A Very British Witch Boxed Set

by Isobella Crowley

  Of course, it might not be a murder. Maybe Bill Knight died of natural causes, or even suicide, and someone chose to cover it up by burying him in a field.

  No, that didn’t make sense. The only reason to bury someone in a fallow field was to hide the evidence of a crime, and that crime was almost certainly a murder.

  But why would Karl want to kill Bill Knight?

  Scarlett knew of no connection between the two. Bill Knight was some kind of author from the other side of the country, and Karl ran a wine shop. Scarlett had never seen Bill Knight at the wine shop or with Karl. If there was some connection, she hadn’t yet discovered it.

  What about Ronnie?

  She turned her thoughts to her roommate’s boyfriend. Ronnie was sociable, smart, well-connected in town. He sold real estate, which meant he lied for a living, or at least he shaded the truth to serve his own interests. Sure, it’s something everyone does from time to time, but Ronnie had made a profession of it.

  And a very handsome living.

  When Scarlett had accused Ronnie of taking her wheelbarrow, Amanda had jumped to his defense. But that was only natural. Amanda was in love with Ronnie, or as close as makes no difference. She had feelings for him. In defending him, she was defending her own feelings, and her investment in their relationship. There are probably a lot of secrets that Ronnie kept from Amanda. He seemed the type.

  Both Ronnie and Karl had lied to her. Karl lied about the shovel. Ronnie lied about the wheelbarrow.

  Was it possible they were working together?

  A pickup truck zoomed past her, and it reminded her that Ronnie had a pickup. It had been parked in his driveway when she went over. Whoever took the wheelbarrow from the allotment must have moved it in a larger vehicle, like a truck.

  Scarlett knew she needed more information. She felt like she had a lot of puzzle pieces already, but none of them were connecting in a logical way. She needed to find a connection to the burial site. From her reading, she knew that tire tracks were clues that often broke a case wide open. If there were tire tracks left at the farm, that might be the evidence to prove or disprove her theory about Ronnie’s truck.

  I should ask Soldier Tim, she thought. He seemed to like me. Until he pegged me as a murderer.

  Oh hell, she sighed. I’m screwed.

  She was almost startled to see her house up ahead. Her mind had been so occupied that the entire drive home was a blur. She parked in her driveway and went into the house.

  +++

  Karl sat behind the wheel of his parked car a little way down from Scarlett’s house. He watched her go inside. He knew she was going to be trouble. But not this much trouble.

  You underestimated her, he thought.

  He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

  Chapter Ten

  Slater Residence, Bicester, England

  Scarlett ate dinner, alone, and watched the news. Dinner was grilled vegetables and rice with a glass of wine. The news was depressing. She thought she might see something about the body found in Bicester but didn’t find anything on the BBC or the local reports.

  She was cleaning the dishes with “8 out of 10 Cats” droning in the background when her phone buzzed with a text message from Cliff.

  She dried her hands and read the message. “Hey, beautiful.”

  Cliff had dropped in at the shop earlier and tried to hit on her. His juggling act with the wine bottles was impressive, if not a little unnerving. He’d asked her out for a drink, but she hadn’t given him a definitive answer. No encouragement, certainly, but she knew that some men took silence for agreement.

  Or a challenge.

  Scarlett didn’t feel like going out tonight. It had been a stressful day already, especially after confronting Ronnie and Amanda. The food and the wine made her feel heavy. If she met Cliff at the pub she’d have to be bright and cheery and conversational. Just the idea of going out for drinks filled her with a shock of anxiety, though she wasn’t sure why.

  Though, Cliff was charming, and he did seem to like her. There was something about his eyes that drew her in. She did want to see him again, but not for drinks. He had first mentioned lunch and seemed the safer option. But meeting him at the pub…

  The pub, she realized.

  The White Hart.

  An image rose in her mind. She was at the White Hart talking with a man. He was asking her questions. Not hitting on her, really. He was older, full of purpose and he looked familiar.

  Bill Knight?

  No.

  She pushed the image from her mind. It wasn’t real. Tim Clarke had put that thought in her head. Scarlett knew she hadn’t gone to the White Hart last week, and hadn’t met with Bill Knight. The idea was absurd.

  She turned off the television and went upstairs to run a warm bath.

  The water was still running, and she was about to get undressed when her phone buzzed again in the living room. She went to check it, half expecting it to be Amanda apologizing. But it was Cliff again.

  “Is everything alright?” he texted.

  She wondered how many more messages he would send before he gave up, and how weird he’d be about it if she chose not to reply. She hated the implicit obligation that came with texting. An unwanted text was like a spam email, except that if you never replied, suddenly you’re the asshole. It seemed terribly unfair.

  Scarlett didn’t want to chat right now but didn’t want to be rude either. Staring at the letters on her phone, she decided that there was no harm in responding. Cliff seemed sane enough. She didn’t think she’d be talking to Amanda tonight, not after that confrontation at Ronnie’s, and it would be good to chat with someone.

  “Fine,” she replied.

  “You still up for drinks tonight?”

  “Already had mine,” she typed, as she refilled her wine glass.

  “Where are you?”

  “Home”

  “Want company?”

  “I’m going to take a bath and go to bed”

  “In that case, the question stands. :)”

  Shit! The bath!

  She heard water running in the tub. Scarlett raced into the bathroom, glass in hand, slopping white wine on the carpet. The bath was already pretty full. And hot. She shut it off and opened the drain to let some of the water out, almost scalding her hand in the process.

  When she checked her phone again, she found another text from Cliff.

  “Too soon?”

  “Sorry,” she texted back. “Had to take care of something”

  She went back to check the carpet, which was damp from the spill but not discolored. She used a paper towel to dry the spill, then refilled her glass and returned to the sofa.

  “So tonight’s not happening?” Cliff wrote.

  “Not feeling like company right now.”

  “Tough day?”

  “Very”

  “:{“

  “Exactly.”

  She lay back on the sofa, with the phone on her stomach.

  “Not because of me, I hope.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m glad you stopped by actually.”

  “:)”

  Scarlett was starting to loosen up now. Either the wine or the messages were starting to take their effect. Maybe it was the combo. Scarlett was beginning to feel like she could confide in Cliff. “It’s my roommate”

  “Oh?”

  “Amanda. We had a bit of a row”

  “That sucks”

  “Yeah”

  “How long have you known her?”

  “Since college. We’re besties”

  “Then I’m sure you and Amanda will work it out. Friendship is too important to let go for stupid shit, you know?”

  “I do know”

  “I can tell you’re a good friend”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re empathetic”

  “A bit”

  “More than a bit. I sense things about people. That’s what drew me
too you”

  “You mean when you smashed into me on the street?”

  “Haha, no. After that”

  “I’m a klutz magnet!”

  “And I’m the klutz, haha”

  “You are,” she replied. She liked that he could be self-deprecating and yet confident at the same time. It was a fine line, and he seemed to navigate it well.

  The wine was really kicking in now. She didn’t feel like getting up from the sofa. The bath could wait. Her eyelids were getting heavy, but she didn’t want the chat to end.

  “Is that all I am?” he asked.

  “I don’t really know you, do I?”

  “We could change that”

  “We could”

  “If not tonight,” he texted, “then tomorrow? Meet for coffee? I feel like I owe you one”

  She smiled. “You don’t owe me anything”

  There was a pause with no message.

  “Okay,” she typed, “coffee tomorrow. Costa at noon?”

  “Yes! :)”

  “:)”

  “Goodnight, then”

  “’Night, Cliff”

  She set the phone on the coffee table and picked up the math book that was lying on the coffee table. She’d put it there weeks ago. Long before all of this nonsense. She’d seen a YouTube video from some Professor Isham guy about how maths are just windows onto the world. Even though her normal interest lay in history academically, she’d been intrigued enough to Amazon up the little textbook that seemed to be aimed at his undergrads, hoping it might enlighten her further.

  She always got so enthusiastic when she’d had a cup of coffee.

  An enthusiasm that almost always exceeded her long term ability to commit to such a course of study, she confessed to herself, morbidly.

  She flicked on the lamp just over her left shoulder and leaned forward for the book.

  Even if she didn’t understand it, it might still be a welcome distraction. She opened the pages at a chapter titled Lie Groups.

  Here goes nothing, she thought, sinking into what she expected to be, a mindless read.

  +++

  She woke up with just the glow from the streetlights outside. She vaguely remembered switching off the lamp, which of course meant almost knocking it over in her slightly inebriated, sleepy state.

  She shuffled up in her seat, yawning. The orange group theory book lay open on her chest, and fell as she sat up. Carefully avoiding knocking her almost empty wine glass over by her right foot she caught the book and plonked it back on the table, still none-the-wiser of how group theory related to anything in the real world.

  She’d try again another day.

  She smiled to herself, and clicked her fingers at the book, pointing. “Got me to forget about this drama, drama, drama, though, Professor Isham. So, er… thanks for that!”

  The book didn’t respond.

  Obviously.

  She heaved herself up out of the armchair, leaving the glass on the floor, and padded up to bed, feeling a little worse for wear.

  +++

  Bicester Vintners, Bicester, England

  The next morning Scarlett arrived at work early, and adequately caffeinated.

  Karl was already there.

  She waltzed in, feeling much better than she had when she’d left the previous day. She’d even been optimistic enough to grab the group theory book off the coffee table in the living room before she had darted out of the door.

  I must be feeling more positive if I think that’s going to help my life right now! she mused to herself.

  She dumped her bag on the counter.

  I wonder if they have undergraduate math courses in prison? She shrugged. Then again, maybe this was just a form of self-torture she was developing…

  Karl was in the back office with the door ajar. She began setting up for the day, restocking the shelves and opening the register. Feeling decidedly peppier than she had previously, she wondered about confronting him about his strange behavior and what she’d learned from Ronnie.

  Scarlett wasn’t the pushy type. All her life she was the nice, quiet girl who tried not to let things get to her. If she was hurt or offended by someone, she wouldn’t say anything. Better not to escalate things, she’d learned. Because if you called out people for their bad behavior, all too often you only made things worse.

  In the few cases where she did push back, she’d learned it was best to do so in private. That’s how she and Amanda had stayed friends for so long. Whenever there was a spat or misunderstanding, they stepped aside and talked it out.

  It was easier with Amanda, though. They were about the same age, and she was a woman. Women are easier to talk to. Men had such fragile egos sometimes.

  Well, often.

  Ok, so maybe all the time.

  Challenge them and, well, they tended to get overly defensive, sometimes even violent.

  Her imagination flashed and she saw herself as a wildlife reporter, talking to a camera, explaining to the audience at home what it was like out in the wilds, around these creatures called men.

  “Here I am, carefully entering the shop, so as not to disturb him in his natural habitat. The beast is quietly occupied, gathering papers in an attempt to look busy or important. One wrong move, and things could erupt. The male of the species operates on a hair trigger. This was something that helped him survive out in the wilds when…”

  She didn’t think Karl would respond like that, but he did have a huge ego. He could admit he was wrong or made a mistake, but not if Scarlett pointed it out to him. Only if he discovered it on his own.

  Scarlett knew she was running out of time. She needed to talk to him about this before the store opened or decide to put if off for good. If she waited another day, then the urgency of her feelings would slip away, and it would seem more and more ridiculous to raise the issue long after the fact.

  She had probably waited too long already.

  Now or never, she thought.

  She grabbed her bag off the counter and strode through to the back office. She knocked tentatively on the door, imagining herself as a jungle explorer hoping to make contact with the gorilla in front of her.

  “Yes?” Karl said.

  “Got a moment?” She lowered her eyes to the floor, forgetting he wasn’t really a gorilla.

  And she wasn’t Dian Fossey.

  He glanced at the clock. “We open in five minutes.”

  “I know. But I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  He stared at her. “By that look on your face, you want a raise!” He said it mockingly.

  She laughed, trying to establish rapport. “No. I mean, yes, but no, that’s not what I wanted to say. But if you’re offering…”

  “I’m not.” He pointed to the open chair. “Sit. Tell me, what’s going on with you? You seem a bit distracted lately.”

  She sat down. “Do I?”

  “Or troubled.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Something like that.”

  “It’s about the shovel, isn’t it?”

  “Partly that,” admitted. “Something happened last week. On Friday. Do you know who Tim Clarke is?”

  Karl’s face betrayed no expression, but something seemed to change in his eyes. “No, should I?”

  “He came in on Friday, asking questions about a missing person. He said he was asking everyone in the neighborhood. I thought he might have spoken to you.”

  He frowned and shrugged. “This is the first I’m hearing about it. He certainly didn’t speak to me about it. Who’s missing?”

  “Oh, they already found him.”

  “That’s good.”

  “No, it’s bad. Really bad. They found him dead.”

  “Well that’s unfortunate. Was this a friend of yours, then?”

  “No, I never met him.”

  Karl furrowed his brows. He sat back and crossed his arms. “Then why are we talking about this, then?”

  Scarlett paused. She wasn’t sure how much to tel
l him. There was a chance that Soldier Tim would ask her boss about her, especially if she was a suspect. It was better to come clean now. She knew she had nothing to hide. Better to make Karl an ally in this.

  Unless he was the murderer.

  The shovel and the wheelbarrow and the timing of it made Karl a potential suspect in her eyes, though it seemed impossible he would go to such extremes.

  She knew she couldn’t accuse him directly or betray her suspicions. But she had to get the facts from him, if only to clear her own name. And if Karl was as innocent as she was, then he might be her best character witness. He might be able to explain the shovel and the wheelbarrow in a way that cleared both their names.

  “Are you in some kind of trouble with the police?” Karl asked.

  “Oh no, I don’t think so.”

  “But this Tim Clarke, he’s a policeman or what?”

  “Not a cop, no. Military. He’s stationed at the RAF Bicester. Some kind of liaison, I think, but he was investigating Bill Knight before the body was found.”

  “Bill Knight?”

  “He was a professor or an author or something. I don’t think he was a local. He was doing some investigative research in town before he died.”

  “What kind of research?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  Karl’s expression seemed to relax a bit. “Well, if it’s a military matter, I don’t see how it has anything to do with us.”

  “It might,” Scarlett said.

  “How?”

  “I might be a suspect.”

  Karl laughed. “You? A suspect in what?”

  “A murder.”

  He shook his head. “Well, that’s about the craziest thing I ever heard. You’re the last person I would suspect of killing anyone.”

  “Well, tell that to Tim Clarke, then.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “And tell him about the shovel too.”

  Karl fell silent. “The shovel?”

  “And the wheelbarrow.”

  His mood seemed to darken. “Now you’re not making any sense at all.”

  “It’s part of the reason I’m worried,” Scarlett said, talking more quickly now to get it all out before the customers arrived and she lost her courage. “Someone claims they saw me with Bill Knight before he died, which of course isn’t true at all. I never met the guy, and I was home in bed the night he disappeared. But then on Friday I found my shovel here, and you said you borrowed it from me, and then I found my wheelbarrow missing, only it was at Ronnie’s house, and he says you were the one who brought it there and–”