Talbot-Lloyd shrugged. “Fair enough. So you don’t need me to bring my rifle and sort the problem out for you?”
The palms of my hands itched. I longed to pluck a hex out of the air. For one wild moment I contemplated a spell that would melt Talbot-Lloyd down into a puddle of wax that I could shape candles from. I’d enjoy burning those for the rest of my days.
Instead I swivelled away from him, staring pointedly forwards; resisting the urge to turn back and slap him when he laughed at my rather obvious ire.
Eventually after another twenty-five excruciating minutes I made it to the counter and handed over the messages to Santa as well as a couple of business letters of my own, then I pushed past Talbot-Lloyd so that I could hot-foot it back outside into the freezing December air. Relieved to be free of the stultifying atmosphere inside, I sucked in a lungful of oxygen with evident relish.
“Better?” Mr Bramble, sitting on a wooden bench and waiting patiently for the queue to go down, chuckled.
“Much better,” I laughed with him. “Brrr. It’s certainly not getting any warmer, is it?”
“That sky is laden with snow.” He poked his walking stick up at the thick milky-white cumulus above us.
“Do you reckon?” I didn’t. I smiled down at Mr Bramble. He appeared increasingly frail to my eyes, and I worried about him. He was an older gentleman, but he had always been so fit and active until the events that had unfolded at the Psychic Fayre in April.
“I do.” He winked at me. “You don’t need to be a witch to read the weather, young Alf.”
I laughed.
“Did you get your letters posted?” he asked me. I’d shown him the letters I’d be posting to Father Christmas when I’d spotted him on the seat on my way inside earlier.
“I did.” Thinking about letters reminded me of the ones from Roy to Linda Creary.
Mr Bramble had lived in the village his whole life. “Did you know Linda Creary?” I asked him. He looked surprised at the sudden change of subject.
“No.” He shook his head. “She was the young woman found in the forest the other day, wasn’t she?”
“That’s right.” I thought for a moment. “Not so young. Maybe you knew her by a different surname?”
“I didn’t meet her, so I’m afraid I don’t know whether I’d have recognised her.”
“No.” Why should he have? I tried a different tack. “What about someone named Roy? Lives at Bishop’s Cottage on Rectory Lane.”
Mr Bramble smiled. “Yes, yes, I know Roy. We were at school together. Well… I was in the same class as his brother. Roy’s a few years younger. He’s not been well for a long time. You never see him around the village anymore. He was a good cricketer back in the day though. Very sad. He lost his son, you know. In the Forces, he was. Then his wife left him. But that was a long time ago too. He has to have carers in now to help him with his dinner and cleaning and stuff.”
“What’s his surname?” I asked.
“Lear. As in King Lear.”
“Roy Lear,” I repeated. “Do you think he would see me?”
“Yes I’m sure he would. By all means pop round. He’s a friendly chap. I ought to go myself.” He laughed. “You’ve made me feel guilty now, Alf.”
“It’s the time of year we all need to check on our neighbours,” I said, thinking of Mara the Stormbringer living deep in the forest with only her faery changeling for company. I should make an effort to visit her too.
“That’s so true. Pass on my regards to Roy, Alf, and tell him I’ll come and see him before Christmas.”
“I will do,” I promised.
I intended to make visiting Roy a priority, but firstly I needed to ensure the few workers I still had at the inn were managing. Millicent had agreed to help us out for a few days, until hopefully either Florence or Monsieur Emietter were well again.
That was assuming ghost influenza wasn’t as deadly as the 1918-1919 super virus, and they were both going to get well, of course.
I tried to think positively as I walked back up the drive to my wonky inn, and also to consider all options. Okay, I wasn’t the world’s greatest cook, but I could do things on toast for lunch, and in my younger days I had eaten—and therefore cooked—a great deal of pasta. Even now, the kitchen always had pasta available on the menu, although to be fair, Monsieur Emietter always prepared it from scratch. I couldn’t stretch to that, but I knew Whittle Stores kept some decent dry stuff on their shelves. Add a tin of tomatoes and a few teaspoons of dried herbs et voila! Cordon bleu, Alf style.
But when your guests have checked in for the festivities and all you can offer them is student grub, you have a problem. I needed my ghosts to get well, and quickly.
Coming out from the shelter of the trees bowing over the drive, I rounded the corner and stopped and stared. On the lawn in front of the inn, in the exact place where The Great Witchy Cake Off marquee had once stood, was a cart. Not the kind of cart I’d imagined—flat bed and open to the elements—but much more like a Romany caravan with a proper roof. Nearby, a ghost Shire horse grazed on—I could only imagine given the heavy frost—ghost grass.
Dr Quikke had arrived.
That put a spring in my step. I dashed forwards, running onto the frozen grass, which crunched beneath my feet. Skidding to a stop, I could only admire the cart. Decorated with brightly coloured wording and illustrations, it looked like something straight out of a Victorian newspaper advert.
‘Remedies for all your ills!’ announced the largest legend on the side of the cart, painted in bright red. ‘Dr Quikke’s Cigarettes for the Blessed Relief of Asthma’ claimed another. ‘Chloride of Ammonia Inhaler to provide relief for Catarrhal Throat and Ear Affections, Loss of Voice and Bronchial Asthma’ said a third. ‘Mineral Waters!’, ‘Electric Corsets!’, ‘Cocaine Toothache Drops!’ and underneath an impressive depiction of a woman with long flowing goddess-like hair, ‘Dr Quikke’s Hair Rigour Lotion to restore Length, Shine and Vitality!’
Dr Quikke was no medical specialist. The good doctor was a quack.
“Why my dear, Lady Alfhild!” Dr Quikke parted a pair of red curtains and appeared on the steps of his cart. What a difference five guineas makes. He had donned a decent wool suit in a mix of dark plaids, a maroon silk cravat and an impressive top hat. He waved a silver tipped cane my way. “Can I interest you in my Snake Oil Liniment? Supplied directly to me by our sympathetic cousins across the pond? Or I have some ‘Much Improved Arsenic Wafers’ that will clear the complexion and promote sleep that might suit you?”
Promote sleep? I pulled a face. Arsenic? Surely that would only promote eternal rest. “Er, no,” I said, “Thanks very much.” I hurriedly shook my head and slid a little closer to the front of the cart to get a better look at what he had inside. Shelves upon shelves of glass bottles and small cardboard boxes, decorated tins and paper-wrapped packages tied up with string.
“Dr Quikke—”
“What about ox-blood tablets?” He produced a large jar of red tablets, studied the label and then tossed them back. “Wait, no. You won’t need those. They’re to build up thin people.”
I glared at him. “Dr Quikke!”
He gestured around at his goodies. “Cocoa? Chocolates? Both very good for relieving the effects of the moon. No? Condensed mince-meat?”
“Dr Quikke!” I roared. “Have you come down here on false pretences. You know exactly why I invited you here. I have an inn full of very sick ghosts. They have influenza. Your sole purpose—” I wagged one finger, “—that is, the single most important reason you are here at Whittle Inn, is to help me make my ghosts better.”
“All in good time. All in good time.” Dr Quikke produced a small brown bottle. “First things first. We need to do something about that agitation of yours. It’s not good for the heart or the brain. I’m a true believer that most human afflictions start in the head.” He pulled the cork out of the bottle. It made a satisfying popping sound. “What I have here are ‘Effervescent Brain
Salts. The Quintessential Method for Reducing Nervousness in Womankind’.”
“By all that’s green!” I stamped my foot. “I am not agitated. Or nervous.”
“You could have fooled me,” Dr Quikke quipped.
I plucked my wand out of my pocket and levelled it at him. I would never have lashed out in anger of course, no matter how furious I was feeling, but the sight of it in my hand and poised ready to strike made for a useful threat. It stopped the doctor in his tracks.
“Very well, very well,” he grumbled and returned the cork to the bottle.
“So what do you have?” I asked, stepping closer to the cart so that I could peer inside. “Anything that will cure influenza?”
“That’s a thorny problem, isn’t it?” Dr Quikke removed his top hat and tossed it deeper into the interior of the cart. I spotted a bunk bed inside, draped with red velvet curtains. It reminded me of my time at the Psychic Fayre. What a snug little caravan that had been.
“But one that’s surmountable, I’m sure.” I sounded more confident than I felt.
Dr Quikke scratched his head. “The thing is, ya see, there isn’t an actual cure for influenza as far as I know.”
I groaned. Of course. In his time there hadn’t been. Come to think of it, in my time there still wasn’t. How many times had I been forced to rely on fluids, rest and generic painkillers? Had I gone to Tumble Town on a wild goose chase? Was there no way to make my ghosts feel better?
“What painkillers do you have?” I asked him. “Anti-inflammatories?”
Dr Quikke rummaged on his shelves. “Deadly nightshade? Pure arsenic? That’s a good one.”
I whimpered, completely out of my depth when it came to the healing properties—or otherwise—of the herbs in abundant supply on Dr Quikke’s wagon. I needed help.
“Stay here,” I ordered him, not that he looked as though he was going anywhere. Dobbin munched contentedly on his ghost grass and paid no attention to me. “I have someone who can assist us.”
Millicent wiped her hands on her apron as she listened to me babbling on about Dr Quikke. “Please help me,” I begged.
“But Alf,” she gestured around at the trays of food she was preparing. Lamb chops with parsnips and carrots in a mint sauce gravy, chicken breasts with shallots and chunky quarters of braised cabbage, a spicy bean hot pot. On the stove, several large pans containing potatoes boiled merrily away, while a red wine and lamb stock reduced in a large frying pan. “I’m already helping.”
“Oh you are, you are!” I grabbed her by her upper arms. “You’re a goddess-send, you really truly are. But Dr Quikke is here with a wagon full of poisons and I don’t want him ministering any of his quack remedies to my ghosts and killing them off once and for all. I need you to guide him.”
Millicent stirred the pan of sauce. “Can it not wait twenty minutes or so?”
I danced on the spot. “It could I suppose, but I’m frightened he’ll take off.”
“Has he been paid?” Charity asked. She was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and her laptop, going through the reservations for the next few days.
“No, not yet. I’m going to have Penelope manage the transfer of his money from the inn’s bank account because he wants to be paid in old money. Pre-decimalisation. By over a century.”
“If he hasn’t been paid yet, he won’t go anywhere.” Charity nodded, a knowing look in her eyes.
I slumped in place, misery radiating out of me. “Alright.” I sniffed in disconsolation. “I just want my ghost friends well again.”
Millicent laughed and shook her head. “Alf dear. What will I do with you?”
“Help me?” I asked in my most pitiful voice.
Millicent beckoned Charity over. “If you could just stir this for a few minutes until the sauce is smooth and thick and then turn it off for me.” She pointed at the timer on the big oven. “When the buzzer goes off, the oven is hot enough for these trays. Put them all inside. Make sure the hot pot goes on the top shelf.” She tapped the lid of one of the saucepans. “Keep an eye on these. Don’t let the potatoes get too soft.”
“Got it.” Charity said and gave me a smug look.
“I owe you!” I blew her a kiss.
She smiled with evil intent. “Thank you. I’ll have Christmas Day off.”
“I don’t owe you that much!” I said, although to be fair, I owed her far more. “Try not to burn the kitchen down,” I shot over my shoulder as I exited the kitchen.
I waited while Millicent grabbed her coat, scarf and gloves and then led her through to the front of the inn. She paused on the steps to take in the sight of the cart with its glorious signwriting announcing its world-famous cure-alls.
“My goodness,” she muttered, and followed me out onto the lawn.
“Dr Quikke?” I called, and he stuck his head out of the door. “This is my friend Millicent Ballicott. She’s a witch, and a complete whizz at creating magickal potions. I’m hoping that between the two of you, you can come up with a way to create a medicinal potion that will be…” I glanced at the poster nearest me, “extremely efficacious in every way.”
“But she’s not dead,” Dr Quikke protested.
“Quite right,” Millicent replied. “Not yet a while.”
“She doesn’t need to be,” I explained to him. “Millicent will tell you what you should put in the potion and how to mix it up, and you will use your skills,” I made a leap of faith that he actually possessed some, “to create the finished product and then we’ll try it out on a guinea pig.”
“A guinea pig?” Dr Quikke looked bemused.
“She means a willing victim on temporary release from the hospital ward in the attic,” Millicent told him and after a moment, although he still appeared a trifle confused, he nodded.
“What do we start with?” Dr Quikke asked. “I have foxglove? Hemlock?”
Millicent visibly shuddered. “My good man, we’re trying to make people well here, not send them to the grave. We need things that nurture. That boost immunity.” She poked her head inside the cart. “Vitamin C. Huge amounts of it is what we’ll need to start with. Do you have any?”
“Vitamin C?”
Millicent sighed. “Yes. Do you have anything with a lot of lemon or orange?”
“Ooh!” Dr Quikke reacted with delight. “Orange peel?” He rummaged among his stores and produced a tin. “From Spain!”
“That’s a great start. Now we need ginger?””
“Yes, I have plenty of that.”
“And garlic.” Millicent pointed to the strings hanging from a nail in the ceiling of the cart.
I relaxed. This might actually work.
“We should also be thinking about making a chicken broth,” Millicent was saying. “The sooner we get that on the go the better.”
“I don’t have any chickens unfortunately,” Dr Quikke said, his face dropping as he looked my way. “I didn’t factor chickens—or butchery—into the bill.”
“You don’t have the wherewithal to make chicken soup? What kind of a doctor are you? It should be your stock in trade.” Millicent tittered. “Get it? Stock in trade?”
I clamped my lips together to stop myself from laughing out loud.
Dr Quikke shook his head, obviously non-plussed.
“Never mind,” said Millicent. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Alf has ghost chickens out the back. You’ll just have to kill and pluck a few.” This oddity was true. In the wake of the filming of The Great Witchy Cake Off I’d ended up with both live chickens and ghost chickens taking up a corner of the grounds out the back. I swear the inn was increasingly becoming a smallholding.
Somewhere a smoke alarm began going off. Its incessant beeping suddenly wormed its way into my brain. I looked back at the inn with alarm. Charity had been left in charge of the kitchen. What had we been thinking? If she ruined supper, Millicent would not be impressed.
I took a few hurried steps towards the front door. “Erm… Mills?” I called
back. “You seem to have it all in hand. I’m going to leave you two to it. And… ah… check on Charity.”
Millicent, otherwise engaged with instructing Dr Quikke on how to make chicken soup, waved me away.
Only Dobbin regarded me with interest as I scampered back inside my wonky inn.
Fortunately Charity hadn’t burned the inn down, she’d simply set a piece of toast alight.
I grabbed the oven gloves and retrieved the grill pan from under the toaster, scrutinising the charred item in puzzled curiosity. “What, by all that’s green, were you cooking here?”
Charity pulled a face. “A bizarre request from Gandalf. Toast smeared with set honey and sprinkled with sugar, which he wanted caramelised under the grill.”
Caramelised doesn’t usually mean burned, I thought, but bit my tongue. Maybe Charity and I both needed some cookery classes. Instead I grunted. “I’m telling you, that faery is on a one-way ticket to the diabetes clinic. I’ll go up and see him.”
“He went out the back. He’s gone to see Rudie.” Charity turned her attention back to the pots on the stove and started stirring things. “If you’re following him out there, please can you take this tea he asked for?”
I collected the teacup and saucer from the side.
“And yes, if he asks, it does have nine sugars.” Charity shuddered.
“Eww!” I grimaced and opened the back door to let myself out. “Back in a minute.”
I’d wanted to interrogate Grizzle about what we’d found in the cave. For sure he’d been there with the reindeer. Who else would have eaten all those sweets and all that rubbish? I felt certain it had been him I’d seen in the woods that night, so he had to know more about Linda’s death than he’d let on.
But any antipathy or annoyance I had towards the little faery dissipated as I approached the reindeer. I paused for a few seconds and watched as they stood nose to nose. Grizzle at less than half the size of the creature, nuzzled the reindeer’s forehead, whispering soothing words to it. I smiled to see them, both apparently friendless, but happy in each other’s company.
Witching in a Winter Wonkyland: A Wonky Inn Christmas Cozy Mystery Page 12
