The Mystery of the Marsh Malaise: Wonky Inn Book 5 Read online

  The long-range weather forecast for the summer seemed brighter, so I expected much of the marsh would dry out, but for now this had become my new favourite place to hang out. It brought me a certain level of peace.

  “It’s been seven weeks.” I agitated the water with the tips of my fingers. Several watermen scattered away from me in alarm.

  “And three days.” Wizard Shadowmender joined me at the edge of the pool. He’d been counting as well then. “You are not alone in this, Alf. Never alone.”

  We were all in this together. That’s what Wizard Shadowmender was trying to tell me, and yes, that made me feel somewhat better, but didn’t alter the fact that The Mori seemed to have hit me disproportionately hard. They had tried—and fortunately failed—to take my inn and my land away, but they’d managed to stir up trouble and alienate some of the Whittlecombe villagers who were my tenants.

  And they’d almost succeeded in killing me. If it hadn’t been for the spirit water witches in Whittlecombe’s village pond, then I’d have been done for, that much was certain.

  So because they hadn’t succeeded in finishing me off, they’d taken George from me. And I had no idea whether he was alive or dead, and seemingly, no way of ever finding out.

  “I have eyes and ears everywhere, Alf. I have technical wizards scanning every known electronic frequency. We have reached out to all of our folk on the peripheries—even those we generally hold little truck with.” He meant faeries and vampires.

  I recognized how broad and deep Wizard Shadowmender’s networks were. I knew he was doing his best. But I’d always been impatient, and I desperately wanted to hear some news that would confirm George still lived.

  I dipped my fingers into the water once more. Deliciously cool and clear. I could see tiddlers darting here and there among the reeds. It was shallow nearest to the bank, but rapidly became deeper. In the summer, if enough water remained, and the season turned out to be as hot as it had been when I’d first arrived in Whittlecombe, maybe I’d come out here and skinny dip. My guests from the inn tended not to venture this far into Speckled Wood, so it would be private enough.

  “Any fresh sightings of our friends?” Wizard Shadowmender interrupted my thoughts.

  “A few. I’ve been out most evenings. Finbarr and I have spotted one or two, but always from a distance. By the time we get anywhere close to them, they’ve disappeared.” Finbarr, a weasel-faced witch who claimed to be descended from a leprechaun, had turned into a good and faithful friend. He’d been staying with me at the behest of Wizard Shadowmender for the past few weeks. The little fella could be annoying, like a younger brother, but I was grateful for his presence. We were opposites. He was talkative when I was feeling morose, energetic at all the wrong times of the day, and curious about everything. He never stopped asking questions. When I grew tired of him and told him I needed to be alone, he would bother the ghosts or Charity.

  Everybody loved him though. His eternally upbeat personality and sing-song accent were uplifting. And he’d been a complete boon to me. His magick had proved to be powerful, and he had grown adept at fixing the barrier that Mr Kephisto had weaved around the grounds and the inn to keep The Mori at bay.

  I had never asked him to accompany me on my forays around Whittlecombe, but he always did. At these times he reined in his exuberance, proving himself as a watchful ally, and an acute observer instead. His senses were sharp. He never missed a trick.

  “They must have a base around here,” Wizard Shadowmender mused and I nodded in agreement.

  “The most obvious place would be Piddlecombe Farm as I’ve told you before. That seems to be the locus of a great deal of activity.”

  “But you can’t get close enough?”

  “I daren’t get closer.” The place unnerved me. It seemed indisputable that Piddlecombe Farm was where I’d been held on the night I’d been abducted. And George had been calling me from there on the night he disappeared. The police had searched but found nothing. The farm had been deserted.

  I swished my hand around in the pool, watching the water as it bubbled. I felt the tingle of something—akin to a gentle electric shock—and I stopped moving my hand and waited for the water to settle.

  “If I thought we could get away with it, I’d send in a party of witches one night to investigate, but I’d be worried about an ambush. I need more intelligence first.”

  The water stilled, and I stared down at the silt, a foot or so below the surface. I waited.

  “Alf?” Wizard Shadowmender prompted when I didn’t immediately reply.

  I removed my hand from the water. “Do you think there are eels in here?”

  “Eels?” Wizard Shadowmender scanned the pool. “I shouldn’t have thought so.” He sounded doubtful. “The river doesn’t flow into it, does it?”

  “No. Just a few of the springs.” I shook my hand, sprinkling sparkling drops of water over myself. They clung like crystals to my robes. “I suppose you’re right. There wouldn’t be eels in here.” Were there any other kinds of fish that could give you a little shock? I dipped my hand in the water again and experienced the small tingle once more. How odd. More than likely it was simply due to the temperature of the water.

  I stood, wiping my hands against my robes. Wizard Shadowmender looked perplexed. “Problem?”

  “Probably not.” I hooked my arm through his. “Ignore me.”

  “I would never do that, Alf. You’re very important to me.”

  I smiled, with genuine pleasure. It touched me that he cared. And of course he was doing everything possible to help locate George. He would do no less, I knew that.

  “Let’s go back to the inn,” I said. “I expect Monsieur Emietter has prepared lunch by now, and it’s always a treat.”

  “Oh indeed it is,” Wizard Shadowmender enthused, his cherubic cheeks flushing pink. “You certainly dine well at Whittle Inn.”

  When I have an appetite, I thought. Mine had gone AWOL over the past few weeks.

  “As long as it isn’t eel,” I joked, glancing back at the still water behind me. The surface rippled and I frowned, but quickly dismissed the disturbance as a bird or an insect, and led the elderly wizard back into the wood, heading for home.

  We ate in the kitchen, leaving the bar area for the guests. The inn was running at 80 percent capacity, so the ghosts were busy serving lunch and drinks. I’d even pulled Zephaniah and Ned in from the garden where they’d been working on a new vegetable patch out the back near the storage sheds. In my wisdom I’d decided that it would be fabulous if we were able to serve vegetables grown on our own grounds. Gwyn, my great grandmother, had been an enthusiastic proponent of this as she had once cultivated a herb garden herself, so I’d roped her in too.

  I liked to keep her busy.

  We’d had a large greenhouse installed and set aside a good-sized area for Ned and Zephaniah to try their hand at growing beans, peas, carrots and parsnips, onions and tomatoes. In the greenhouse we nurtured some salad leaves and more tomatoes, basil and parsley. In the herb patch, Gwyn, given free rein, was working wonders with sage, thyme, mint, rosemary and chives.

  For now, Wizard Shadowmender and I dined on peppered mackerel, caught locally at Durscombe a few miles away, baby potatoes from Whittle Stores and a mixed summer salad. I picked at mine absently but tried to join in with the general conversation around me. Charity and Florence regaled the elderly wizard with a few funny stories of things found in the guest rooms.

  “We could have a box full of wands, you know?” Charity told him. “We always contact the guest and ask if they would like their property returned and for the most part they take us up on that. I suppose a wand is a vital piece of equipment for many of you folk.” She chewed on some fish. “They’re all so different, aren’t they? Wands?”

  “Yes, to each their own.” Shadowmender agreed. “But some witches don’t use one at all.” He looked pointedly at me. I never did.

  “Neither does Mr Kephisto,” I pointed out. Mr Kep
histo was my nearest neighbouring wizard, living just over the river in Abbotts Cromleigh.

  “That’s usually true. Although he does sometimes. Some witches can use anything. Household implements for example.” Wizard Shadowmender brandished his knife and fork. “Cutlery.”

  “Really?” Charity looked on as Wizard Shadowmender sent the salt and pepper cellars scuttling across the table with a little burst of magick from the end of his fork. “A wand in and of itself is not magick. It just helps to direct your intent.” He lay his fork down and beckoned the salt back with a quick kink of his index finger.

  Charity laughed, as delighted as any child by the Wizard’s display. “Clever!”

  Florence, busily wiping down a worktop, called back over her shoulder. “I don’t mind when we find wands. I’m less keen on some of the rubbish that gets left behind. Half-eaten sandwiches, apple cores and stuff like that. And heaven-to-Betsy, all the bird and rabbit bones and innards is a bit much.”

  “Yeah. What’s that about?” Charity grimaced.

  “Mr Hoo enjoys the leftover innards,” I remarked wryly. “It saves him having to go out and hunt at night.” My feathered friend could be remarkably lazy at times.

  “Well I know what to do with them from now on.” Florence looked disapproving and Charity tittered, helping herself to a slice of bread and butter.

  “We have quite a collection of items in our lost property box,” she said. “Don’t we Alf? We were keeping them in a cupboard under the stairs, but they outgrew that space and now we’ve set aside a section of the attic.”

  “What else has been left here?” Wizard Shadowmender asked, smiling at me, obviously noting my dejection.

  “Brollies, books, including several spell books and journals, hats—” Charity offered.

  “Underwear,” Florence giggled.

  “Single shoes and boots.” Charity shook her head. “Why anyone forgets to pack both parts of a pair I have no idea.”

  “Spectacles, a wig—” I suggested.

  “Jewellery. You name it,” Florence finished.

  “Why is it never claimed?” Wizard Shadowmender asked.

  Charity shrugged. “Well, like I said, we try and reunite goods with their owners, but sometimes they deny ownership, or we can’t get in touch.”

  “And sometimes, given the nature of the guests we see here at Whittle Inn, I suppose they’re simply being secretive,” I offered.

  I thought back to the mysterious Mr Wylie, a guest at the time of George’s disappearance. I’d asked Florence to spy on him and all she could tell me was that he wasn’t whom he claimed to be. Not a businessman as he’d previously told Charity, that much seemed clear. Enquiries via Wizard Shadowmender had led to naught.

  I sighed. My head made constant loops, trying to make sense of all the recent goings on. We had more questions than answers and I hated it.

  Wizard Shadowmender reached out and squeezed my hand. “Patience,” he said, and his knowing eyes shone with intelligence and compassion, and filled me with strength.

  I took a deep breath and smiled. “Yes,” I answered simply.

  After a cup of tea to finish our meal, I walked him to the front door of the inn to see him out. He shook hands with a few of the guests who were hanging out in the bar whom he knew, and then I waited as he exchanged a few words with Frau Kirsch in excellent German. His skills never ceased to amaze me.

  Finally he joined me, and I helped him into a waiting taxi.

  “Back to Surbiton now?” I asked. Wizard Shadowmender lived in the most ordinary looking house, on the dullest estate I had ever seen. Grey pebbledash and an ugly garage made up the external view, but once inside you were transported to something more akin to an enchanted castle, all tapestry walls and huge log fire places.

  “London first. Celestial Street,” Shadowmender corrected me, then studied my face. “A little bird tells me that you were there last week.”

  I kept my face blank. My, my. Word does get around.

  “Briefly,” I said, meeting his gaze. He continued to stare at me, and I instinctively understood that he knew I’d taken a walk on the wild side. But I couldn’t come clean. I obfuscated. “Just picking up some new robes.” It was a lie. He would know it was a lie. But the words were out, and it was too late to take them back.

  He nodded. “You didn’t pop in to see Penelope?”

  Penelope Quigwell he meant. My lawyer, and the woman in charge of overseeing the finances relating to the Whittle Estate. I shook my head. “No, not this time. It was a flying visit.”

  Wizard Shadowmender smiled. Not a hint of rancour in his expression. Instead he gave me a quick hug and settled down into the back of the car, nodding at his driver.

  “If you need anything at all, just get in touch through the orb.”

  “I will.”

  “And stop worrying, Alf. Take care of yourself and your inn and everything else will fall into place.”

  “Okay. Will do.” I tried to present a purposeful and positive façade.

  With one more knowing glance, he waved, and the driver started the engine. I watched them disappear down the drive, wondering why he hadn’t challenged me when he knew I’d been telling fibs.

  A sudden shriek from the inn behind me startled me out of my reverie. I dashed back inside, expecting to find someone being murdered, only to witness half a dozen pixies running riot around the bar.

  “Finbarr!” I bellowed. The goddess alone knew why Finbarr liked to invite his pixies out to play. I think he used them in his magick practice. This had been a regular occurrence since he’d moved into the inn. He only had to take his eyes off them for one moment and they played havoc, shrieking like banshees and running around the inn causing chaos, disrupting guests and creating a crazy mess.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” the little auburn-haired witch yelled from the top of the first flight of stairs. “Hey guys!” he shouted at the pixies and they sped away, through the rear door of the bar, into the back passage where The Snug and The Nook were located, and the kitchen beyond them. He threw himself down the stairs and ran after them. “Wait up. Wait up!”

  “Finbarr,” I scolded, “you’d better not let them get close to the kitchen or Monsieur Emietter will be scooping out your insides and creating Irish pâté.”

  “I’m on it! Don’t you be worrying about that now.”

  I wished everyone would stop telling me not to worry.

  I would worry if I wanted to.

  The front gardens of the inn were looking lovely. I leaned out of my bedroom window examining the flower beds from the higher vantage point. Pansies and peonies of varying colours were exploding into life. The rose bushes were coming on, and there were beds of green that promised to turn into a summery explosion of sweet peas soon enough. Ned and Zephaniah had done an amazing job of turning what had been little more than a wasteland twelve months ago into a pretty escape, perfect for the guests to amble around, or play outdoor games when the weather was fine.

  That reminded me. I intended to purchase some deck chairs so that people could sit out there when the summer arrived properly. It wouldn’t be too long now.

  This afternoon there was some definite warmth in the air, although the cloud was low, and the sun had yet to succeed in burning through it. I imagined we were finally going to have some decent weather.

  Good. I was heartily fed up of the rain.

  I leaned further out of the window to check on the wisteria bushes growing along this side of the inn.

  “I can’t see any evidence of new robes, Alfhild.”

  The sudden clipped tones of my great grandmother, Gwyn, chimed loudly in my ear, startling me so that I almost lost my balance. I clutched at the windowsill in panic.

  “Grandmama,” I protested. “Do you mind? A little warning please. I could have gone over the edge.”

  She stood with her arms folded, glowering at me. “Did you just lie to Wizard Shadowmender, Alfhild?”

  “You know I
did.” I folded my own arms across my chest and mirrored her body language.

  “Daemonnes don’t lie.”

  “We do if we’re pushed into a tight corner,” I volleyed back at her. “And that’s where I’m at right now.”

  “What did you go to London for?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Was it to meet this Hortense chap?”

  “Have you been reading my mail?” I asked crossly. Of course she had. Nothing in this inn was sacrosanct. It was like living in the MI5 headquarters, spies everywhere.

  “I just happened to see a letter you’d left open on your desk.”

  “That’s a likely story.” I wagged my finger at her. “I don’t leave letters open on my desk. You must have been snooping.”

  “I’m allowed to snoop. I’m your great grandmother. And I was here before you.”

  We glared at each other, until the ridiculousness of the situation hit home, and I laughed. It felt good to suddenly release the tension, and I laughed far longer than I might otherwise have done.

  Gwyn relaxed and smiled too. “So tell me,” she said, when I’d finished wiping tears of mirth from my eyes.

  “His name is not Hortense, Grandmama, that’s a girl’s name.”

  She waved a hand at me. Get on with it. “Whatever,” she said, mimicking the phrase Charity and I were forever coining.

  “It’s Horace T Silvanus. He likes to be known as Silvan.”