the rest of Glessie, to be honest), the Moon was designed to look like a medieval English inn. It had two stories, a crescent moon prominent in its wooden sign over the door, oak timbers on the outside to cover the solid stone underneath the façade, and a pair of lamps hanging by either side of the front door. So what if the lights were of the electric sodium variety that came on when dusk fell? It was the image that counted.
This was probably the earliest I’d ever gone by, but, Horace Mangler, the owner/operator of this fine establishment, made it a point of pride to open the Moon at exactly One PM every day. As usual, he was behind the bar at the other end of the room when I walked in the door. The same oak timbers seen outside the pub also permeated the walls within. The open windows poured in light from the sunlit street outside, with a pair of sodium lamps on either side of them for those times when the light grew dim.
Horace’s ruddy face beamed bright enough to put the sun to shame as he bellowed, “Why, if it ain’t Hattie Jenkins come ta grace me humble ‘stablishment! Been ta long, luv, far ta long.”
It wasn’t just the thick Irish accent that did the number on his words. Halfway across the room, I caught a whiff of the big man’s whisk
ey breath. To put it bluntly, Horace was a proud alcoholic whose liver was likely going to be the death of him. Yet, I could never find it in my heart to either pity or be afraid for him. His relentless good cheer had done much to keep patrons coming back, sure. But, he genuinely cared about the people around him and treated them like long-lost family.
“What can I say, you old Irish bear,” I answered with a tease in my voice as I neared the bar. “I’ve got a business of my own to run.”
“Oh, aye, luv,” Horace said, leaning his hairy arms on the bar. “Still, ya shou’ really think ‘bout gettin’ out a bit more, eh? Pretty thin’ like ya deserves a good man.”
I sighed and shook my head. No, Horace wasn’t putting himself out there as a candidate. He was just absolutely convinced that everybody has somebody just for them. I’d seen him hold a reception here for more than a few gay weddings when the Mainland gave the lovers grief, so he’s pretty broadminded on what form love can take. But I was his pet charity case; the pretty girl who hadn't yet found the right mate.
“A’ight, a’ight, luv,” Horace said, holding up his hand. “Nough said. Up for one ya usual?”
That brought the smile on my own face. “You know it.”
“Comin’ up,” Horace said, turning around to his kegs. He stopped at a miniature one; a compact, black cask with the golden words: "Griffin's Beak Base" marked on the side. He decanted a golden liquid from this and then spent the next two or three minutes adding in different elixirs, bitters, and herbal tinctures. I could see how skillful and familiar he was with his wares, even though he was a few pints of ale in already. Griffin's Beak was a kind of Shirley Temple drink he’d created just for me (and, many more tee-totalling patrons now they had finally clued into its deliciousness). It tasted like an alcoholic drink but without the actual alcoholic content. To this day, I have yet to figure out how he crafted it. I’ve analyzed a sample of his stuff at the shop, even tried to recreate it only to wind up with results I wouldn’t serve my worst enemy. Maybe there was a missing magical ingredient.
Murder, Magic, and Moggies Page 7
