by Nancy Warren
“He was beaten. Not too badly, but enough that the church heeded the warning. He still argued that he wanted to stay and continue his work, but his superiors decided to take him out of harm’s way.”
“And so the church sent him to Moreton-under-Wychwood.”
“Exactly.”
Politics were everywhere it seemed, even in the church and the witches’ council. We all had to abide by rules set by other people. I understood how Philip Wallington must feel, but I didn’t see how his London work was relevant to what had happened at Alice and Charlie’s wedding. “Wouldn’t these crime lords be happy to get rid of the zealous vicar? He’s gone. They’ve won. Why kill him?”
“Because getting rid of him permanently sends a pretty strong message to other do-gooders. You see, he’s quite famous in certain circles.”
“It seems wrong that someone who tries so hard to do good should be targeted by the forces of evil.”
He looked at me with a quizzical expression on his face. “And yet, it happens.”
I knew this was true. Still, I didn’t have to like it. “So your theory is that he was followed from London by these bad dudes? And they went through this elaborate beam-crashing exercise to stop him from helping addicts?” I thought it seemed a bit far-fetched.
“Think about it. Most of the guests at this wedding were from London. It’s been on national news. They could be sending a message.”
“Did Theodore happen to find out whether any crime bosses or their known associates were in Moreton-Under-Wychwood on the day of the wedding?”
“He’s still looking into that.”
“I don’t know. My money’s still on Sophie Wynter. You saw her sobbing through Alice and Charlie’s wedding service. And then she slipped out before it was over. She definitely had time to run around the church, sneak into the organ loft and drop that beam. And it wasn’t Rupert Grendell-Smythe she was aiming for. It was Alice.”
He looked unconvinced. “It’s not that I don’t think she would’ve done Alice a mischief if she could, but this crime was planned before the wedding day. Sophie Wynter doesn’t seem strong enough to have sawed through that beam. She had help.”
“What about that brother of hers? Boris. He’s a burly, rugby-playing, thick-armed muscleman. He could have done it. And he left the church with her.”
“I suppose he could. But would he really kill his sister’s rival? It’s taking brotherly love a bit far, don’t you think?”
“I never had a brother, so I wouldn’t know. It seems pretty crazy to me. But then, maybe he’s as crazy as she is.”
“The trouble is that there could be several people who were the real targets. It makes finding out who the murderer is a bit more challenging when we’re not certain of the victim.”
As I had many times since the wedding, I went over in my head who’d been near enough to that beam that they could have easily been killed. “What about Charlie’s parents? They were also in the line of fire. If Charlie’s mother hadn’t had the lightning-quick reflexes to throw her husband out of the way and herself on top of him, they’d have been crushed too. What has Theodore discovered about them?”
“The truth is, Lucy, everyone has their secrets. No doubt, Charlie’s parents have them too. So far, we haven’t unearthed anything that would suggest them as targets for murder. They were friendly with Rupert Grendell-Smythe and his wife and the families of all those young men who stood up with Charlie. They all lived in or near Wembley.”
I was so frustrated. First, because I was constantly plagued by low-level worry about Alice. Sophie and Boris were still staying in Oxford. I wished they would go away. That black widow spider should go back to the middle of her own web and stay away from Oxford.
I’d done my best to put a protection spell on Alice. I’d also given her a special present from me to her. It was a pretty crystal necklace of amethyst, lapis lazuli and obsidian. The stones in themselves had protective properties, but I’d ramped it up as much as I could with protective spells. The result was a powerful amulet and, fortunately, Alice was sentimental enough that she wore it all the time.
Poor Alice and Charlie. Not only had their wedding been badly marred by Rupert Grendell-Smythe’s murder, but they’d decided to postpone their honeymoon as well.
The newly wedded pair should have been happily wandering the book stacks of the greatest libraries in the world but instead were still here in Oxford. I was upset when she first told me they weren’t going away, as I’d believed at least they’d be safe when they were far away on their honeymoon. However, neither of them had wanted to abandon Alistair so soon after the shock and horror of losing his father like that. They weren’t the kind of people to complain about their bad luck, but I knew they felt somehow responsible because the death had happened during their wedding.
And so they stayed on in Oxford. Alistair remained because the police weren’t releasing his father’s body yet. His job had given him compassionate leave. Sophie and Boris stayed on, and I had no idea why. They didn’t seem worried about missing work. Did they even have jobs? I suspected that Sophie wanted to be near Charlie in the vain hope that in the aftermath of the tragedy, he and Alice would break up. I could’ve told her that wasn’t going to happen, and now that Alice and Charlie had talked frankly about Sophie and Charlie’s past relationship, I didn’t think that Sophie was any threat to the relationship. If anything, knowing Alice’s soft heart, she felt nothing but compassion for Charlie’s ex, even though the woman was horrible to her.
Wellesley, Nigel and Giles had also decided to stay on. Wellesley seemed to have assistants who could do most of his work. Giles was also in banking, but he’d managed to take holidays, and Nigel was a book editor who had told his associates he’d be working remotely.
Beatrice ended up remaining in Oxford as well. I didn’t think she’d intended to, but she was the sort of person who didn’t like to be left out. If everyone else from the wedding party was going to remain, so would she. She worked in social media so she could also work remotely.
Even though I was worried about Alice and Charlie, I still had a business to run. I couldn’t spend all my life hovering around the newlyweds trying to keep them safe. I’d given Alice the protection amulet, and I’d enlisted Violet’s help in putting a protection circle around Frogg’s Books. There wasn’t much more I could do, unless I could solve the murder, which, as usual, was more difficult than it appeared.
I still believed that Sophie Wynter was the one with the greatest motive to harm Alice, but I had learned from experience that I shouldn’t focus on a pet theory to the exclusion of any others. Therefore, I was keenly interested in what Theodore could discover about the backgrounds of other possible suspects and other possible targets. Maybe someone other than Alice or Rupert had been the real intended target. Well, at one point, I’d believed it was me and that Rafe’s beloved wife had tried to kill me.
I still felt bad about that. One of these days, I was going to take some flowers to Constance’s memorial stone and apologize in person. It didn’t matter if she couldn’t hear me; she’d been a fellow witch, and we had Rafe in common. Even, if he was to be believed, some sort of family connection. I didn’t want to be on bad terms with the first woman Rafe had ever loved, even if she was nothing but a long-departed ghost.
So I wondered about the rest of the wedding party, as well. Could one of Charlie’s or Alice’s friends have been the real target?
And why?
One of the things I’d discovered about murder was that the motive was rarely obvious or straightforward. Often it was a hurt or anger that had festered unexamined and unshared for years, sometimes decades. Then something made the anger, the ill will, the fear or the hatred flare up. That was another reason why I was so suspicious of Sophie Wynter. Her motive was so beautifully clear. She’d been in love with Charlie for decades; she was quite literally crazy about him. The hope that had kept her going was that one day she and Charlie would end up together.<
br />
Thanks to a fortune-teller she’d met at a charity event. One who no doubt told her what she wanted to hear. We only had Sophie’s word for it that the fortune-teller had predicted she’d end up with Charlie. I wouldn’t put it past Sophie to make the whole thing up.
No matter how she’d come by that notion, though, she definitely had it bad for Charlie, and that made Alice her enemy.
But it was a long way from obsession to murder. Did she hate Alice enough to kill her? Rafe was probably right that if she had dropped that beam, she hadn’t done it alone.
When Violet and I found ourselves alone in the shop, we talked about the murder a lot more than we talked about new stock that I should be ordering or the classes we should be setting up for winter.
We were careful, though. The minute we heard those cheerful bells announcing a customer, we’d immediately change the subject to something knitting- or crochet-related so as not to freak out the paying customers. And so it was, that Thursday afternoon, we were in the middle of speculating about how far Sophie Wynter would really go to try and recapture Charlie’s affection when the cheerful bells rang as someone came into the shop.
We stopped talking at once, and I suggested that we should change the window display to feature Halloween. The British never used to celebrate the great candy-grabbing holiday. Instead, they celebrate Guy Fawkes Night, which was a big bonfire night with hardly any dressing up.
Halloween was a lot more fun if you were a kid. And, as with so many other things, the influence of North America grew stronger every year. Now it was quite common to see little children dressed up like ghosts and goblins on October thirty-first out knocking on doors, asking for candy.
Since I was an American, I felt perfectly comfortable promoting this wonderful holiday on behalf of children everywhere. Besides, big, fat orange pumpkins, black cats and full moons made for an interesting backdrop to warm, chunky knit sweaters, gloves, hats and scarves.
At the same time, I launched loudly into ideas about the window display, Violet began talking about our next set of lessons. It must’ve sounded rather strange to walk in on two entirely different conversations while there were only the two of us in the shop. We both turned at the same time to see who had entered.
I think we were both surprised to discover that it wasn’t a regular customer. In fact, it wasn’t a customer at all who stood there looking around rather uncertainly. It was Alistair Grendell-Smythe. We both hesitated a second too long. I was trying to come up with the appropriate greeting, and I suspected Violet was doing the same. Then, at the very same moment, we both moved forward toward the man. I said, “Alistair. What a nice surprise.”
And Violet said, “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
Since Nyx had, in fact, taken advantage of him opening the door to scoot in at the same time, there was just enough truth in her teasing line to make us all laugh.
He seemed as though he wanted to turn around and leave as quickly as he’d entered, and perhaps he would have if Nyx hadn’t decided he was good for some affection. Or perhaps she felt his sadness and wanted to give him some affection. Whatever the motive, she began to butt her head against his ankle and rub up against his trouser leg.
“I hope you’re not allergic,” I said.
He shook his head. “No. I like cats.” He leaned down and scooped her up. I could tell that she liked him from the way she immediately scaled his chest and then crawled over his shoulder and hung there.
I usually only saw her do that with Rafe. So I could say with confidence, “She likes you.”
“Animals usually do.”
We witches exchanged glances. Violet didn’t seem to know any more than I did what Rupert’s son was doing here. His red hair was all over the place, and he needed a shave. He’d only planned to stay in Oxford a few days, and he’d been here going on two weeks, so his clothes looked creased and worn too many times. “You’re not a knitter, are you?”
“No.” He petted Nyx in long, slow, gliding strokes from her blissed-out head to her twitching tail. By giving her all his attention, he didn’t have to look at us. “I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m going crazy.” He looked at Violet with the shattered eyes of someone who wasn’t sleeping properly. “I remembered how nice you were to me at the wedding. After. I mean, when it happened.”
She took a step closer to him. “Of course.”
“I was wondering if maybe I could take you for lunch or tea. I just want someone to talk to.”
It was eleven-thirty in the morning. Too late for coffee and too early for lunch, but Violet didn’t have set break times, and she tended to do what she pleased. She said, “Actually, I’m very hungry. Lunch would be wonderful.” She looked at me. “You don’t mind, do you, Lucy?”
I was way too pleased to think she might ease Alistair’s grief. “Go ahead. I was only going to start working on the window display anyway. I can do that and take care of any customers we have. Have a nice lunch.”
She went to fetch her purse. I asked Alistair, “How are you doing?”
He shook his head and opened his mouth as though searching for the right words. “It’s like I’ve been kicked. I took a soccer ball to the solar plexus once. That’s what this reminds me of. I wake up and I wonder what this terrible pain is and then I remember.”
There wasn’t much I could do for him, but I could help him sleep. After seeing the success of Violet’s energy tea, I’d been practicing making my own selection of medicinal teas. There were plenty of recipes in my Grimoire. I modified one, tweaking a little valerian root here and chamomile flowers there. It was wonderful for helping a person drift off to sleep and helping them get back to sleep when they woke in the middle of the night. I knew, since I’d been practicing on myself. Alistair wasn’t the only one who woke in the night still traumatized by what we’d witnessed at the wedding. I suspected that if I took my own sadness and multiplied it by a thousand, I might come close to what this recently orphaned son was feeling.
“I’ve got some nice calming herbal tea. I’ll send you home with some. Make sure you have a cup before you go to bed. It will help you sleep, I promise.”
I wanted to offer him my washing machine, but maybe that was too familiar. No doubt his hotel had some kind of service and it hadn’t occurred to him to use it. Laundry probably wasn’t high on his priority list.
“I’d be truly grateful.”
When Violet returned with her purse, I could see that she’d also taken the time to comb her hair and freshen her makeup. Alistair said, “I know it’s only next door, but do you mind if we go to the Miss Watts? They’re so comfortable, and I’ve known them for such a long time.”
I watched them leave, and as I did, I sensed a closeness there that was more than just someone who was grieving wanting to talk to someone who was a good listener. Out of this terrible tragedy, I wondered if love might bloom. I just hoped Violet would have the sense to take things really slowly. Alistair wasn’t in the best emotional condition to begin a new relationship, and Violet tended to rush things.
As they left, I had another thought. The Miss Watts had served those boys tea and breakfast when they’d been undergrads at Cardinal College. Why hadn’t I thought to ask the ladies next door what they knew? They’d been around a long time, and I suspected they knew quite a bit about the men who’d made up Charlie’s wedding team.
I decided to pop next door myself today and subtly question the Watt sisters. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before. I’d be seriously concerned that I was letting my client down if anyone ever actually paid me to be a detective.
Chapter 15
When I walked into Elderflower Tea Shop later that afternoon, I realized I wasn’t just here to be nosy about Charlie and his friends when they’d been undergrads. I needed good company and the sustenance that only a proper English afternoon tea can give a person. I needed scones and clotted cream and the Watt sisters’ homemade strawberry jam, along with a pot of stro
ng English tea served in a flower-patterned teacup. I was having my second lesson in broom flying that evening. I needed the sustenance and the good cheer.
The Miss Watts might not fuss over me quite as enthusiastically as they did over Wellesley and his friends, but I still received a flattering amount of attention. They were like honorary great-aunts to me, Florence and Mary Watt. They’d been very good friends of my grandmother’s, and I had helped them when a murder was committed in this very shop. So it was perfectly natural for me to suggest that they sit down and join me in a cup of tea. I’d chosen my time carefully, when I knew it wouldn’t be too busy. The three of us sat down together, though Mary Watt made sure her seat was facing the entrance to the restaurant so she could jump up if any customers should arrive.
They had a kitchen helper, they told me, a young woman from Paris. Mary, who was in charge of the kitchen and prided herself on serving the best scones in all of England, said, “Lisette is a very nice girl. She trained at the Cordon Bleu.”
“Wow.” I glanced at the blackboard, hoping to find a few French-inspired meals, but the menu remained the same as always. The most French-sounding thing on it was quiche Lorraine.
“I’m sure she’s very good with snails and frogs’ legs,” Mary said, her lack of interest in ever tasting either of those dishes being evident in her tone. “But they don’t teach them much in the way of scones at the Cordon Bleu. Still, bless her, she’s very willing to learn. And I have high hopes that she will improve.” She shook her head. “I just wish she wouldn’t keep trying to push new menu items at us. Tourists come here for good British standbys. They don’t want foreign food. They can go to the continent if they want that.”
I sincerely felt for that poor young woman in the kitchen trying to bring some Cordon Bleu flair into the Miss Watts’ lives. My stomach hoped she’d prevail, but my common sense suggested I should be grateful that Miss Watt’s scones were so good.
As I reached for one, Mary leaned forward and said softly, “Don’t you worry, dear. I baked the scones that we’ll be eating. Lisette’s getting better by the day, but she hasn’t quite got my touch. Not yet.”
