Chapter 11
XI
Celeste: Mina and I have been doing some investigating about Old Widow Hardcastle.
A few days before she was killed, she went around the village shoving flower pots at people.
Mina got this weird plant – I think it’s an orchid?
The widow also went to the village grocer, brought up all the cat food, and delivered it to her granddaughter.
She also visited her solicitor, maybe to make the shop over into Rafe’s name?
It’s as if she knew she was going to be killed.
She also went to the post office with a parcel under her arm and asked after someone named Agnes Mayberry, and when the post lady informed her that Agnes had died some years ago and left no family behind, she slapped her walking stick on the counter, said ‘that sorts that, then’ and stomped away with her parcel.
“It’s no good.” I blow out the candle. I’ve walked around the shop seven times, holding the candle up to every wall, nook, and cranny and waiting for the flame to bend towards the grimoire’s hiding place. “There is no magical book hiding in this shop.”
“My guess is that whoever killed the old bird took the book,” Rafe says.
“That’s what I’m thinking, too. That would mean that they know she’s a witch,” I say. “They deliberately targeted her.”
“So that leaves us back where we started – I have to perform a selfless act.” Rafe slumps in his chair. “I’m doomed to have a tail forever.”
“Is it really that bad?” I ask. “I like your tail.”
“I love how certain you are that I’m stuck like this!” Rafe pouts, his tail swishing. “Where’s yesterday’s confidence in my ability to be selfless?”
“I realised that I know you,” I grin. “Seriously, though. What if you solved the mystery of the Widow Hardcastle’s murder? Surely, bringing closure to the case of the witch who cursed you would be considered a selfless act.”
“It’s certainly worth a shot.” Rafe slaps his hands on the counter. “Celeste said that the Widow Hardcastle was asking about that Agnes woman. I need to find out why. And I should see these plants she gave away.”
“You’ll have to investigate in cat-form.” I glance at my watch. “I need to get back to the house. The inspectors will be at my house in an hour.”
“Investigating can wait. I intend to charm those inspectors into compliance.” Rafe stands, stretching his back. “And if they refuse you, I’ll throw up on their shoes. I have a nice hairball forming at the back of my throat for just such an occasion.”
“Let’s hope that you don’t need it.”
“If you’ll follow me, my facility is this way.
” I lead the two inspectors along the winding garden path.
The flower beds are particularly impressive today – the Japanese anemones have flowered early, and bees hop from bloom to bloom, collecting the nectar that will make a delicious mead for releasing grief.
“Lovely garden.” Councillor Komal Ahuja bends down to sniff the flowers. Rafe rubs around her ankles, immediately picking up that she’s on our side.
“I’ve nurtured this whole garden for the bees,” I say. “It’s really for them, but I get to enjoy it, too.”
“Is it hygienic to have these bugs everywhere?” Councillor Douglas flicks a bee off his collar. I’d been horrified to open the door and discover he was the second inspector. He doesn’t like me.
“It’s a garden. Bees and bugs are part of the ecosystem. Here are the hives. I’ll demonstrate the harvesting process. You’ll see that I conform to all commercial standards.”
I have them stand well back while I don my bee suit for their benefit and demonstrate how I perform hive maintenance and harvest the honey. Councillor Douglas scribbles so many notes that he breaks his pencil and has to borrow one from Councillor Ahuja.
After I close up the hives, I lead them to the potting shed.
“Your facility is a garden shed?” Douglas frowns as he scribbles something on his pad.
I hate that man, Rafe says as he lifts a leg against Douglas’ trousers. I’m going to show him a bylaw violation—hey! Unhand me, witch!
“Yowl!”
“There’s nothing in the rules that specifies the type of building required.
” I dump Rafe unceremoniously in the lavender bush before he can pee on Councillor Douglas, and usher the two inspectors inside.
I stand on top of the dark stain, so it’s hopefully not as noticeable.
“Here’s where I extract the honey and make the mead.
I’ve done some home brewing here for years, which is perfectly legal since I’ve never sold my meads.
However, I’ve invested in new, commercial-grade equipment.
All the certificates are here.” I pat a pile of paperwork, narrowly avoiding crushing a bee dancing on top.
I’m sorry, little friend. All their questions make me nervous.
“But you haven’t been making mead for commercial sale yet?” Komal flicks through the papers. She’s a friend of Celeste and Mina, but I don’t know if they’ve told her about the stash we have in Celeste’s storeroom.
“Nope. Not before I get your signoff. Normally, mead would need to age for several months. However, I have methods that speed up the process.”
Douglas frowns. “And those methods are—”
“Proprietary,” I supply.
Magical.
“That sounds unnatural.” Councillor Douglas makes a face as he picks through a basket of roots and herbs I use as infusions. “You shouldn’t be deviating from common commercial practices. And what are these herbs? I’ve never seen these before. Do you have these listed as ingredients?”
“I do. They’re on the second page of the document—stop! What are you doing?” I swipe for his hand, but he sidesteps me and takes a second bite out of the witchlock root. “Don’t eat that.”
Witchlock is a hybrid my mother invented.
I use it in hair regrowth potions, and an even smaller amount in rejuvenation meads.
It’s a useful plant, but also dangerous because around ten percent of the population find the smell and taste utterly irresistible, and it seems that Douglas is one of the unlucky ones.
Douglas munches happily on the witchlock. As I watch in horror, he scratches at his face. “I feel strange.” He burps.
Long, thick hair grows from his skin – on his cheeks, his arms, his ears. Tufts poke from the collar of his shirt. “What have you done to me?” he shouts as he tugs at the locks on his cheeks, which now brush his shoulders.
He fists a handful and yanks, and manages to pull off a chunk, but he brings a bit of skin with him. He howls with agony. Rafe thinks it’s a game and leaps up on the bench to howl with him.
This isn’t going well.
“I did tell you not to eat that,” I say.
Komal covers her mouth with her hands, but I hear a giggle escape. He does look absurd, like Cousin It taking a job at a law firm. The hair keeps growing.
“Why would you have such a dangerous plant in your garden?” Douglas unbuttons his shirt as the hair strains the fabric.
Cascading honey-brown curls flop down to the ground.
A couple of bees circle him in curiosity.
Even as he fights against the hair, he lifts the root to his lips to take another bite.
I wrestle it from his fingers and shove it into my pocket.
“All plants are dangerous if you eat enough of them. The dose makes the poison. In small doses, that root is a medicinal remedy for baldness. It’s very effective, but it’s not meant to be eaten.
You’ve had far too much. Eventually, the hair will stop growing and if you shave regularly and take an infusion of dandelion root—”
“Have you come to arrest her?”
Not him. Please, this day couldn’t get any worse.
Harry leans over the fence like a sadistic Wilson Wilson, his eyes scrunched up like two raisins. My stomach lurches.
“Why would we be arresting Mrs Abernathy?” Councillor Ahuja asks between giggles.
“Aside from the dangerous plants she keeps in her brewing area?” Douglas tugs on the mane of hair growing out of his chest.
“She’s a cheater! She’s just like her mother and grandmother, winning the garden competition with magic! I saw her out here last week, muttering all sorts of spells to her flowers and enchanting her compost.” He glares at my compost pile, which is looking particularly lush.
Douglas turns to me like an enraged Wookiee. “Enchanted compost?”
I shrug. “I think Harry’s referring to the compost dance.
I come out on a misty morning and do a little jig to mix up the layers and make sure the microbes are microbing.
I may sing a few silly nonsense words, and I suppose to an outsider it might look like I’m performing a compost spell.
But surely what I choose to do in my garden is my business? ”
“Arrest her!” Harry jabs a wrinkled finger at me. “Get her on charges of witchcraft! She probably knocked off that husband of hers, too! He was up to some dodgy things.”
“We can’t arrest people, Harry,” Komal says.
“More’s the pity,” Douglas mutters.
“Witchcraft isn’t a crime, and neither is dancing on your compost.” Komal holds up a bunch of flowers she’s picked. “Thank you for showing us around, Mrs Abernathy. I think we’d better be going. You’ll have a letter this afternoon with our decision.”
“I think it went well,” Rafe suggests as we perch on overturned paint cans, eating our lunch pies.
“Oh yes, turning Councillor Douglas into a Wella commercial is absolutely going to get us our licence. At least you didn’t pee on him—”
“Hello, Mrs Abernathy.”
Hayes appears at the door. A bee crawls along his earlobe. I’m relieved to see that DS Wilson isn’t with him.
I leap to my feet, my chest constricting. Did someone see me kiss Rafe last night? Did they report it to Hayes? “Do you have an update on my husband?”
“I’m afraid not. We still haven’t been able to locate his vehicle, either in the woods or elsewhere.
We’ve determined that Veronika Madden was his mistress, and Wilson is currently digging into her movements over the days before and after his appearance.
They were planning to run away together, but so far it looks as though he might have been misleading her, too.
We still haven’t been able to trace the source of that money, but we’re now wondering if there might be organised crime connections. ”
I should be more surprised. Hayes is talking about some stranger, not my straight-laced, gym-obsessed, health-food scoffing, traditional family values husband. I guess that’s true – Warrick was a stranger to me. We’ve been married for fifteen years, and I don’t know him at all.
“Thank you for all you’re doing,” I say. “I appreciate it.”
“Look, Councillor Douglas was walking this over here, but I told him I’d deliver it since I wanted to talk to you.” He holds out a thin envelope. “I’m sorry about Councillor Douglas. I saw the state of him after he ate that root. I think it’s good what you’re doing here. I only wish…”
He trails off, shaking his head. He slips away without another word.
My hands tremble as I turn the envelope over and see the seal of the council.
“Do you want me to read it?” Rafe asks gently.
I hand it to him. He unfurls the letter with great fanfare, clears his throat, and reads with all the gravitas and aplomb of a Shakespearean actor.
Mrs Abernathy, we regret to inform you that after the inspection of your facilities, the committee has decided not to grant you your license. You are welcome to reapply after your conditions have been made more sanitary and all dangerous plants have been removed.