by Nancy Warren
I asked Rafe the question that had been bothering me ever since the lights came on after the blackout and I realized that one of our number was dead. “Rafe, I locked the trapdoor, but is there any way one of the vampires could have come up when the lights were out?”
He looked down his nose at me as though offended I would think his vampires had so little power. “Your flimsy lock wouldn’t keep one of us out. But we all knew it was your knitting circle night, so I can assure you that none of us even attempted to come up that way.”
Well, that was what I’d thought, but it was still a relief. “Then I don’t understand. I locked the front door, and I’d have heard if anyone had come in. That means that someone in that contented little knitting circle is a killer.”
“Yes, I think that is the obvious conclusion.”
“But who? And why?” Two excellent questions, if I did say so myself.
“Can you think of any reason why anyone in that knitting circle would’ve wanted that woman dead?”
“No. Sarah Lawson really did look mortified when Priscilla fat-shamed her for eating a hamburger and french fries, but that’s about it.”
Rafe’s sensitive nostrils flared. “Fast food is an abomination to the senses.”
I thought someone who drank blood for breakfast, lunch and dinner wasn’t really in a position to judge. “And Eileen was offended when she said her beloved grandson had a brain the size of a tadpole.”
Rafe looked quite interested. “Does he?”
“He’s about a month old. Probably.”
I thought of them all in there, still knitting. “Would it take much strength to kill her?”
He considered my question. “I shouldn’t think so. She was old, not expecting an attack. I should think anyone in that room could’ve done it.”
I was surprised. “Even Joan Fawcett?”
“Which one is she?”
“She’s the other old lady. The one who was burned by the tea.”
“Yes, if she was motivated enough, I should think she could.”
“But the strongest one in the room had to be Hudson.”
“Any reason he might want her dead?”
“He seems nice enough. He and Sarah Lawson are quite friendly. Could it have been a chivalrous act?”
One of Rafe’s eyebrows went up. “If so, then that young man needs lessons on chivalry.”
I leaned back against a wall of wool, which had a comforting feeling, as though the wall was giving me a hug. “Could the murder have been premeditated?”
He shook his head. “The power went out on the whole block. It was caused by the windstorm. No one could have planned that.”
“So it was definitely a crime of opportunity.”
“I would say so. Possibly the murderer had planned to take Priscilla Carstairs’s life this evening and had another method in mind.” He began to pace. “But then why not use it? Why take such a risk? The lights could’ve gone on at any moment. No, I believe it was done on impulse. Think, Lucy. Priscilla Carstairs must’ve said or done something this evening that caused her murderer to rise up.”
I felt helpless. “It was only the usual chitchat that relative strangers share with each other.”
“I don’t like to leave you, but Clara and Mabel will keep you safe. Unfortunately, they’ll be forced to stay for the police investigation.”
I hadn’t thought about how awkward it could be if Clara pulled out her birth certificate that said she was more than a hundred and fifty years old. “Will they pass?”
“Oh yes. All of us have valid identification. However, since I wasn’t part of the knitting circle, I should leave before the police arrive. But do call me if I can do anything.”
“You can put your exceedingly large brain to work on trying to figure out who killed Priscilla Carstairs and why.”
He nodded. “I’ll find out everything I can about her. What do you know?”
“What do I know about Priscilla Carstairs?” I thought about the dead woman. “She was an excellent knitter. She’d been a prima ballerina, or so she said. She was very proud of her dance career. She’d been coming to the knitting circle because she was widowed.”
“Any children?”
“No. She said it wasn’t compatible with a dancing career. She was the only person who was knitting things for herself. Everyone else was knitting holiday gifts.” It suddenly struck me how sad that was. “Imagine having no one who would want your beautiful knitted garments.”
He made a rude noise. “There are plenty of charities that would be only too happy to have warm items to give to the homeless and the destitute.”
I knew he was right. The vampire knitting club turned out enough knitted hats and socks and sweaters and blankets to keep most of Oxfordshire warm throughout the winter. They donated a lot of their hand-knitted goods to charity.
“So we know she wasn’t charitable. She was thoughtless of other people’s feelings, and she seemed very selfish. She even admitted to having a ruthless streak back when she was a ballerina.”
“That’s quite a bit to go on. I’ll start doing some research. Meanwhile, I’ll keep my phone on. If you need me to check anything else or you just need me—” He looked me intently. “You can call me anytime.”
He wasn’t just saying those words. I knew he meant them. And as much as I wanted him to stay, I also knew he was right to leave before the police arrived. He and Detective Inspector Ian Chisholm didn’t always see eye to eye. I suspected the fact that I’d briefly dated Ian had something to do with it.
Rafe tilted his head to one side. “I can hear the police cars. They’re on their way.” He touched my shoulder. “I’ll come and see you when they’ve left.”
He slipped out the front door, and I locked it behind him. Not that I was too worried about dangers from outside, not when it seemed I had a murderer on the inside.
Safety in numbers, I reminded myself.
So long as the lights stayed on.
I went to fetch the first-aid kit, the one that had no magic ingredients whatsoever, and took it into the back room.
As I walked in, I realized that I knew who had killed Priscilla Carstairs.
I just didn’t know how to prove it.
Chapter 8
I retreated back to the shop and then quickly ran upstairs to my flat and picked up my phone. I could hear the police cars pulling up as I rapidly texted Rafe, asking him to check two pieces of information for me.
Then, slipping my phone into my pocket, I returned downstairs.
I opened the shop door to the two detectives who were standing there. Detective Inspector Ian Chisholm gave me a baleful look—and who could blame him? This was not the first time he’d been called to my shop because of a dead body on the premises. I was beginning to think the shop was cursed. Again, not for the first time.
As soon as this was over, I was going to ask the witches in my family who were more powerful than I to come by for yet another cleansing.
Ian probably didn’t believe in curses, but I was sure even his rational mind boggled at being here again because of a suspicious death.
He didn’t waste any time on chitchat. “This is Sergeant Barnes.” I nodded to the redheaded man. “Tell us what happened.”
I did, as best I could, explaining about the knitting circle and the suspicious death. Ian’s gaze never left my face, but I tried not to let it unnerve me and to explain the facts as succinctly as I could.
He stopped me halfway through my recital. “Wait. Perhaps we’d better see for ourselves.”
The paramedics came in right behind him. He signaled them to wait, and he and Sergeant Barnes went ahead and into the back room. All the knitters were in exactly the places where I had left them. There was low-voiced conversation that stopped as we entered.
Ian looked all around the circle once and then twice before even identifying which was the dead woman.
He called in the paramedics, who came in with a medical kit. I was su
rprised he didn’t ask us all to leave the room, but he didn’t. So we sat and watched as a doctor examined Priscilla.
Weirdly, I waited anxiously for the verdict, even though I was positive there was no life left in Priscilla Carstairs. Sure enough, after a short examination, the doctor looked up at Ian and shook her head. Then I finally accepted that Priscilla Carstairs was dead. Murdered during a knitting circle.
Now, Ian asked us all to move into the front part of the shop. The police photographer arrived with the forensics team, who greeted me by name. Honestly, you know you’ve been involved in too many deaths when the forensic people know your name.
The photographer brought in strong lights, and with the light and sounds of activity coming from behind the curtain, it was as though they were making a movie back there. I only wished that were true.
We stood around awkwardly among the walls of wool and table of Christmas knitting displays. “I don’t want to take you all down to the station.”
Hudson said in a panicked tone, “No. I have paper due in the morning. I’ve got to get home to finish it.”
Ian looked at me, and I could practically read his thoughts. He was contemplating asking me if everyone could go upstairs to my flat. The only problem with that idea was that I would be hosting a murderer in my home. However, since I’d already had that person in my back room all evening, I didn’t think I had a lot more to risk. “I’m willing to have everyone come upstairs to my flat if you’d like.”
He looked grateful and relieved and at the same time worried. But since it was the most practical solution, he agreed. I opened the door leading up to my flat, and the knitters headed up that way. Ian held me back with a hand on my arm. “Thank you, Lucy. I’ll make sure and keep you safe. If necessary, I’ll have an officer assigned to protect you until we have the perpetrator in custody.”
I appreciated his concern for me. In fact, I appreciated a lot of things about Ian Chisholm. In some ways, he was the light to Rafe’s darkness. Still, our brief dating experience hadn’t turned out that well. Not that it was entirely his fault—he’d been the victim of a love potion gone wrong, but even so, I couldn’t change history. Much as I might like to.
Hudson was helping Joan Fawcett into the most comfortable chair when I got to the top of the stairs with Ian Chisholm. My lounge wasn’t terribly big, and there wasn’t enough seating for all of us, so I went to the dining room and fetched some more chairs. As people began to settle themselves, Ian said, “I want you all to sit in exactly the same order as you were downstairs.”
I looked around, and strangely, we had instinctively done that. I moved my wooden chair beside Sarah Lawson. And then, with a heavy heart, placed an empty chair where Priscilla Carstairs would have been, between Eileen and Joan.
Ian sat just outside our circle, and Sergeant Barnes stood with his notebook open at the top of the stairway. I strongly suspected that there were more officers downstairs should the killer try to make a break for it.
Ian began. “Normally, I would interview each of you separately, but due to the peculiar nature of Priscilla Carstairs’s death, I’m going talk to you all at once. I want each of you to listen to the other person’s interview and let me know if you hear inconsistencies or have anything to add. It’s very important to try and remember everything that happened, in the order it happened.”
He didn’t say that one of us was a killer, but I think we all realized that by now. These were nice people I’d knitted with, sold wool and magazines to. I hated to think of them harboring violence while they’d browsed through my wools, but it must be true. He looked around at us all. “This is where you were sitting?”
We all nodded.
He started by getting each of us to go through the evening as we remembered it. He began with Sarah Lawson. She looked nervous, and her color was up. She talked about bringing in her hamburger and how mean Priscilla had been to her. But then she assured him that even though she’d been hurt by the dead woman’s unfeeling remarks, she wouldn’t kill anyone.
“And did you know Mrs. Carstairs before tonight?”
She looked around at all of us helplessly. “Well, yes, of course. We’ve all been coming to this knitting circle for several weeks. It’s not always the same people, but I’ve knitted with Priscilla Carstairs on several occasions.”
“And before that? Did you know her?”
“No. We never met.” She made a face. “Once this knitting circle was over, I would’ve been perfectly happy never to see her again.”
It was probably a stupid thing to admit to the police, but on the other hand, her honest admission made her sound more innocent.
I asked if Ian would mind if I took care of Joan Fawcett’s burn, as I was still lugging the first aid kit around and hadn’t had a chance to treat her scald. He said that was fine. I moved closer to Joan and opened my first aid kit.
Ian asked Sarah Lawson exactly what she’d experienced when the lights went out. “Take your time and be as specific as you can.”
She took a moment and closed her eyes before beginning. “It was a shock. One minute I was counting stitches on my needle, and the next minute everything was dark. I heard rustling and maybe someone said, ‘What’s going on?’ I can’t really remember. Next thing, I heard a crash and the sound of breaking china. Someone screamed. And then Lucy was telling us not to worry, that she had candles somewhere.”
“And then?”
“And then the lights went back on. It took a few minutes before we even realized Priscilla Carstairs was dead.”
Chapter 9
“When the lights went back on, was everyone in the same spot as before the power cut?”
“Um.” She closed her eyes again and left them closed as though a movie was playing on the back of her eyelids. “Lucy was standing up. Otherwise, I think everyone was sitting in the same spot.”
Ian moved on to Hudson next and got pretty much the same story, though Hudson was able to add more detail. He remembered me and Eileen bumping into each other, and he remembered more of what I’d said. While they were talking, I helped Joan take off her sweater, and I smoothed a topical ointment on the red skin where the hot tea had scalded her left arm. It wasn’t blistered, so I didn’t think there would be any permanent damage. I didn’t want to think of her skin burning in the aftermath of having scalding tea dumped all over it and decided I would make her a cup of my special healing tea after all.
I went to the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. I listened with half an ear as Hudson said he hadn’t known the victim before knitting circle began and he hadn’t noticed anything strange during the blackout. “Though I did hear something odd. The two older ladies sitting beside me were talking to themselves. They said something about blackouts during the war. I didn’t know what war?”
I turned to stare. Clara and Mabel looked guilty. Again. I made a silent vow to ban them from all human knitting circles from now on. Finally, Clara said, “I was talking about my mother. She used to tell stories about the war.”
In a hurry to get back out there, I brewed my special tea and, circling my hand over the cup, quietly muttered,
Let this tea soothing be to one who suffers burning pain.
Take away the sting and let healthy skin remain.
So I wish, so mote it be.
I took the mug into the lounge and offered it to Joan. I didn’t offer anyone else a drink, and no one even seemed to notice. Or perhaps the very thought of tea made them feel bilious.
I resumed my seat. Ian interviewed Mabel next, and I tried to refrain from clenching every muscle in my body with dread. Please let her not tell him things that no human should know, like how she’d actually heard Priscilla’s blood stop pumping and how she’d smelled death. But fortunately, Mabel had the sense to repeat nearly word for word what Sarah and Hudson had said. Clara did the same.
Eileen was next, and as Ian turned his attention to her, I think we were all aware of the empty chair next to her.
; “You were sitting beside Mrs. Carstairs. I want you to think very carefully about what you saw or felt and what you did, during and after the blackout.”
She shrugged her shoulders and looked around the room as though we might all be able to help her out. “I was busy knitting my little grandson a sweater. Because it’s so tiny, it’s very important to get everything right. It’s got a cable pattern, you see, and I was counting, making certain that I had all my stitches in the correct order when the lights went out. I admit the first thing I felt was irritation because I had just worked out exactly where I was in the pattern and now I was going to lose my place.”
“You weren’t frightened or startled?”
“Not really. It was only a power cut.”
“Did you hear anything from the victim?”
“I think she made a sound as though she were annoyed. She muttered something. ‘This is nice,’ you know, in a sarcastic way. I heard rustling like in the theater before the movie starts when the lights go down. Suddenly you’re aware of other people shuffling and sighing and coughing and so on. Then I heard the crash of dishes and things breaking. Joan screamed, and I wasn’t certain what to do. I wanted to get up and help her, but it was so dark, and I was afraid of slipping or hurting myself on something that was broken.
I heard Lucy say that she would try and find some candles, and then I thought I’d better get up and see if I could help Joan. I suppose in the darkness, Lucy and I became disoriented, and we collided with each other. Then, shortly after that, the power went back on. I think in the relief of having our vision restored, none of us realized that poor Priscilla was dead.”
She swallowed, and I could see the shudder go over her skin. “It was horrible.”
As he’d asked all the others, Ian asked her if she had known the victim before the knitting circle began to meet. She hesitated for a long time. The moment stretched too long, until I suppose even she realized that if she pretended now that she didn’t know the woman, none of us would believe it, including the police. “Yes. I did. It was on a professional matter. I really shouldn’t say more.”
