by Ellen Jane
She could do that. She could move here, get her PI licence, and have regular dinners with Cian’s family. She could be that person.
If this meeting with the kidnappers turned out to be a trap and she wanted to save her girlfriend, she would have to be.
The rain cloud gave off one last thunder clap, and then all the rain stopped. Heather sighed, wishing she had the chance to wallow just a little longer, but there was no point. The cloud had got it right. She was already unconsciously bringing herself out of it.
“Okay,” she said out loud, looking at Teddy, who cocked his head to the side as he listened. “Sinéad will be okay. It doesn’t matter that we don’t know who the kidnappers are yet; we know what they want, and Sinéad has a plan to give it to them. Somehow.” Lucifer whined, and she patted his head absentmindedly. “Fine, so we’re ninety percent sure we know what they want.”
A clap of thunder sounded in front of her. She lifted her head and narrowed her eyes at the small cloud that still hadn’t left. It no longer seemed full of rain. Instead, it sparked with lightning.
“Seventy percent sure.”
The cloud thundered.
“Twenty percent.”
Lightning cracked through the room so loudly Bear leapt to her feet, howling, and fled the room with Teddy chasing after her.
“Fine!” Heather yelled. “Sinéad is wrong and she should have told me before leaving and running into danger!”
It was really hard to ignore your feelings when a dramatic rain cloud refused to quit reminding you of them.
The cloud gave one last, smug flicker of lightning and disappeared.
“All right then,” she said through gritted teeth, closing her eyes to focus. “One lead at a time or it will all get tangled. The jewellery lead doesn’t add up. If someone kidnapped me and my family because of a few jewels tucked in my safe at home, I’d give the jewels up in five minutes. Whatever the Dunnes took, whatever is making this abduction drag out so long, it’s apparently worth endangering themselves and their son over.”
So, what other leads did they have? Her eyes snapped open.
It wasn’t a lead, but they did have one thing. If the jewellery lead was wrong, it meant the jewels were probably planted. She had to tell Sinéad, but Sinéad had insisted any contact could be dangerous.
Heather crossed the room to the sink, where the teapot from yesterday was sitting ready to be rinsed out. Amongst all the chaos, she hadn’t bothered to even empty the diffuser. If Sinéad were here, she would have wrinkled her nose in disgust. Heather plucked the tea ball from the pot, shook the errant drops of old tea free, and walked back into the room with the painting. She might not have a twin connection with Sinéad, but after so many months together, she damn sure knew how to communicate without words.
“Sinéad,” she said to the painting. “The jewels were planted. I need you to contact me.”
Her words fell into the quiet of the room, earnest and firm. She tried to place as much emotion into them as she could, willing the protection spell to listen to her and communicate where she couldn’t.
After only a few seconds, her phone rang.
“Heather?” Sinéad’s voice came down the line. “Is everything all right? That raven you sent me just had a fit.”
Heather couldn’t speak for several moments, relief making her choke as laughter bubbled out of her.
“Heather?” The panic rose in Sinéad’s voice, and Heather forced herself under control so she could answer.
“Everything’s fine. I’m just certain the jewels were planted.”
Sinéad fell silent for a moment. “You’re sure?”
“If you give me an hour, I can run to the house and check.”
The hesitation in Sinéad’s tone was palpable. “Isn’t it a bit dangerous to go alone?”
Despite everything, Heather burst into laughter. “You’re kidding me, right? You get to run off and play hero, but I’m not allowed?”
Several seconds passed before Sinéad responded, sheepish, “That’s a fair point.” A rustling noise came down the line, presumably as Sinéad sat down. “Well that makes what I’m doing now kind of pointless.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’d rather not say, just in case it’s still needed.”
An idea began to form in Heather’s brain. She couldn’t interfere with Sinéad’s plans, but it didn’t mean Sinéad couldn’t do something for her.
“While I’m checking out the house,” Heather said slowly, working it through as she spoke. “Could you look into something at the police station for me? I figure you still don’t want me near what you’re doing, or I’d go myself, although…” She couldn’t help smiling. “You’re better suited to this bit than me.” The sadness Heather expected to hear in her voice as she said the words was absent. Instead, she only felt pride and a determined sense of purpose—both for Sinéad’s talents and Heather’s own plan.
“What do you need?” Sinéad offered without hesitation.
Heather’s heart grew warm. “Can you get hold of the anonymous tip-off that got Mr Amberville put away? We know it came from the Dunnes, and since this jewellery thing is being used as a setup, I’m wondering if there’s a clue in there.”
Sinéad laughed softly. “You don’t ask for much, do you?”
“Only what I know you can do.”
“Consider it done.”
Heather wished she could stay on the phone all night, listening to Sinéad’s voice, but more important things demanded their time: lives, criminals, justice. They said goodbye and promised to reconvene in an hour.
Heather took a deep breath. If she were to be the kind of person it seemed she was becoming, the path probably began with actually doing the detective work she couldn’t escape. She had a few short hours before the kidnappers expected to meet Sinéad at the house, so she needed to act now. She stood up and searched for her keys and purse, making sure her spell kit was with her as well.
She would go back to the Dunnes’ house and find the missing clue that would make everything fall into place. At the last minute, she slid the framed photo Sinéad had taken into her bag. She could at least return that while she was there.
In Heather’s mind, the smarmy voice of Mr Branson mocked her, but she told him silently where to stick it; she’d spent enough time doubting herself. Heather took a moment to search for all the confidence and surety she’d built up last Christmas, grab hold of it, and make sure that this time she believed it.
When she arrived at the house, there was no one around to see her slip beneath the police tape and enter through the back door. She hadn’t seen inside since the police cordoned it off, and Heather stood frozen in the doorway for several seconds before entering. The place was a mess. Furniture and possessions were tipped over across every walkway, and at least one window had been smashed.
Heather gaped at the sight and then carefully picked her way through the debris to the kitchen. As she’d suspected, the safe was wide open this time, left that way from when the police had opened it and taken the jewels away as evidence. She peered inside, but it was empty. Reaching into her spell kit, she fumbled around until she found the small jar of revealing powder. The house was silent, the only sounds her own shallow breathing and the occasional creak in the walls as she drew the jar out and sprinkled the powder onto the rim of the safe.
After a moment, it glowed blue. The powder twisted into vines, curling up the sides of the safe and budding into jewels. Heather grinned in triumph. It was the same magic she had found on her phone and on the letter—a gardening witch’s magic—and she was already certain she had the culprit. It all fitted. Mr Williams was the only one to have seen the house between their first visit and the police finding it ransacked. He’d even said he was at Mr Amberville’s when the police made the arrest and collected the evidence; it was the perfect opportunity to steal the jewels.
Why did Mr Williams want to keep Ryan’s secret so hidden? Was it truly that much
of a mutation? And how would planting the jewels achieve anything?
Swearing under her breath, she made her way upstairs, where the upper landing was just as destroyed as the lower level. She still had half an hour before Sinéad would call. Heather held her breath in anticipation for what the study would look like and opened the door.
It was awful. Every book had been pulled from the bookcase and thrown onto the ground, and it looked as though a whirlwind had come through to send all the papers flying. Heather knelt down and began to sift through them, not sure what she expected to find but determined to uncover anything she had missed. She skimmed the articles once more—the jewellery heist and the murder of Mr Smith—but found nothing new.
This time, however, the postcard from St Ives caught her attention.
Theodore,
So sorry you had to leave early. Our cards night is short a player; you know how I do appreciate your excellent poker face. I’ll be home Wednesday. Please call.
John
“John Carey,” Heather murmured to herself, turning the postcard over and over in her hands.
The first time she had read the postcard, it seemed so innocuous. Now she knew more about the history of its writer, it sounded much more like a threat. I do appreciate your excellent poker face could very easily translate to keep your mouth shut.
“I need to find out what happened at St Ives,” she said firmly, setting the postcard down and rifling through her bag for something to help her. She didn’t have her tried and true If Walls Could Talk spell—and boy, would she make sure she never ran out of that after this holiday—but hadn’t she been working on a way to retrieve lost memories?
Her fingers landed on the small block of beech, and she drew it carefully out and set it on the desk.
The wood was smooth beneath her fingertips, carefully sanded back and smoothed not only by its preparation but by the number of times Heather had turned it over in her hands, studying it, hoping it would be the answer.
She supposed it was an answer after all, just not to the question she had planned for.
Heather placed the postcard on top of the block of beech and stared at it for long seconds. She’d had no success using her cooking magic to create a link to lost memories; there was no combination she could imagine of herbs or spices or ingredients that would bridge the gap between past and present. Cooking magic was solid. Comforting. It lived in the present moment and present moment alone, quickly decaying otherwise; it didn’t translate to the concept of memory.
But carpentry did. Buildings stood the test of time, marking ages lost and people forgotten long after their deaths. Heather wondered if Cian was right, if the line blurring witch from sorcerer and magical talent from ordinary talent wasn’t as strong as she had always been told. Her parents had been carpentry witches, and she knew what they would do in her situation.
She took out her pocket knife from her spell kit, normally used to chop up herbs, and began to whittle out a small notch at one end of the beech. When it was done, she whittled out another next to it. Then another. And another.
The wood began to resemble a rudimentary calendar—the kind humans carved long before more sophisticated mediums were available. Notch after notch. And the postcard began to glow.
Heather kept carving as voices filled the room. An image appeared on the postcard of the Smiths and the Careys drinking champagne on the beach with the Dunnes, who she recognised from the framed photo in her bag.
“Theo, I’ve no idea how you can get that son of yours to be so studious,” Mr Smith said ruefully. “Rose was never that way inclined. Rebellious from the second she appeared on this earth, I’m afraid. I wish I could get to the bottom of her latest boy drama.” He rolled his eyes. “But she’s so close-lipped on the matter. Something isn’t right about it.”
“I don’t get Ryan to do anything,” Theo answered, a touch firmly. “He follows his training because he wants to.”
“He’s keen to follow in the noble tradition?” There was a hint of amusement to Mrs Smith’s voice. “Surely the boy has more modern interests of his own?”
Mrs Dunne spoke. “Just because a practice has been followed for centuries doesn’t mean it’s incapable of change,” she said with an air of pride. “Ryan has developed his own methods. He’ll be quite the trailblazer once he’s initiated.”
“I’m sure.” Mrs Smith smiled over the top of her champagne glass and took a sip.
The scene merged into a new one. This time, Mr Dunne and Mr Carey were alone. Mr Dunne sat in his chair, thumb smoothing idly over the wallet in his hand as he flipped it open and closed again, fidgeting.
“You can’t keep on with this, John,” Mr Dunne insisted, looking down at his hands instead of at Mr Carey. “Look at the girl. She’s young enough to be your daughter!”
“She’s twenty-eight years old, Theo!” Mr Carey’s voice was smug. “Hardly a child.”
“And what about your wife, then? This is a shockingly inappropriate way to act.”
“Like you don’t have any deep, dark secrets, Theo?” Mr Carey shot Mr Dunne a knowing look, and Mr Dunne fell silent.
“They’re hardly the same.”
“Two children, Theo. Don’t you ever wonder where they went?”
“I know where they are.”
Mr Carey’s eyebrows shot upwards. “And you haven’t been in touch?”
“I doubt they’d want to hear from us.” Mr Dunne’s voice was heavy with emotion. “We’ve thought about reaching out to them, but I don’t see it happening unless it’s a matter of life or death. In which case, who else do you trust but family? Old rifts be damned. Otherwise, I’ll let them continue living their lives.”
He flipped the wallet open and left it that way, staring at the photo inside. Heather recognised it immediately; it was the same photo Sinéad had taken from the house that first night.
Something niggled at her at the sight of the photo, but before she could grasp hold of the thought, the postcard shimmered and a new ghostly image appeared on it: the two men were smoking on a balcony overlooking what appeared to be a fencing tournament. Heather looked over the balcony and recognised Rose Smith, her fencing mask discarded as she held her weapons—what appeared to be a main weapon and a much smaller off-hand weapon—high in victory.
An official appeared and murmured a spell over the sword, and a transparent image of the last few seconds of the match appeared and replayed before their eyes in slow motion, proving Rose the winner.
The image shifted and Heather saw Mr and Mrs Carey instead, sitting on the end of a bed.
“How could you, John?” Mrs Carey asked, her face held in a stiff, unreadable mask. “You’ve brought disgrace onto this family. And with her? No one must know.”
Mr Carey stood abruptly and crossed the room to pour himself a drink. “Theo knows.”
“What?!”
“He saw us. Don’t worry; he won’t say.” He paused for a moment before adding. “George suspects. Theo says he saw him poking about.”
Mrs Carey’s face blanched. “He’ll murder you, John. You know he won’t stand for his daughter acting out.”
Mr Carey turned away, shoulders stiff. “Let him try.”
The image shifted once more, but it was silent this time, showing only the Dunnes and their son piled into their car. Their faces were tight with tension and no one spoke.
Heather put down the knife, and the image disappeared. Her ears rang in the sudden silence of the room, and she struggled to put together what she had seen.
The Dunnes discovered Mr Carey’s affair last summer, and yet, when Heather and Cian had called them out on the first lie about the shoddy workmanship, Mrs Carey said their argument had actually been because the Dunnes found out about her husband’s affair and insisted he come clean. It was already November; summer was months ago. What’s more, Mrs Carey had broken down in front of them, questioning how the Dunnes had learned of it, but she knew how. Theo had seen Mr Carey during their ho
liday. She even knew who it was, and she had insisted to Heather she didn’t know that either.
The Careys were lying, pretending they knew less than they did.
Her eyes drifted to the window, and she imagined she could hear the sound of bees buzzing just as she had last time she stood in this study, looking outward.
After a second, she realised she was hearing actual buzzing, and she pulled her phone out of her pocket to answer it.
“Sinéad?”
“You were right; the report is strange.” Sinéad didn’t waste time. “The Dunnes reported exactly where Mr Amberville kept the jewels, right down to the number of the floorboard his safe was hidden under. Didn’t the public report say Mr Amberville got lazy and left jewels out? How did the Dunnes learn about the safe, then?”
“They know too much,” Heather agreed.
“I guess there’s no point in me continuing to paint this picture of the jewels, is there?” Sinéad laughed. “I took a photo of the evidence, and I’m nearly finished painting a spell that will make the kidnappers think they’re holding the real deal, but I may as well stop now.”
They were back to the same question: how did the Dunnes know so many secrets? Heather stood up, coming to rest at the windowsill and stare out into the night.
She could neither see nor hear anything from the world below her except for the faint silhouettes of the hives. The plaque on the wall opposite the window was reflected in the glass, so that its proclamation appeared to be printed in mysterious backwards lettering. Keepers of the Final Message.
It sent a shiver down her spine as she recalled how Albert had explained the roles of the keepers and the bees themselves—a bridge between our world and the afterlife. Keepers kept the bees; bees kept the secrets.
Heather blinked. Secrets of the dead. She had thought the plaque referred to the final message of mourning passed on by the keepers to the bees, but what if it didn’t? What if it meant the final message of the dead, passed from the spirit to the bees in the hope it reached the living? If the bees kept the secrets of the dead in those last moments between death and the final journey, it would make more sense for that to be the final message.
