A Gaggle of Ghastly Grandmamas: Wonky Inn Book 9 Page 8

  “Hi, yes,” I faltered again. “My name is Alfhild Daemonne. I need to report a murder.”

  “A murder?” The woman sounded slightly more interested. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “I’m not really sure. I found the body of one of my guests. She was hanging in the air. We suspect witchcraft.”

  “Levitating?” The woman sounded intrigued. “Any obvious signs of injury?”

  “Not that I can see,” I replied. “But I’m not an expert and I didn’t look too closely.” I shuddered.

  Why me? Why my wonky inn?

  “No, that’s understandable,” the woman said, compassionate but brusque. “Is the victim known to you?”

  That was an easier question to answer. “Her name was Delia Cuthbert. She was a guest at my inn. She only arrived yesterday afternoon.”

  “And have you any idea who might have wanted to harm Delia?”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Well …” I wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” I shrugged even though the detective couldn’t see me. “I mean, she was … difficult.”

  “Difficult?”

  “She had a bit of a temper.”

  “Mmm.” I heard the clicking of a keyboard. “Can you confirm where you are?”

  “I’m at Whittle Inn,” I said. “In Whittlecombe.”

  The clicking grew louder. “And that’s East Devon, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I see it. Don’t move the body, Ms Daemonne. I’m on my way.”

  Mrs Cuthbert could not be found. I took it upon myself to break the bad news to her, but when I tapped on the door of the room she’d been sharing with Delia there was no answer. I had a master key so, after hammering a little harder and calling out to her a few times, I let myself in. The room had single beds, and only one had been slept in. Of Mrs Cuthbert, there was no sign.

  I checked the bathroom but that was orderly enough. The towels were dry. I didn’t know what this signified; at this stage, I didn’t know how long Delia had been dead.

  Flummoxed, I made my way downstairs again. Charity stopped me as I headed towards the bar.

  “The police are here. They’re in the kitchen.”

  “The police?” I stared at her in horror. “The local police?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I didn’t ring them.”

  Charity pulled a face. “I’m sorry. I think the delivery driver did.”

  Harry C. What a nuisance. “I suppose that’s understandable given how shocked he was.” I tried to be magnanimous, but quite honestly I could have cast a hex that would have given his delivery truck a flat tyre every day for the next two months.

  But that would have been uncharitable and bad-tempered. I was better than that, surely?

  “Who have they sent?” I asked.

  Charity instantly understood what I was asking. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Fab.” I straightened my robes and smoothed my hair down, an impossible task given how wild it was. “Alright. I’ll go and talk to him.”

  “Good luck,” Charity called after me as I slunk along the hallway.

  Most of the kitchen staff had made themselves scarce, apart from Florence who was kneading bread mixture, and Monsieur Emietter, standing by the stove concocting something for lunch. He glared at me, evidently blaming me for this latest intrusion to his service.

  DS George Gilchrist and his young colleague DC Andy Borewick waited patiently for me near the back door. Borewick lifted his nose and sniffed the air. I was unsure whether he was enjoying the scent of fried bacon or, like a bloodhound, he was searching for the stench of death.

  “Morning,” I said as I walked in.

  “Morning Alf,” George raised a sardonic eyebrow. “I wish I could say long time no see.”

  “Believe me, so do I.” I directed their attention to the stove. “Would you like tea? Coffee? Sausage sandwich?”

  Borewick perked up at the offer.

  “Florence, be a love and sort me out two sausage sandwiches, strong black coffee for George and …” I looked at the young DC.

  “Coffee for me too, please. White and two.”

  George was all business, serious-faced and ready for action. “Can we have a look at the scene?”

  I nodded and led them down the hall towards The Snug.

  “Why did I get the call from a delivery driver?” George asked. “Why didn’t you call us?”

  “Ah,” I paused at the closed door. “It’s complicated.” I cast a quick glance at Borewick.

  George rolled his eyes. “Andy, go and grab those coffees for me will you, please?”

  Borewick stared at us uncertainly. “But Sarge—”

  “Just give us a minute.”

  I waited until Borewick had pattered back down the hall to the kitchen then turned back to George. “The victim is a woman called Delia Cuthbert. She’s a witch.”

  “Well, that’s not anything new, is it?” George had grown accustomed to my magickal world and nothing tended to surprise him anymore.

  “The thing is, the inn is currently full of witches, and with my hand on my heart, I really don’t think Delia was well-liked.”

  George pulled out his notebook. “Why do you say that?”

  “She wasn’t a particularly nice person. A little bit—” I thought for a second, “—aggressive in her tone and in her actions.”

  “Alright.” George scribbled a few things down. “So she’s not a nice person and you have an inn full of witches.” I had a feeling the latter statement wouldn’t end up in his final report. “But that doesn’t explain why the delivery driver called us, and not you.” He tapped the end of his pen against his lips and waited.

  “Gwyn told me I needed to contact the Ministry of Witches.”

  “Aha.”

  “They’re sending a detective down. In fact, I’ve already spoken to her.”

  “Down? As in they’re sending a detective down from London?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that’s crazy. This is our jurisdiction. They can’t just turn up here and start poking their noses into a murder that’s on our territory.”

  I held my hand up. “I know, George, but the thing is,” I shot a nervous glance towards the kitchen, making sure we couldn’t be overheard, “this is witch on witch. That’s a serious crime where I come from.”

  George looked pained. “Murder is a serious crime where I come from too, regardless of who has committed it.”

  “My point is, what the Ministry of Witches will want to investigate may be different to what you do … and given how I found her, they may be able to find the cause of death in a way that you and your mundane pathologists can’t.”

  “I see.” George’s eyebrows knitted together. He pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his trouser pocket and snapped them on. “Let’s have a look then. Walk me through what you saw.”

  I unlocked the door and pushed it open. Gwyn had been standing guard and now she moved respectfully away. She’d managed somehow—and I have no idea how but I guessed she’d used magick—to get both the snake and the spider back in their respective homes. All of the familiars were quiet, observing George, the newcomer, with interest.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Phew. It stinks. What are all these animals doing in here anyway?”

  “For the most part, they belonged to Delia and her mother. Delia told me she had allergies, so I agreed to house them in here for now.”

  “Her mother?”

  “Mrs Cuthbert is staying here too.” I jabbed a finger towards the ceiling. “Second floor, but she’s not in her room and none of my staff has seen her this morning.”

  “Interesting.” George pointed his pen at the body. “Tell me what happened?”

  I stared down at Delia. She lay on the floor where I’d left her, her face pale, her eyes and mouth open. I breathed heavily and averted my eyes. “I came in here and I found her suspended in mid-
air.” I indicated where she had been. “As though she was lying on a high bed or something.”

  “How is that possible?” George asked.

  “She was being held up in a beam of light.” I shook my head. “To be honest George, I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

  “Hmm.” George carefully walked up to the place I’d indicated and glanced around the room. “She wasn’t suspended by ropes or … something?”

  “A thin thread.” I removed my wand. “I had to use magick to make her drop.”

  “Put that thing away,” George said, probably flashing back to the time I’d turned him into a toad.

  “I checked on her, but she’d already been dead a while.” I thrust my wand back in its pocket. “Not that I’m an expert, as I say.”

  “You’ve been on almost as many murder scenes as I have.” George knelt down next to Delia and placed a finger against her neck. “Do you think this magickal beam of light you’ve described killed her?”

  I shook my head. “I really don’t know.”

  “Okay.” He stood up again. “I’m going to call in my forensic team to do a complete sweep of the scene.”

  “But—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. The witchy detective is on her way. If she’s here soon there won’t be a problem. I can delay things a little, but I do need the coroner to have a look at the body and I want photos taken straight away.”

  “Alright,” I agreed.

  We moved back into the corridor. “You say you have an inn-full?” he asked.

  “I do. Gwyn’s sorority is here.”

  George looked puzzled. “A what? Sorority?”

  “Kappa Sigma Granma. I think she borrowed the idea from something they have at American universities. It’s like a support network, social type thingie.”

  “Right.” George seemed none the wiser. “Well these members of Capper Signal—”

  “Kappa Sigma Granma,” I repeated.

  “Them … I’m going to need all of them to remain inside so we can conduct initial interviews.”

  “I’ll sort that now,” I promised.

  “And we will need to locate Mrs Cuthbert as a matter of priority.” George pointed down the hall as he pulled his phone from his pocket. “Could you ask Andy to stop stuffing his face and come and give me a hand, please?”

  “Yes, Sir!” I replied and clicked my heels together sharply.

  George thumbed his screen. “Let’s get the wheels turning and hope your witchy detective turns up tout suite.”

  Elise Liddell quite literally rocked up to Whittle Inn. I heard her before I caught sight of her. In spite of the freezing weather outside, she had the window of her relatively new silver Volvo cracked open and had some kind of loud retro heavy metal music blaring out. She sped along the tree-lined track that led from Whittle Lane to the inn and skidded along the drive, scattering gravel as she came.

  I’d been keeping an anxious eye out since George had barred me from The Snug, and had been sitting near the window in the company of Phyllis, Onnalee, Sybil and Gwyn, listening with half an ear to them reminiscing about the old days and trying not to be irritated by Phyllis’s constant references to her perfect grandson. What a heavenly specimen he must be.

  I’d decided I already hated him and congratulated myself on the fact that I’d never have to meet him. Someone that wonderful would never stay at Whittle Inn. I’d been about to lose all hope of Elise showing up before the coroner when I spotted the flash of the vehicle between the naked oak trees and in seconds, there she was.

  I stood hurriedly and rushed for the front door, but Elise was faster. She was out of her car and standing in the reception before I made it that far. Her colleague, an older man with silver-white hair, probably in his sixties, with a weathered face and a bulbous nose, wearing a dark olive trench coat, was slower.

  “Hello,” I said and reached out to shake her hand. “You must be Elise. I’m Alfhild Daemonne, the owner of Whittle Inn.”

  Elise rolled a sweet around in her mouth and stuck it in her cheek. “Pleased to meet you. Thank you for calling us.” She shook my hand with a firm grip, then took a good look around at the oak panelling and the wooden floor, the impressive staircase and the portraits of my ancestors on the walls. While she was distracted I was able to study her.

  We were about the same height and the same age, maybe she was a little older, I spotted some fine lines around her eyes. She had a wonderful mane of hair, but I couldn’t tell you what colour it had been originally, because now it was all the colours of the rainbow. She wore tight black jeans and a black motorcycle jacket with a sapphire blue scarf at the neck, and matching blue lace-up boots. She moved with an assurance that I recognised. George had it. They also shared the same watchfulness. Their eyes were never still, their heads regularly swivelling as they paid careful attention to their surroundings, constantly on the alert.

  “What a fabulous old place you have here. It reeks of history.” She pulled out her warrant card, making her visit official. “I’m DI Elise Liddell. This is my colleague, DS Ezra Izax.”

  He nodded at me, his brown eyes glittering. I could tell he liked to smile. “Ma’am.”

  “I see the local police are here.” Elise jabbed a thumb towards the drive where several marked cars had been parked.

  “Yes. Unfortunately, we had a delivery driver on site when I discovered the body and he called them.”

  “Yeah, that’s a nuisance, but don’t worry, we come up against that kind of challenge all the time,” Elise reassured me. Ezra nodded at her. “We’ll take care of that.”

  She sounded so sure of herself that I couldn’t help but feel a sneaking sympathy for poor George.

  “Shall I show you the way?” I asked and Elise nodded.

  “After you.”

  I led them through the bar. Heads turned as we walked, and a general hush fell over the room. I felt a little self-conscious, but Elise smiled and waved. “Morning ladies! As you were.”

  There were a few titters and I spotted both Phyllis and Gwyn peering over their spectacles at the newcomer. As we passed through the door into the back passage, Phyllis’s imperious voice rang out. “Did you see her hair? Whatever next?”

  I cast a glance over my shoulder at Elise and she winked at me. “I get that all the time.”

  “I should imagine your hair makes you stand out from the crowd,” I ventured. “You’ll be giving my hotel manager ideas.”

  “Elise likes to stand out from the crowd,” Ezra said. “When she’s after a murderer, she wants them to know she’s on their trail.”

  That seemed a little contrary to George’s softly, softly approach but I figured there was room for both types of detective.

  A small group of people in plastic coveralls had congregated outside The Snug. Elise pulled out her warrant card again.

  “Who’s in charge here?” she called, and after a moment George emerged from the room. “That would be me.” He pulled off one of his gloves and extended a hand. “DS George Gilchrist, Devon and Cornwall Police.”

  “DI Elise Liddell, Ministry of Witches Police. Pleased to meet you.” A couple of the overalled scene of crime officers snuck a look at Elise with a mixture of bewilderment and unease.

  “DS Ezra Izax,” Ezra offered.

  Elise flipped open her notebook. “I understand we’ll be working together on this one.” She pointed into the room. “Before you go any further, would it be possible for me to have a quick look?” It didn’t sound much like a request to me. “I’d like to get a feel for what happened.”

  George stepped back. “Of course. Please don’t touch—”

  “I can assure you I know what I’m doing, Sergeant,” Elise smiled.

  “Of course, Ma’am.” George backed down. “It’s all yours.”

  Elise turned to me. “You found the body, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Right. I’m sure this is getting boring for you but it’s really importan
t that we hear it straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. Can you take us through what happened?”

  I stepped inside with Elise, Ezra following closely at her heels, George hanging back but obviously listening to every word.

  Elise regarded the cages and baskets with interest. “Familiars?”

  “Possibly some of them, but most of these belonged to Delia and her mother. I’m not sure how many were familiars and how many were simply pets.”

  “Is there a difference?” George asked. Elise turned a cool gaze his way. He shuffled in place and coughed.

  “Go on, Ms Daemonne,” Ezra said.

  I explained again what I’d seen, how the snake and the spider and a cat had been out of their cages and how Delia had been hanging in the air. Elise stopped me there. “Hanging? Right above where she’s lying now?”

  I looked down at Delia. Her pale face had turned slightly mottled now, her eyes taking on a cast. I wanted to close them for her. “Yes.”

  “And at about what height?”

  I stepped a little closer and indicated the height. Almost the same as the table.

  “And you said she was held in a beam of some kind.”

  I nodded. “Wrapped round a thin thread.”

  “What colour was the beam?”

  “A kind of goldy colour? Cold. I don’t know if that makes sense. Not sunshine gold like a wedding ring. Almost silver but with a yellow tinge.”

  “Is that important?” George had his notebook out and his pen poised.

  Elise nodded. “It is to us, sergeant. It won’t help you though.” She stepped towards him and glanced at his notes. “You and I will be investigating very different things.”

  “In the interests of co-operation—” George started, but Elise cut him off.

  “In the interests of co-operation you and I can work very closely together, but I should imagine that while you may get your man—or perhaps woman in this case—you’re unlikely to actually solve the crime. You’ll have to leave that to me.”

  George frowned.

  Elise stepped closer to him, so close she could have leaned in and kissed his cheek had she wanted to. “Let’s face it, George, no-one at your nick would ever believe what happened here.” She smiled and his eyes widened.