Witching in a Winter Wonkyland: A Wonky Inn Christmas Cozy Mystery Page 4

  He was a smart Aleck and a wisecracking jester, but he’d stolen my heart. Sometimes, when I lay alone in bed at night and closed my eyes, I could sense him near me, almost as though his spirit could travel the miles to find mine. Tonight, I missed him more than usual, I suppose because George had drawn attention to the fact that the festive season was upon us and I would be alone.

  “I’m luckier than some,” I told myself. “I have Grandmama and my ghosts, and Charity is working all through Christmas and New Year too. We’ll have a riot.”

  My mobile phone, turned face down on the bedside table, started to ring. I quickly rubbed my hands dry on my towel and grabbed the phone. The display told me an unknown number was calling.

  I thumbed the screen. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Alfie?” a familiar voice said.

  I gasped in surprise, but I suppose I might have known. “Silvan?”

  “Who else?” He chuckled. I smiled to hear it.

  “I’ve been sitting here thinking about you.”

  “Aww have you?” His voice sounded distorted. It wasn’t a great line. He could have been calling from the bottom of the ocean. “That’s nice. You must be missing me.” He laughed again.

  “Maybe,” I replied. It wouldn’t do to give him a big head. “George was here this afternoon and we were talking about Yule and Christmas.”

  “Oh right. He’s okay, is he?”

  “I found one of my guests dead in the woods last night?”

  “I heard about that. That’s why I decided to call you.” He’d heard about it? How? It amazed me sometimes how quickly word flew around the witching community. Presumably Gwyn or Millicent had spoken to Wizard Shadowmender, or Penelope Quigwell, and they had passed word out to witches elsewhere. “I wanted to make sure there was no threat to you or the inn?”

  My insides melted. He’d been worried. “Not as far as I know,” I reassured him. “She was staying here but I found her outside the inn’s boundaries. There’s nothing to suggest—”

  “Whachooowa!”

  The sneeze exploded loudly in the air around me.

  “What was that?” Silvan asked.

  I glared up at the ceiling. It had sounded as though it originated just above my head. “Luppitt has a cold.”

  “Whacheeee! Whacheee! Whacheee!” A fast series of high-pitched sneezes.

  “Ghosts get colds?” Silvan sounded perplexed. “I never knew that.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Neither did I. He’s making a right song and dance about it.”

  “I guess that’s the travelling minstrel in him.”

  “Ha!” I grinned down the phone. Hearing his voice reminded me afresh just how much I missed him. I hesitated. “Silvan?” I didn’t want to sound like a wheedling needy girlfriend.

  “Still here,” he said when I didn’t continue.

  How should I approach this? “Where are you at the moment?”

  His turn to hesitate. “You know I can’t tell you that. If I told you—”

  “You’d have to kill me, I know.”

  “Good goddess, no. I wouldn’t kill you, though I might be tempted to at times. The problem is that someone else might. It’s best you don’t know what I’m doing when I’m away. You know that.”

  I sighed. I did know that.

  “I was hoping you’d make it home, or here to the inn, for Yule, that’s all.” Ugh. That did make me sound wretchedly wet. I waited for him to mock me, but he didn’t.

  “I know.” His voice was soft. “I’d be there if I could.”

  “I know you would,” I said, and tears pricked at my eyes.

  “WhaCHEW!”

  “Alfie, it sounds like Luppitt needs some TLC there. I’m going to have to go anyway. I love you.”

  “I love you too.” I told him, but he’d already gone, and I was speaking to dead air.

  Outside the owls were quiet now. It wasn’t quite ten yet so maybe they’d had their fill of field mice or bats or whatever it was they were gorging on tonight. I grabbed my dressing gown and made my way down to the kitchen.

  “What are you up to, Alfhild?” My great-grandmother’s querulous tones drifted my way as I leaned against the counter waiting for the kettle to boil. I’d sliced up a lemon and added a shot of whisky to a mug.

  “I’m making a mug of my finest cold remedy for Luppitt,” I replied as Gwyn’s form apparated next to me, a little delayed in comparison to her voice.

  Gwyn glanced down, scrutinizing the contents of the mug. “How’s he going to consume that, my dear?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s dead, Alfhild. He can’t swallow any drink that you make him.”

  I blinked at my great-grandmother in realisation. Of course. Luppitt as a ghost couldn’t interact physically with a mug of liquid. “Oh batpoop,” I moaned.

  “Quite.”

  “I’d forgotten.” The kettle whistled its readiness and I poured some hot water into the mug anyway, giving it a hard stir. “Don’t worry,” I said when Gwyn arched an eyebrow at me. “Waste not, want not. I’ll have it.” I took a sip. The water, cooled slightly by the whisky, was still too hot.

  The sound of sneezing drifted down the stairs and into the kitchen. I replaced the mug on the counter. “Maybe it will ward off his germs.”

  “You’re worried about catching Luppitt’s flu?” Gwyn asked.

  Oh it was flu now, was it? The diagnosis had escalated a level. “He thinks it’s the plague,” I reminded her.

  “It’s influenza. And if you’d lived through the epidemic of 1918-1919 as I did, you’d know how deadly it can be.” I nodded. She’d told me of the millions who had died worldwide, mainly young adults between the ages of twenty and forty. A few of her own friends had perished. How sad that so soon after that horrendous global conflict which had killed so many, that the rest of a generation had been wiped out.

  “He needs tucking up in bed, poor thing.” I tried sipping my drink again. The whisky and lemon concoction worked for me as a nightcap.

  “They all do.”

  I blew the steam away from the surface of the liquid. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it isn’t just Luppitt who has influenza. The rest of the Devonshire Fellows appear to have caught it too.”

  “Millicent? I really need your help again.”

  Millicent Ballicott, my nearest witchy neighbour lived in pretty little Hedge Cottage down Whittle Lane. A lady of indeterminate age, she was a woman of eccentric tastes. Especially when it came to her clothing.

  Today, as I stood shivering on her front step, I could only compare my friend to a seaside deckchair. I’d caught her wearing a pair of striped white and mint trousers, and a forest green jumper, along with bright red slipper-socks. “Almost matching today, Mills,” I murmured as she stood back and I squeezed past her to enter her living room.

  “I heard that,” she retorted and closed the front door after me. “I knitted this jumper myself, you know?”

  I bit back the temptation to tell her it looked as though she’d dropped a few stitches, and simply smiled my appreciation instead. “Very nice. Really.”

  After extracting myself from the ecstatic welcome Jasper the lurcher and Sunny the Yorkshire Terrier treated me to, I plonked myself down on Millicent’s comfortable sofa. “Oh is so nice to take the weight off my feet,” I said.

  I’d had a rather full on day so far. The inn was packed to the rafters and, thanks to the cold and frosty morning, everyone had demanded a cooked breakfast. Somehow Finbarr’s pixies had escaped him, snuck into the kitchen and run off with all the grilled bacon. Monsieur Emietter had—according to Gwyn—threatened to slaughter all the accursed creatures while they slept and serve them up in a pie on Boxing Day. Meanwhile Florence was in a complete tizz about her visit from the photographers, which had left poor Charity to grill more bacon because I had to manage the waiting aspects of breakfast with just Zephaniah helping out with beverages.

  I peered up at Millicent hopef
ully. “Is it tea you’re after?” she asked me, and I grinned.

  “Yes please. It’s been one of those days.” I reconsidered. “One of those weeks actually.”

  “I heard it was you that found the woman in the woods the other day,” Millicent called from her tiny kitchen.

  I swivelled in my seat so I could address her directly. “Yes. Very sad.”

  “Do they know who she is yet?” Millicent’s voice sounded muffled and I could see her large stripy rump pointing out at me as she buried her head in the cupboard where she kept her biscuits.

  Yippee! Biscuits!

  But oh, those trousers.

  “She was staying at my inn, so we have her registration details, but that’s about all.”

  “How did she die? Do you know?” Millicent returned to the living room with a tray containing mugs, milk and a plate of biscuits. “I’m just waiting for the kettle.”

  I helped myself to a chocolate Bourbon. “I don’t know. I asked George yesterday but they’re waiting for the post-mortem results.” I munched for a moment, lost in thought. “It didn’t appear messy. I was pleased about that.”

  “I’m sure you were.” Millicent disappeared into her little kitchen once more and a few minutes later came out with her teapot shrouded in another of her knits. This time it was a knitted tea cosy covered with gaudy flowers and miniature button bees and butterflies. “I’m sure George will get to the bottom of it.”

  I nodded and reached for another biscuit.

  “Are you hungry, Alf?” Millicent asked as she took a seat opposite me and placed the tray on her coffee table. “You could at least wait for the pot to brew.”

  “You know what they say, ‘feed a cold and starve a fever’.”

  “Do you have another cold? I have some more of my blackberry cordial potion under the sink if you want it.” She shifted in her seat as though to stand up again and, shuddering at the memory of her blackberry cordial, I held my arm out to stop her.

  “No! No, I’m fine thanks. It’s not me. I’m just trying to keep the germs at bay. It’s Luppitt. Well actually it’s all of The Devonshire Fellows. They’ve caught the flu.”

  “All of them? Well that surprises me. I didn’t know that ghosts could catch the flu.” Millicent picked up the teapot and poured a little liquid into one of the mugs through a tea-strainer. Like Florence her preference was for loose leaf tea, whereas I was throw-a-teabag-in-a-mug-kind-of-girl. “Just another minute on that, I think,” she said.

  “That’s what everyone has been saying,” I told her. “And I didn’t know either. But believe me, they’re suffering. Living at Whittle Inn with my crew has certainly taught me a thing or two about ghosts. It’s been a steep learning curve.” I waited patiently for my tea and when Millicent handed me my mug full of amber liquid, I nabbed another biscuit. Purely for the dunking opportunity it presented.

  I settled back on the sofa in contentment, Jasper snuggling next to me, Sunny sniffing the rug in front of me, on the scrounge for any biscuit crumbs that might have dropped her way.

  Millicent, sitting across from me in her comfortable armchair, raised her eyebrows. “So you said you needed my help? Or are you just here to eat me out of biscuits?”

  I eyed the half-dozen still available on the plate. “But I haven’t eaten them all yet.”

  “Help yourself.”

  “Ta much.” I grabbed another two and settled one on my lap while I dunked the first one. You have to get the timing just right when you’re dunking biscuits. Experience is everything. You can’t immerse a chocolate Bourbon for too long as it will just disintegrate, and no-one wants that mess at the bottom of their mug. I concentrated.

  Dunk. One and two and ready to eat. Perfection.

  “Mmm.” I turned my attention to Millicent. “Yes. I was hoping you could help me out with the ghosts who have the flu. Honestly. All that coughing and sneezing and spluttering? It sounds like some kind of Victorian consumption ward at the inn at the moment. The guests are beginning to notice.”

  Millicent looked nonplussed. “Well what do you expect me to do? I can’t give them my blackberry cordial.”

  I frowned. I’d anticipated this hurdle, of course. This was the same issue I’d had with my lemon remedy for Luppitt. The ghosts couldn’t physically drink Millicent’s remedies either. “I had hoped you’d know the solution. Isn’t there anything you can do?” I asked.

  Millicent shook her head. “I only work with mortals, Alf. Ghosts aren’t my thing, they’re yours.”

  “So…” The final Bourbon lay forgotten in my lap. “There’s nothing that can be done at all? I just have to let the flu run its course and hope no-one else gets it?”

  “Can you keep the infected ghosts segregated somewhere? Stop it spreading any further?”

  “In the attic, I suppose.” I pondered on this. That would mean turfing my more cautious and people-shy ghosts out of their habitual hiding place up in the rafters and allowing them the run of the rest of the inn. Many of them preferred being tucked out of sight. Most of my guests were witches and wouldn’t mind the ghosts, but there were always the odd one or two mortals who might find it all rather unnerving. I’d just have to forewarn them.

  Millicent stared absently at the wall behind me for a minute before coming back to the present. “There is one other possibility,” she said, hesitating slightly.

  “Go on?”

  She leaned forward in her chair. “Once. A long time ago. I heard about a ghost doctor.”

  “A ghost doctor?” Memories of Perdita Pugh, the ghost whisperer, sprang to mind. I grimaced inwardly. Thank heavens I’d never have to have anything more to do with her or her strange dog, Chi. “One that tends ghosts?”

  “Yes. A ghost doctor, as you’d imagine, helps sick ghosts… and is a ghost.”

  “That sounds just the ticket. Where can I find one?”

  Millicent snickered softly. “No idea, Alf. You’ll have to do the donkey work on that, I’m afraid.”

  I slumped. How disappointing. I’d been hoping Millicent would have all the answers.

  “You could always ask that weird ghost whisperer person you had at the inn, year before last.”

  Perdita. Urgh. Just what I’d been trying to avoid doing. I groaned and tried not to sound too glum at the prospect of talking to her again. “Yes, she would know, wouldn’t she? I’ll have to get in touch.”

  “I would.” Millicent’s gleeful smile told me she remembered exactly what I’d thought of Perdita Pugh.

  Beside me Jasper had turned away and was munching hard and rapidly on something. I leaned over to find out what it was and realised he’d grabbed my biscuit. “Why you little—”

  “Dear?” Millicent asked, smiling at her hound. “He is, isn’t he?”

  I departed Millicent’s cottage feeling a little bloated. That would be the half packet of biscuits I’d polished off. Oh well, I ruminated, I wouldn’t require much sustenance at dinnertime. For now, I needed to get back to the inn and help Charity prepare for the evening service. The shadows were growing longer, and twilight wasn’t far off. First things first though, I still needed to buy some stamps and post a few letters. I turned right and headed down into the village proper to complete my errands

  It didn’t take long, and a few minutes later as I exited the Post Office and attached the stamps to my envelopes, a sudden commotion distracted me.

  “Help! Help!”

  I swivelled around. A woman in her forties, dressed for walking, her blonde hair streaming loose behind her, rushed towards Whittle Stores.

  “Are you alright?” A gentleman held his hand out to slow her pace. She stopped in front of him and doubled over, breathing in deep, ragged gasps. A few other customers came out of the shop and enquired as to her wellbeing. I walked slowly towards them, loathe to become involved in any drama, but unable to stop myself from being a little nosy.

  The woman straightened up, panting, her eyes wild with fear. “I was walking in the woods,”
she puffed. “Beyond Whittle Folly.” She looked about at the crowd gathering around her then lifted shaking hands to her face. “I saw it. I saw the monster. The one with the glowing red eyes!”

  “Do you believe there’s a monster in the woods with glowing red eyes?”

  After I’d finished serving our guests dinner, I’d left Charity and Florence to clear up and had climbed back upstairs to my study to make a couple of phone calls. Firstly I rang Mr Kephisto, a wizard friend and proprietor of The Story Keeper, a bookshop in nearby Abbotts Cromleigh. I’d often had to rely on him in the past. He was an archivist for everything witch or wizard related. I’d visited his attic where the records, books, pamphlets, letters, postcards, tapes and digital recordings, prints, paintings and etchings were stored several times. He knew something about everything, but if he didn’t know he made it his mission to find out. He was also the architect of the forcefield that ran all the way around the boundaries of Whittle Inn and kept my grounds secure.

  For the most part, anyway.

  “Anything is feasible,” Mr Kephisto responded, and I heard a note of hungry intrigue in his voice. I could imagine him diving into his collection in search of relevant information. “But I’ve never read any tales of wild demons or savage creatures in that part of Whittle Forest.”

  “What could it be?” I wondered out loud.

  “The woman said this thing she saw was fairly large?”

  “Yes.” As the crowd had grown around her, she’d become increasingly hysterical, but I’d managed to ascertain that the creature was about the size of a small horse.

  “Oh, that’s a shame. I was hoping it might be a chupacabra.” Mr Kephisto sounded a little disappointed.

  “A chupa—? What?”