A Very British Witch Boxed Set

by Isobella Crowley

  God, I’ll never hear the end of this.

  Scarlett threw off the bedcover, tested the floor with her feet, and shambled into the bathroom. She was wearing a white tee shirt and panties, and to get to the bathroom she had to step over the high heels and pants on the floor, the vestiges of last night’s outing.

  She flicked on the bathroom light. The harsh glare stung her eyes, sparking a flash of fire in her head. She fumbled for the light switch again to turn it off, and caught a glimpse of her hand.

  She stopped. Something was odd about her hand. Different, out of place. Her fingertips felt rough. She examined them finding some kind of dark material under the fingernails.

  Mud?

  No, that couldn’t be right.

  Why would she have mud under her nails?

  She quickly scrubbed at her hands in the sink, again thinking back to last night. Had she fallen down? Drunk, perhaps? She wracked her disorientated mind trying to remember.

  Of course, it might not be mud at all. More likely it was food, from something she ate. Dessert maybe, like a brownie or cookie? Had she really fallen that far off the diet?

  Sliding one fingernail under another, she scooped out a small sample of the dark matter and brought it to her tongue for a taste. It was gritty and earthy.

  Mud, she confirmed, spitting it out into the sink, and trying not to gag.

  She quickly scrubbed at her hands and brushed her teeth and checked herself for bruises. In the mirror she saw that her hair was a matted mess, her face puffy.

  Nice going, Kate Moss!

  She struck a pose with her toothbrush still in hand, making fun of her wayward, non-catwalk appropriate look.

  As least she was otherwise passably clean.

  Skip the shower, she thought. No time. She needed to open the shop.

  If she hurried, she might still get there before Karl arrived.

  She forced a reluctant brush through the Gordian knot of her tangled hair, then stepped out of the bathroom and crossed to the closet to find some clean clothes she wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen in.

  She noticed her clothes on the floor. High heels, pants, top. The high heels looked dirty. She picked them up and noticed mud around the edges. Her pants from last night were dappled with muddy splotches too.

  She wouldn't have walked through the damp woods or a muddy field in her high-heeled shoes. It didn't make sense. But then again, last night was fuzzy.

  Worry about that later, she told herself.

  She gathered up her muddy clothes and threw them in the laundry basket, then opened the closet to find something to wear, but as she raised her hand to rifle through the hangers she saw a fresh streak of mud on her arm, which must have rubbed off from her pant legs. Then she found some more on the back of her left leg.

  Dammit! Sorry Karl, she thought, and hurried into the shower.

  +++

  After the fastest shower in history, she thundered down the stairs, still pulling her top on over her second arm, and headed straight into the kitchen.

  She’d idly noticed that Amanda’s bedroom door was half open, which meant her roommate already left for work without waking Scarlett.

  Thanks, Roomie, she thought sarcastically.

  In truth, Amanda always woke up much earlier. She worked at Greggs bakery and her morning hours were insane. Scarlett often heard the sound of her leaving in the pre-dawn hours, but this morning she’d slept through those noises too.

  Hurriedly, Scarlett popped some slices of bread into the toaster, letting them crisp as she hopped around the kitchen, pulling on her shoes and gathering her things at the same time. Pulling on her last shoe, she over-balanced and intent on getting the shoe over her foot, she stumbled into the kitchen worksurface.

  “OOOOOooooowwwwww!” she howled out loud, whimpering and rubbing her bruising arm, despite there being a lack of audience to witness her tribulation.

  Arm stinging, and still whimpering to herself dramatically, she buttered her toast, wrapped it in a paper towel, tossed the knife into the sink, and grabbed her purse from the where she’d dumped it on the floor seconds earlier.

  She headed out of the back door, flouncing, toast in hand, banging her other hand on the doorframe on the way.

  “Jesus, FUCK!” she muttered to herself as she pulled the door closed behind her and then stumbled past her car in the driveway and headed out onto the street.

  It was a short walk to the wine store. After the morning’s drama, she was only ten minutes late opening the store, and no customers were waiting outside. That wasn’t unusual, but she still found herself sighing with relief.

  She shoved the now-cold toast into her mouth, tucking the paper towel into her pocket while she unlocked the door.

  She glanced up and down the street. There were people around. Going about their day, presumably having a much better day than she was.

  But something else bothered her. Karl was nowhere to be seen.

  He was normally pathologically punctual, but he hadn’t opened the store even though she was late. Strange, but also a relief. He was a condescending prick at the best of times. Best not to give him any more fodder.

  She stepped inside, turned on the lights, and flipped over the welcome sign that hung inside the glass door. She keyed her passcode into the security system then crossed through the shop where their vintages and varietals were on display. Passing rows of wine bottles and decorative barrels, she headed straight into the back room.

  At the office desk she checked to see if there were any phone messages, but no one had called. She doubled back to the show room and opened the register. She counted and logged the cash on hand, then stepped to the kitchenette in the backroom. She filled the kettle with water from the cooler, then set the kettle on the hotplate and set it to boil. She grabbed a mug from the cabinet and dumped a teabag into it.

  PG Tips… That will get her head straight. A nice, solid caffeinated mug of-

  The phone rang in the shop. She paused her private tea ceremony and went to go answer it, hoping that Karl had left her some milk in the fridge.

  "Bicester Vintners. Scarlett speaking. How may I help you?"

  "It's me.” Karl's voice. She smirked with mild superiority. He was late. And she was here!

  "Scarlett. I'm running a tad late this morning."

  "Is everything all right?" she asked with honest concern.

  Not that it mattered much either way – he didn't really do much when he was there. Scarlett was perfectly capable of handling the business by herself. If anything his faffing and interfering got in her way.

  "Yes, fine, fine,” he muttered like a doddering professor. “Something came up. Nothing for you to worry about. I'll be there in a bit. Ooo and make sure you take those Cabernets on the front table off half price. I thought I mentioned it to you yesterday, but they were still on when I left last night."

  And with that, he hung up.

  She replaced the receiver and eyed it suspiciously. Then her face dropped.

  “Wanker,” she mouthed at it, comically.

  Scarlett returned to the kitchenette to finish making her tea. She stirred her teabag calmly, about to gather her thoughts.

  A tinkle of the front doorbell distracted her again.

  She sighed, pulled the teabag from the mug and dumped it in the trash, then headed through, wiping her fingers on her pants legs.

  "May I help you?" she asked as she stepped through into the shop, before even seeing who it was.

  At first, she saw no one and assumed it was a false alarm. It happened sometimes that people stepped inside and stepped right back out, especially if they saw no one at the register. And there were a couple of bratty kids in the neighborhood who liked to run down the sidewalk pushing open all the doors just to hear the bells and startle the proprietors. She was dying to catch one of them doing it.

  Her thoughts meandered to what she might do if she ever got ahold of-

  "Yes, actually." A tenor voice interrup
ted her dark musings.

  Startled, Scarlett turned to the sound and saw a young man in a military uniform standing on the other side of the discount Cabernet bin near the Pinot Noirs. He held his beret in its hands.

  Taken aback, Scarlett opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

  Her mind whirled trying to get a handle on something to say.

  When he stepped out from behind the promo she needed to fix, his boots struck heavily on the carpeted floor, and Scarlett got a better look at him. Apart from some graying around his temples he looked young enough to have just graduated college, with an ambitious gaze that seemed to take in everything around him. He had close-cropped sandy hair. His uniform was green and brown camouflage, and it bore two stripes on the blue shoulder lapels.

  Flight Lieutenant, she thought. Royal Air Force.

  From his posture he seemed to be a man ready and willing to take charge.

  He had a thin, chiseled face with brown eyes. His cheeks were tanned unevenly, as if he had stood at attention too long in the sun. He wore glasses and no wedding ring. In one hand he held a manila folder.

  “My name’s Tim Clarke, ma’am,” he told her.

  “Scarlett Slater,” she answered robotically, then launched into her standard patter, picking up on his seeming interest. "We have one of our best Pinot Noirs on sale today…" The words fell from her mouth, but didn’t seem to synch with her actual intention as she stood mesmerized by the handsome stranger.

  Doofus! she thought kicking herself, again scrambling in her mind for some intelligible words to say.

  He stepped up to the counter. "I'm actually here on official business."

  Scarlett’s mind stopped scrambling for ways to impress him and was now paying full, professional attention.

  The base was close by, and often soldiers came into the shop. She was used to seeing men in uniform. But none were this…striking. Plus, none had ever approached her on “official business,” whatever that might mean. She felt a slight thrill at the prospect, and more than a little concern.

  He must have seen it in her eyes, because he amended his prior statement. "This is just routine, ma'am."

  No one had called her ma'am before. She was only twenty-eight, and looked five years younger. His politeness made her feel more mature, like a real adult.

  Like really old.

  He continued. "Do you have a moment?"

  Now he was being too polite, she thought. Obviously she had a moment. They were the only two people in the store, and she was paid to be here.

  "Of course," she said, hoping to regain some elegance with a casual, nonchalant wave of her hand.

  He placed the manila folder on the counter, and opened it. Scarlett saw documents inside, stapled white pages and a few printed photographs.

  He took out the top photo, turned it around to give her a better look, and placed it on the countertop in front of her.

  "Have you seen this man?" he asked.

  The man in the photo looked to be in his fifties, or possibly his sixties, pale and gaunt with long gray hair like a werewolf, or a nutty professor. He seemed vaguely foreign, but she couldn't pinpoint it on a map. Had she seen him before?

  She wasn't sure.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t think so. Is he connected to the wine industry?”

  “As a drinker, I suppose.” He hesitated, as if considering whether he should say more. Then he did. “He’s a writer.”

  “Someone famous?”

  “Bill Knight.”

  Scarlett didn’t recognize the name. She studied the photo some more, wondering if she’d ever seen his face in print, or on the back of a book, or next to some newspaper byline.

  “Journalist?” she asked.

  “I believe so, yes. He was down here on research for a book. He’d been a professor up in Nottingham I believe, but the last few years he’s been a freelance writer. Bit of a gadfly, according to my commander.” The Flight Lieutenant stood at ease now, warming to the conversation. “He was working on a book.”

  That piqued her interest. “Oh, you know, I love to read. I read all the time.”

  He shifted his weight and seemed to relax some more. “Me too. In the barracks, I’m always the one with my nose in a book. That’s probably why they chose me for this assignment. I’m not normally the door-knocking type.”

  She smiled. “The door-kicking type, I imagine.”

  He laughed, showing his teeth, and nodded. “It’s all in the training, ma’am.”

  Score! She made him laugh.

  She caught herself dropping out of character - the cool, casually-together kind of person she was trying to portray and with a more serious demeanor brought him back to the subject at hand. “You say he’s writing some kind of book.”

  “Well, he hasn’t written the book yet. And now… maybe he never will.”

  “Writer’s block?”

  “Missing. Possibly dead.”

  She felt her gut tighten. “Dead,” she managed.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to alarm you.” He blushed. “I must admit I’m new at this. What I should have said was, this is a missing persons case. At the moment. Officially. That’s what I should have said.”

  She pressed a hand to her chest. “Well, that’s some comfort, then I suppose.” She dropped the hand, realizing that it was something that Amanda said was overly-dramatic.

  The Flight Lieutenant continued, oblivious to the way she was trying to manage herself. “Mr. Knight was visiting our base on assignment. Interviewing people, asking questions.”

  “About what?”

  “Local history, mostly.”

  “Of Bicester?” She frowned, confused. “Not much to say about Bicester, is there? Nothing ever happens here worth writing about, not in the big scheme of things, anyway. Unless you want to go back to Roman times, I suppose. Sure, we’ve got the Roman baths for the tourists to gawk at. Medieval churches. That’s some history. What was he after, do you suppose, this Mr. Knight?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am. I’ve probably said too much already.”

  “I see,” she said, pretending to be more detached than she actually was.

  She studied the photo some more. To Scarlett, the missing writer looked a bit like a professor, like one of those Oxford dons she sometimes chatted with in the store.

  Come to think of it, there was something familiar about this man, this Mr. Knight. Perhaps she really had met him somewhere, in town or in transit, or someplace long ago. Thinking on it now, that somehow felt true. If only she could remember where…

  “You think he might have come into my shop, then, do you?”

  “We’re asking everyone in the area, ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “I have a hunch he may have been out drinking last night.”

  “Ah,” she said. “So you’re specifically interested in the local pubs and liquor stores.”

  “That is correct, ma’am.” His posture was more formal now, as if remembering his mission. “I suspect he may have had too much to drink last night, then checked himself into a hotel.”

  “Did you talk to the Bicester Hotel and the–”

  “Yes, ma’am. I did. They have no record of him. That’s why I’ve been canvassing the area this morning, to see if any of the locals saw him last night.”

  “I wish you good luck, then,” she said, and slid the photo back to him.

  He ignored it and kept looking at Scarlett, studying her eyes. “If you don’t mind my asking, ma’am, where were you last night?”

  Last night?

  Her throat tightened. She honestly couldn’t say. Because she couldn’t rightly remember.

  To avoid the man’s gaze, Scarlett glanced back down at the photo between them.

  And then it hit her.

  The dream…

  The teeth…

  The body on the ground…

  She could feel sweat under her armpits. It was getting warm inside the store.

 
Pull yourself together! she chastised herself.

  She met the man’s eyes with hers, and fashioned her face into a mask of calm. “No, I’ve not seen him.”

  He nodded, seeming to accept the lie and not press the fact that she didn’t answer his actual question of her whereabouts.

  He pulled a card from his front pocket and handed it to her. “If you think of anything that might help us find him, please don’t hesitate to call.”

  She studied the card for a moment, still processing the new information. When she looked up Flight Lieutenant Clarke was turning away from her, and putting his beret back on.

  He walked out of the shop.

  When he was finally out of sight, Scarlett let out a deep sigh and leaned against the counter for support.

  Oh, bloody hell… she exhaled under her breath.

  This was bad. She didn’t know why or how, but it was really, really bad.

  A strong cup of tea, she reminded herself. She had completely skipped her morning tea. No wonder I’m so flustered.

  More than just tea, she needed someone to talk to, and right away.

  Scarlett headed in the back room-cum-office-cum staff room and fished her phone from her purse. She texted Amanda, her flat mate. “Can you meet for lunch?”

  She waited, but there was no answer.

  Scarlett continued waiting, standing quiet and alone, unable to shake the horrible feeling of her nightmare coupled with a new anxiety.

  Chapter Two

  Bicester Vintners, Bicester, England

  All Friday morning and early afternoon business had been brisk, but Scarlett had been standing at the register now for more than four hours without a break, ringing through orders, altering promotional material, and answering questions.

  She hadn’t even had time to finish updating the price promotion on the central bin that Karl had forgotten about until that morning. Every time she was about to change the promotion though, she was interrupted by a customer.

  An American couple was reading the label on a bottle of rosé. Three Chinese women were huddled by the brandy. A local older gentleman was haunting the cabernets.