A Gaggle of Ghastly Grandmamas: Wonky Inn Book 9 Read online

  “This.” I pointed in front of me. As if on cue, the doors closed with a cheerful ting.

  “It’s an elevator,” Gwyn frowned, and part of me was relieved when I realised even she was surprised.

  “How did it get here?” I demanded.

  Gwyn looked taken aback. “How should I know, Alfhild? I didn’t put it here if that’s what you’re insinuating. I’m not an engineer, after all.”

  “You don’t know anything about it?” I double-checked.

  “Of course not. Why would I agree to anyone building an elevator in the middle of our inn? Much less right here in the bar!”

  “Hmpf.” She had a point. She wouldn’t have agreed to it either.

  Gwyn circled the elevator slowly. “As useful as it undoubtedly could be, if you have an inn full of guests with wonky hips and knees, I’m going to hazard a guess that if neither one of us called anyone out to furnish the inn with an elevator, it must have been magicked into place.”

  “Well, fine,” I grumbled. “I’ll just magick it away again.” I fumbled in my robe for my wand and levelled it at the elevator. My hand remained stationary for a few seconds while I thought about what to say. “Erm …”

  Gwyn cocked her head. “What are you waiting for?”

  “I don’t know a spell that will get rid of an elevator.”

  Gwyn nodded. “Let me think …”

  We stood staring at each other. The elevator pinged and, with a quick shudder, started to glide up the iron shaft. We tipped our heads back to watch it disappear through the hole in the ceiling’s plasterwork.

  “I could make it vanish,” I ventured.

  “Indeed.” Gwyn sounded doubtful.

  “But that wouldn’t necessarily fix the hole in the ceiling.”

  “And,” Gwyn indicated upwards with her own wand, “what if we made it vanish and someone was inside it?”

  Yikes! I shuddered. Gwyn was right. How would we get them back? Causing harm to a witch was deemed a serious offence.

  “I think we’re going to have to find out who placed it here and ask them to undo the spell.”

  “That sounds like a good plan,” I nodded. It sounded like the only plan, but I skirted over that. “Can I leave that to you, please, Grandmama? I really need to start setting up for breakfast.” I indicated the scattered tables and chairs. “It’s going to take me longer than I expected.”

  “Where will I start?” Gwyn mused. “Who do I ask first?”

  “I’d start with Agneta Caspersen,” I said. “She was the one creating merry hell about using the stairs yesterday.” I nodded upstairs. “First floor, in the Neverwhere Room. She’s sharing with Jamella De Paggio.”

  “Should I take the lift?” Gwyn asked, flicking her finger towards the call button.

  “Don’t be lazy, Grandmama!”

  Gwyn snorted. “Quite right, Alfhild. We wouldn’t want to get used to this being here,” she said, and apparated quickly away.

  I couldn’t quite believe the composition of some of the meals I brought out of the kitchen to serve our guests for their breakfast.

  We had intended to offer a range of breakfast cereals, yoghurt, toast with jam, eggs, bacon and sausages but otherwise keep it very simple. So I have to admit to being flabbergasted when I served up crepes, waffles, pancakes, elaborate fruit cocktails, ham and cheese, an ice-cream sundae sprinkled with hundreds and thousands and even a Devonshire Cream Tea. Now I’m partial to a Cream Tea myself, but not for breakfast!

  Besides coffee and tea—and by tea, I mean black tea, fruit tea, caffeine-free tea, green tea, white tea, slimming tea, Earl Grey, Lady Grey, English Breakfast and wizard’s brew—we had several freshly squeezed fruit juices, milk in all its guises, hot chocolate and cocoa. So I was a little perturbed to be asked for diet cola, sparkling Cherryade, prune juice, green smoothies and even a Bloody Mary.

  Both Monsieur Emietter and Florence were starting to look frazzled so Charity and I, with the help of Archibald and Zephaniah, worked as quickly and efficiently as we could front of house, while I struggled to hold back all my acerbic thoughts about some of Gwyn’s friends’ dietary delectations.

  The elevator pinged and tinged with monotonous regularity as increasing numbers of our guests realised what it was and began to use it in order to ‘pop’ back to their rooms. It whined a little as it ascended and then whirred happily as it descended, which it did astonishingly quickly. Gwyn was circulating, asking her friends about its sudden appearance, but so far as I could tell, judging from their alternately blank or amused looks, she wasn’t getting to the bottom of things.

  “Where’s your strange friend this morning?” Charity asked me as we organised dirty plates on the counter of the bar, ready to be cleared into the kitchen.

  “Which strange friend would that be?” I had plenty to choose from after all.

  “The one that went ballistic and knocked me over in the hall last night.”

  “Ah, yes. Delia.” I balanced a pile of plates carefully on a tray and turned around. Phyllis Bliss, Onnalee and Sybil were sitting around the table they had obviously commandeered, the one in front of the bay window with the best view of the frozen front garden, but of Delia and her mother, there was no sign. I scrutinised the other tables—those that I could see—the elevator effectively blocked my view of a number of them. “They might be having a lie-in, I suppose.”

  “Lucky things,” Charity grunted, and I could only agree.

  I wandered around the dining area, checking everyone had what they needed, sending Ned over with extra tea and coffee where required, and running my eye over the twittering collections of witches grouped around the tables, wondering whether the Cuthberts had simply chosen to sit elsewhere.

  When I couldn’t see them, I didn’t worry. I’d catch up with them later. I could always offer them toast and tea from the kitchen at whatever time they surfaced. Millicent, sadly held up the night before, had promised to pop by later in the morning to have a little chat with Delia about her sniffles or allergies, or whatever they were. Meanwhile, Archibald and several other members of the Wonky Inn Ghostly Clean-up Crew were still looking for Cuthbert.

  Everything is fine, I told myself, pointedly ignoring the incessant pinging of the elevator, the ridiculous breakfast requests and the ghost familiars running riot around the dining room. The little Jack Russell, barking noisily, kept chasing a ghost chicken that had somehow made its way in from outside. However, nobody else seemed to be bothered by them so I decided not to be. For now.

  Charity returned from the kitchen clutching several empty trays and handed a clean one over to me. “What are we doing with all the animals in The Snug?” she asked.

  “I thought we’d leave it to the individual guests to decide whether they wanted their familiar with them or not,” I replied. “Most of the cats and dogs have been reunited with their owners. In fact, I think the majority of the animals that are currently inhabiting The Snug actually came with the Cuthberts. They brought a veritable zoo along.”

  Charity frowned. “Well, it’s not fair on the animals to be cooped up like that.”

  “It’s probably okay for the spider …” I intervened quickly, before Charity suggested I free them all.

  “It’s getting a bit smelly though. Haven’t you noticed?”

  I had. Going to and from the kitchen umpteen times this morning had alerted me to increased whiffiness in the back passage.

  “You’re right. I should nip in there and make sure the animals are alright, maybe open the window a little to get some air circulating and then I’ll go in search of Delia.”

  “Tell her she wanted to bring them all with her, so she gets to clean them out.” Charity clacked a pair of mugs together so hard I was surprised they didn’t break. “That’s what my mum always used to say to me. It’s just not fair. If you have pets you need to be responsible for their wellbeing.”

  “Wise words,” I agreed, although secretly I didn’t want to run the risk of upsetting D
elia again. I decided I’d take a subtle approach and ask her if she needed any help cleaning out her pets’ cages.

  Not that I intended to help her, you understand. Ugh. The very idea of clearing up after rodents and spiders and a snake! No, no. That’s why I kept the Wonky Inn Ghostly Clean-up Crew on standby.

  “Leave it with me,” I said, placing my still-empty tray on the counter. “I’ll check on them now. You hold down the fort for five minutes.”

  “Yes, boss.” Charity waved me away and I sauntered reluctantly out of the door and into the back passage.

  Florence was floating towards me. “Miss Alf, the gentleman from the wholesaler’s is at the back door with a delivery.”

  “Thanks, Florence,” I said. “Can you ask him to unload the pallets into the storeroom?”

  “I will do, Miss. He’ll want a signature though.”

  “I’ll be in here …” I indicated The Snug, “… just send him through.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “Give him a peg for his nose.”

  “Pardon me, Miss Alf?”

  “Never mind.” I shook my head a little, and she hurried away. I pushed the door open and recoiled. “Phooey. It’s a bit honky-tonk in here. Who knew spiders made things smelly?”

  I fiddled with the space on the wall where the light switch would be and finally found it.

  Click.

  The sudden illumination threw the room into stark relief and I shot backwards with a gasp, ice gripping my bowel. All around were the cages and pet baskets, some of them with their doors ajar. The large white owl gazed down at me, unblinking, from the corner of the mantelpiece. The snake had wrapped itself around a cushion, and one of the enormous spiders was spinning a web in the corner of the fireplace. A one-eyed tabby cat was playing with the corpse of what had probably been either a mouse or a hamster, but worse than all that, far far worse than any of that, Delia Cuthbert hung horizontally in the air at hip height, her head thrown back, her eyes and mouth wide open in a perpetual scream, held in place by a cold beam of goldy-coloured light wrapped around a single silken thread.

  I yanked out my wand. “Exolvo!”

  I rushed forward and caught Delia’s head as the beam dissipated, the thread snapped, and she fell. I needn’t have worried. She’d been dead a while and nothing I could do would bring her back.

  “Oh no. Oh no. Oh no,” I whimpered, sitting back on my haunches and feeling for a pulse. Her skin was cold to the touch.

  Who could have done this to her? Evidently it hadn’t been self-inflicted, given the way she’d been hanging in mid-air, supported by a magical beam. What had been the purpose of that?

  “Oh, Delia,” I whispered. This was why she hadn’t been at breakfast. I caught my breath. Neither had Mrs Cuthbert. Was she okay? I would need to check on her straight away, make sure she was alright, and then break the awful news.

  A loud knocking. I turned, expecting it to be Charity. “Ms Daemonne?” a deep voice asked and without further ado, the delivery driver pushed open the door and entered the room. He waved his little handheld electronic signature recorder device at me.

  I hurried to stand in his way, but he was a good foot taller than me and at least three times as wide, so he could easily see around me. His name badge informed me his name was ‘Harry C’.

  “Oh my word,” he said in a broad Devon drawl. “What’s happened here, then?”

  “I, erm …”

  “Is she as dead as she looks?” he craned over my shoulder.

  “She, ah …”

  “Have you called the police?”

  I glared at him. “Give me a chance, I’ve only just this minute found her myself.”

  “So, she is dead, then? Wow.” He sidestepped me so he could get a better view, before suddenly keeling over in a dead faint.

  “Have you never seen a dead body before?” I asked his motionless body.

  Sadly I had. Too many times.

  I tried to drag the delivery driver out of The Snug, but he was far too heavy for me. In the end, I had no choice but to call Charity. She rushed in but stopped short when she spotted the bodies on the floor.

  “What on earth have you done?” she shrieked, clasping her hands to her face.

  “What have I done? I haven’t done anything!”

  Charity pointed wordlessly, first at the delivery driver and then to Delia. Her finger shook as she took in Delia’s pallor. “Is she—?”

  “As a doornail,” I muttered glumly. “But this chap isn’t. We need to get him out of here. He’s contaminating the scene.”

  We each grabbed an arm and, with a little groaning on my part and swearing on Charity’s, we managed to drag him out into the hallway and prop him against the wall.

  “Maybe I should get him some water?” Charity suggested.

  “Good idea!” I squatted next to Harry C and fanned at his face. “Come back to us, Harry,” I urged him. “You’ve got deliveries to make.”

  “What are you doing with that man, Alfhild?” Gwyn had appeared at the end of the passageway. “Leave him alone.”

  “Grandmama!” Never had I been so pleased to see her. I called to her in a loud whisper, “Come here. I need you.”

  “I’m sure you think I have nothing better to do than be at your beck and call all day,” Gwyn responded, but lifting her nose up she floated towards me anyway.

  “Look in here.” I led the way back inside The Snug.

  Gwyn, following, wrinkled her nose at the smell but pulled up sharply when she spotted the body on the floor. “Is that the Cuthbert girl?”

  “It is,” I confirmed. “Delia.”

  “And did that great oaf out in the hall do this?” Gwyn’s haughty voice, shrill at the best of times, carried down the hallway.

  “Sssh, Grandmama!” I flapped my hand, indicating she should take the noise level down a little. “No. He walked in and saw her and fainted.”

  Gwyn glanced around the room, spotting the snake and the spider. The cat had run off somewhere. Something else to worry about. “Was she bitten by something?”

  “I really don’t imagine so. When I came in she was levitating in a pool of light.”

  “Levitating?”

  I nodded and pointed at a space about the height of the table. “Just about there. Splayed out on her back. As though she were lying on a bed, but in mid-air.”

  “Curious.” Gwyn steepled her fingers together, and swivelled in place, creating the slightest of draughts. She turned back to face me. “Witchcraft,” she concluded.

  I nodded. “I thought the same. We need to call the police.” I began to rummage in my pocket for my mobile but as usual, I didn’t appear to have it on me. I must have left it on my bedside table. It annoyed me because it weighed my pockets down.

  “No, Alfhild, we don’t.” Gwyn raised a finger to stop me.

  I abandoned my search in frustration. “Of course we do! We can’t just ignore a murder.”

  “I’m not suggesting we ignore it, but I don’t want your friend and his kind involved.”

  “George, you mean?” DS George Gilchrist, my one-time love. We were still working at being friends. “Who else can I call?”

  “We need to get in touch with the Ministry of Witches. It’ll send out its own detectives.”

  “The Ministry of Witches has detectives?” I’d never known that.

  Gwyn tutted at me. “Of course it does, Alfhild. I swear, sometimes it’s like you’ve existed in a witching-free bubble.”

  “I’ve done my best.”

  From the hallway came the sound of a raised voice. Harry C seemed agitated and Charity was soothing him, although I couldn’t hear exactly what she was saying.

  “You’re certain I should call the Ministry of Witches about their detectives?” I clarified. “It will take them a while to get here.”

  “Only a couple of hours, my dear. They’re based in London, not Reykjavik. Just call 661.”

  “Alright.”

  Gwyn wagge
d a finger at me. “And be careful. Whatever you do, don’t misdial. You don’t want to summon a demon by adding an extra six.”

  I mulled that over for a second, then nodded. “I’ll go and ring them now.”

  I slipped out into the hallway. Harry C, still sitting on the floor, cowered away when he saw me. “It’s all in hand,” I told him, and carried on towards the bar where the nearest landline phone was located.

  This phone was a solid black Bakelite with a dial face. I slipped my index finger into the six and paused. “Don’t stutter,” I told it, and quickly scooped the dial around clockwise. Six. And again, six. My stomach fluttered with nerves. My nail jammed in the hole and I fought to free it. “That was two, right?” I flexed my finger and, taking a deep breath, dialled the last digit.

  A long pause. Something whizzed and sang down the wires. I tapped my fingers against the counter. Finally, the phone began to ring. I listened to the familiar burr-burr sound. It rang a dozen times before it was picked up.

  “Good morning, Whittle Inn in Whittlecombe in East Devon. Thank you for calling the Em-oh-double-you police today.”

  Wow. She had pinpointed exactly where I was calling from.

  “Which department do you require?” the cheerfully efficient voice continued.

  I wasn’t sure what to ask for. “Erm …” I kept my voice low, conscious that several dozen witches were still breakfasting behind me, “I need to report a murder.”

  “A murder?”

  “That’s right, yes.”

  “At your premises?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you the registered inn-keeper? A Ms Alfhild Yasmin Daemonne?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. You’ll need the Serious Crime squad. Putting you through, please hold.”

  I waited. This time the burr-ing sound seemed shorter, more abrupt. It was picked up after a fewer number of rings and a female voice responded, barely able to contain her boredom.

  “Elise Liddell. Can I help you?”