Fearful Fortunes and Terrible Tarot: Wonky Inn Book 4 Read online

  Pleased to find the orb working, at least in some sense, I dusted off the glass and tucked it under my arm, wondering whether it would help me tell fortunes or not. It worried me that it wouldn’t, but I could only trust in Wizard Shadowmender. I skipped out of the caravan ready to face the day, joining the merry throng of stall-holders, psychics, fortune tellers and all, as they made their way into the main field.

  I spotted the BBC camera crew again. Kylie Griffiths and her sound recordist with the enormous furry microphone, and the bearded cameraman. Perhaps they were preparing for an in-depth look at the Fayre and the people involved.

  Whatever.

  I had no desire to appear on TV. You never knew who might be watching and who might be able to see through my disguise. I didn’t want to risk it.

  I went with the flow, meandering down to the huge gate at the front of the field where the main entrance to the Fayre had been located, smiling at Kahlila when I passed her, and waving at Morton, standing a head taller than anyone else. A new ticket booth had been set up, and landlord Lyle had hired a young woman to take admission fees and give out tickets. A ribbon acting as a barrier, had been tied to each gate post.

  Wondering how he’d slept in his fun-size tent, I looked about for any sign of George. Instead I spotted Lyle Cavendish himself, and my old adversary Gladstone Talbot-Lloyd huddled together with a small dark-haired man I vaguely recognised although initially I couldn’t place where I knew him from.

  I moved purposefully down the field until I could stand around twenty or so feet away. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but I had a clearer view.

  The dark-haired chap looked up for a moment, laughing at a joke Gladstone Talbot-Lloyd had shared. Now I could see his face more clearly, I realised I knew him as a TV doctor. When I’d been working in London, I’d seen him on national programmes, usually in the morning. He sat in on phone-ins, advising viewers about their various health conditions. Perhaps he was a local celebrity. I knew there were a few living in the area. He appeared to be wearing quite a bit of make-up—most remarkably a shed-load of fake tan—and his hair was much darker than you would expect for someone his age. Mutton dressed as lamb—I surmised.

  It transpired that Dr Alan Vaughan had been invited to the opening, expressly with the intention that he would cut the ribbon and officially open the Fayre. He gave the media something else to focus on and therefore loaned the event a certain amount of kudos, although I couldn’t see the link between medicine and fortune telling to be fair.

  I mingled among the stallholders on my side of the ribbon and listened as Lyle gave a little speech welcoming everyone to Whittlecombe, turning a little pink-cheeked when he stumbled over his words. He wasn’t a natural speaker, our Lyle, and I had to hide a smirk. Talbot-Lloyd stood behind him, ostensibly to encourage him, a half-smile playing on his lips, but I could see the tension in his shoulders every time Lyle made a mess of his words.

  No matter. Lyle quickly wrapped up his speech and handed over to Dr Vaughan, who was much more accomplished and smooth-talking. He posed for pictures, both of the still lens camera variety, and for Kylie and her team, and then mimed cutting the ribbon several times, as cameras and phones clicked and flashed around him.

  Finally, the time had come. “I’d like to reiterate what my good friend Lyle Cavendish has said and welcome you all to Whittlecombe and The Hay Loft. I’m sure you’ll have the most wonderful time here. I now declare the First Annual Whittlecombe Psychic and Holistic Convention open for business.” With a flourish, Dr Vaughan cut through the ribbon, and then, as a brass band struck up a cheerful tune, the assembled masses on the other side of the fence spilled into the field with a loud cheer.

  I gaped in astonishment at the waiting crowd. Hundreds of people were waiting patiently in a good old British queue to hand over their cash at the ticket office, and dozens of cars were lined up waiting to pull into the car-park’s entrance. I don’t think I’d seen as many people in one place since moving from London.

  Somehow, Lyle had achieved the impossible. He had found a way to lure people into our rural part of the world. Instead of a village fete that perhaps a few hundred might choose to visit, he had managed to attract thousands. I couldn’t be sure where all these visitors were coming from, but they had to be from further afield. Durscombe, Abbotts Cromleigh, Honiton, maybe even Exeter and beyond. It was an impressive turnout.

  They scurried in, excited to see what the Fayre offered. Some made their way straight for the food stalls, others went in search of readings or castings. Many ran for the fairground rides. I stood rooted to the spot as people drifted past me. How would I find any evidence of The Mori among the sheer number of people gathering here?

  It seemed Wizard Shadowmender had given me an impossible task.

  Returning to my own booth after a tentative wander around the field, I spotted someone outside. Hurrying to join them, with the expectation that it might be my first willing victim, waiting to grab a reading from me, I was somewhat taken aback to see Kahlila there, rattling the door.

  “Hi,” I said.

  She jumped when I spoke to her and twisted around to face me. “Oh hello, Fenella.” She flushed a little pink, and I frowned. She avoided my eyes by looking at her shoes.

  I hadn’t been particularly perturbed to find her there, maybe she was looking for me after all, but her obviously guilty expression perplexed me. “Were you looking for me?” I prompted.

  “Yes, yes,” she said, her words tumbling forwards in a breathy rush. “I thought maybe you’d like to join me for a cup of tea and a chinwag?”

  I nodded. Is that what you were really up to? How odd.

  A couple of teenage girls chose that moment to approach her booth and read her sign. “It looks like you might have some customers.” I nodded across to her pitch.

  The look of relief on Kahlila’s face was unmistakeable. “Laters then? Yeah?” She scrambled away, engaging the girls in friendly conversation in no time,

  Hmm.

  I checked the door of my booth. Still secure. I decided that for the duration of the Fayre, I’d probably be wise never to leave the orb unsecured.

  I suppose I could have taken the opportunity to open my own booth and sit there as Fabulous Fenella, offering readings there and then, but I wanted to explore the Fayre, the stall holders, and the attendees in a little more depth. I figured that hiding in plain sight—by which I mean mingling with the crowd—might be the best way to go about it. And so it was that I went from stall to stall, booth to booth and food-stop to food-stop, putting Kahlila out of my mind.

  I found that by going with the flow and tagging on behind a small crowd I could listen in to a variety of conversations from all sides. Most of the people streaming through the gates were here for the spectacle, and obviously there were a couple of big pulls. The voodoo high priestess from New Orleans was one of these.

  Mama Henri, as she was known, had one of the largest tents on the field. In fact, it was more of a double marquee than a single tent and it had been ornately decorated with a variety of colourful props. I could see feathers, shells and animal heads strung up, among the dark coloured bunting. I joined a queue of people waiting patiently to go inside.

  The marquee itself was in two parts. Peeking through to the main section I could see several lines of benches arranged on the grass floor and a small raised stage with what looked like a craved throne in the centre. But here, this first section acted as a kind of shop, beautifully arranged with rustic-looking shelving, freestanding but weighted, in case of adverse weather conditions no doubt.

  The shelves carried a large range of jewellery, charms and bottled potions. On closer inspection I could see the jewellery consisted largely of amulets, or gris-gris as they were known, along with a wide range of charms. Small paper packets of magical powders and prettily wrapped sachets were hand-labelled as spells, the writing small and neat. Each of these were guaranteed to cure ailments, grant your desires, or confound one's enemies.

  I turned a couple of these packages over in my hands for a while, wondering what they contained and whether I could make use of them against The Mori. I felt that an audience with Mama Henri might not be a bad idea.

  At the entrance of the marquee was a small table, where a young man, brightly dressed in an impressive red silk suit with bright yellow stripes, and a matching top hat, was taking bookings and organising Mama Henri’s schedule.

  I tagged behind a couple of highly excitable young women who were chatting with him. They appeared crestfallen when they heard the high-end price of a one-to-one with the Priestess herself, and I had to admit it seemed a lot to fork out. The women in front of me instead opted for the much cheaper ‘show’ tickets. It transpired Mama Henri was doing fifteen-minute shows at regular intervals throughout the day, to select audiences of about twenty people at a time, in addition to her private slots. I figured I’d book in to watch the show later in the week and see what all the fuss was about.

  I started to move away when the young man in the bright suit clocked me. He did a double take and held eye contact for longer than was comfortable. I tried to look away, but he compelled me to stare back at him as he read my face, his brow creasing in thought. I thought he would say something, but he suddenly seemed to think better of it. Unsure of his thoughts, I decided to beat a hasty retreat and sidestepped a few dawdlers at the exit so I could make my way through. Glancing back I could see he was still watching me, but then he disappeared into the inner marquee and was lost from my sight.

  What was that about?

  Did he know me?

  There was a time when I would have said that any witch will recognise another of his or her kind without too much difficulty. While living in London I had frequently recognise
d both friends and foes while using public transport or when they visited the clubs, pubs and hotels I had worked in.

  All that had changed when I had met Jed. How had I not recognised what he was?

  I’d been well and truly hoodwinked.

  With my thoughts attuned to Jed, a flash of red in the corner of my eye had me spinning around and gasping. The Mori? I swivelled about, but it was just a little girl in a red anorak. I laughed inwardly, figuring I might be losing the plot?

  I pulled myself together and spent another thirty or so minutes following the herd from booth to booth, tent to tent. Some of the attractions—if that’s what you wanted to call them—were interesting. I’d been wrong to tar everyone with the same brush when I’d dismissed the Fayre in discussion with Charity. There were people here who had a genuine gift.

  I spotted the man mountain doing simple rune readings at a foot-high table in the open air. Morton perched on a tiny stool, and had each customer sit opposite him. They were instructed to draw out three runes from a bag and place them on the table. Morton then gave them a brief rundown of the meaning of each rune and suggested a potential joined-up meaning. He managed to do all of this without being overly specific or prescriptive, and his customers appeared happy enough with the results.

  I joined the small crowd around him, and when he spotted me he lifted one of his huge arms and waved. “Alfanella,” he called, and I grimaced inwardly. He was obviously one of those people who forgot nothing. “Let me do a little casting for you.”

  I wanted to protest, but people moved out of my way to allow me closer. A young woman relinquished her low stool so that I could join Morton at the table. He handed me a small hessian sack, heavy with the weight of the stones inside.

  “Have a rummage,” he instructed, “and then place three down on the table in front of you.”

  I did as he asked, moving the stones around in the pouch, feeling them slipping through my fingers, finally curling my hand around one. I hooked it out and lay it on the table, following the same process for the second and third stone, before handing the pouch over to Morton.

  He hunched over the table and studied the runes carefully. Then looked up at me. “An interesting combination,” he announced, running a stubby finger underneath the stones. “This one is Hagalaz.” He pointed at the stone with what looked like an H carved into it. “It refers to the destructive forces of nature, and things that are out of your control. Generally I would advise that you should ‘go with the flow’ as you say in English. Swim with the tide.”

  He stabbed at the second stone. “Then there is this. This is Ansuz. Ansuz in this case is reversed. It is a warning.” I looked at the F symbol, lying the wrong way around. “It tells you to watch out for trickery, or to look to the dark side of yourself. It can be a failure in communication. Are you communicating freely, Alfanella?”

  His eyes glittered as he regarded me with interest. For the second time that morning I sensed that my disguise was not all it could be. I understood from Morton’s look he recognised there was something odd or different about me.

  “And the third one?” I asked, holding his gaze, silently protesting my innocence.

  He plucked the stone from the table. A symbol like a letter R. “This is Raidho. And again, it is reversed. It suggests you will embark on an unexpected journey – and again, we have the inference of dropped communication.”

  “What does all that mean?” I asked, frowning. “It doesn’t sound very good for me.”

  “It certainly sounds like a challenge,” the mountain man agreed.

  I reached for my purse, but Morton wagged a finger at me. “On the house,” he said. “But Alfanella, the stones have spoken. You take very good care now.”

  I smiled to reassure him, thanked him for his generosity and pushed my way through the crowd. I paused, standing on the periphery, watching him with his next customer, ruminating on whether he was genuine or not.

  Destruction and trickery? Failed communication? A journey?

  None of that sounded fun.

  I broke away from the group and wandered slowly among the sideshows, trying to distract myself from my despondency by watching kids throwing balls at a coconut shy, and then trying my luck at ‘Hook-a-duck’, before turning to the main drag and examining the other skills on offer among the attendees.

  If Morton was the real deal, other attractions certainly provided more trickery. I noted several crystal ball gazers, and of course, while I couldn’t get inside their tents while they were doing their readings, I wasn’t entirely convinced by their demeanour or by their equipment. People are easily fooled by an element of theatre, and this was a useful lesson for me to learn.

  The rumbling of my stomach took me by surprise. I hadn’t realised how much time had flown. I about-faced and headed back to the entrance and the catering vans parked there. It was time to find out more about the local sausage seller.

  The sausage van had opened for business and started pulling in punters. As soon as I could see the gentleman frying his bangers, I recognised the owner by sight. Rob Parker. He lived with his wife, Debbie, in one of my tied cottages. Sparrow Cottage had once been the home of Florence’s beau, Thomas Gilles. Since finding out about him I’d often wondered whether any trace of him—or of Marjorie Denby, whom according to my housekeeper at least, had been a shrewish Baptist—had remained in the cottage.

  I hadn’t really had much to do with Rob and Debbie up until now. They were quiet people, as most folk in the village tended to be, who kept themselves to themselves. Their little cottage and garden were immaculate, and I’d had no reason to trouble them, or they me. I hadn’t realised that Rob owned a sausage business. I wondered where he kept his van as I’d never seen it on Whittle Lane—not that there would have been room for it.

  When it was my turn to order, I beamed at him and was just about to introduce myself as his landlady when I remembered I was Fabulous Fenella and he wouldn’t recognise me. Not for the first time, I cursed my disguise.

  “How’re you doing?” he asked, which loosely translated as, ‘what can I do for you?’

  I perused the hand-written chalk board above his head. You had three basic options: sausages with bread (either as a posh hot dog or a sausage sarnie); bangers and mash - with or without gravy; or sausage and chips - with or without gravy. There were potential side orders, of peas (mushy, processed or garden), beans, or cheese.

  But it was the sheer range of available sausages that really wowed me. Pork and leek, pork and caramelised onion, pork and cider, Cumberland, beef and mustard, beef and horse radish, pork and sage, pork with sweet chilli and mango, venison, chorizo pork, pork and pepper, pork and garlic, gluten free and vegetarian. All—apart from the latter—made with quality and locally sourced Devon meats.

  I opted for a posh hot dog, and while I waited for my order, struck up a conversation with Rob. “Are you local?” I asked, knowing full well he was, of course.

  “I am as it happens. Just live around the corner.” He flipped a row of sausages sizzling on the grill, then agitated his frying onions in a big pan. The succulent scent of the sausages was making my mouth water.

  “It’s such a sweet little village,” I enthused.

  “Yeah, it’s a great place to live.”

  Rob served me an enormous pork banger with a pile of onions. I helped myself to a smidge of mustard and a large dollop of ketchup along with several napkins. The logo on the napkins said, “Parker’s Porky Perfection.”

  Rob caught me studying them. “Oh, I ran out of the one’s that match the branding on this van. I have another van. I use the other one for dirt track meets, football matches, things of that nature. Then I use this one for slightly more upmarket events.” I bet he charged more for the products he sold from this van.

  I raised my eyebrows. Two vans? “Not a lot of room to park a van this size, I wouldn’t have thought. Let alone two. Not in these little narrow lanes.”

  “That’s true. You’re hard pushed to park a car around here unless you have a drive, let alone this great thing.” Rob patted the counter and glanced around the van fondly. He was obviously proud of it. “I have a lock-up, not far from here. I park them both there. Nice and safe.”