Tea cake and murder, p.1
Tea, Cake & MURDER!, page 1
Prologue: A place to Hide
Death in Little Pucklewick
Epilogue: The Steamship Anubis
Acknowledgements
Links
Also by K.J.Heritage
About K.J.Heritage
I’ve been waiting for an eternity, my back propped up against the stolen Land Rover Discovery. The dark wood that stands around me is quiet and eerily still, with only the occasional rustle of leaves to break the silence. I hug my arms to my chest, trying to ward off both the chill in the air and my fear, feeling like someone, or something, is watching me. But that is nothing new for me… I’ve been watched all my life.
“Why on earth did I come here?” I whisper into the dense foliage. But I know the answer. A desperate plea from my sister, Andromeda. Or at least a desperate message, sent from inside our preferred cell phone gambling game. The way we had learnt to contact each other after the war began and they started rounding up the witchweavers.
Her message simply said:
We need to meet!
Just that, followed by twelve seemingly unrelated words, three of which I put into a popular geocode location app that links unique word combinations to exact geographic coordinates anywhere on earth. Which is what brought me to this precise location. A cold, bleak wood in the middle of bloody nowhere.
Technology and the knowledge of how to use it is what made me and my sister different. It gave us an edge. A way to work against the enemy. Unlike the rest of our kind. But then again, Andromeda and I were always creative. It is why we were so damn good.
Solely relying on majiks made the other witches lazy. They fostered an arrogance against the modern world. Who needs a cell phone when witches have been able to converse majikally with one another for hundreds of years? But we saw their potential. No eavesdropping spells will ever work on a smartphone, that’s for sure.
A breath of wind somewhere high up in the boughs above, the leaves whispering and hissing. Places like this freak me out. I’m a townie, like all my kind. The countryside holds no allure. Then again, where else could me and Andromeda meet? It had to be out of the way in the middle of nowhere and in the middle of the night, simply because the cities were too dangerous these days. Too many eyes to seek me out. And they’re looking for me. Needing my skills to fulfil their vile plans. But I know how to hide… And it’s that ability they want. My skill at weaving concealing spells. I’m the best witchweaver of my generation. Even Andromeda has to admit that.
My phone buzzes. A quick glance at the screen and I freeze…
It’s a trap! Get out now! They know where you—
I jump back into the Land Rover and gun the engine, reversing down the muddy track and out upon a small country road, my eyes glancing up at the night, whilst simultaneously casting a See-all spell. A quick flash and the sky becomes bright purple—for me anyway. And there it is, a black thing crawling through the sky, its many snake-like limbs pulling itself along, writhing and searching. My heart sinks. It won’t notice the Land Rover, but once it finds me gone, that thing will have my scent. And once a bloodseeker has your scent…
I have no choice but to use my talents to hide myself and soon. But where? The bloodseeker is only minutes away from finding me. I see a large cottage sitting back from the road and slam the brakes, sliding the Rover into the driveway, flooring the accelerator, and glimpsing a ‘For Sale’ sign.
In seconds, I’m out of the Rover and blasting open the front doors with a swipe of my wand. The place is uninhabited. No furniture. No books or paintings, nothing.
No place to hide!
I run through the cottage, doors flying open. The place appears to be empty until I find a study with packed bookshelves on every wall, a series of filing cabinets and a desk with an old computer. Taped up boxes fill the floor space.
I hear the screeching wail of the bloodseeker. It will be on me in moments. I quickly bind the door with another flick of my wand and make a choice. I ignore the banging and clattering of the frustrated bloodseeker outside and centre myself. Slipping down inside my mind, my wand now dancing in the air before me, like a sped-up spider creating its web, weaving, and knitting at a frantic pace.
New spells are difficult, they can take months to master, and I only have moments. I need to be as accurate as possible, but that’s just not going to happen. The spell, if I can finish it, will be unpredictable.
A blast from outside and the door rattles, majiks spitting and fizzling around the hinges.
Just a few moments more…
Another explosion and another. Dammit!
My spell isn’t finished, but I have no choice. I knit the threads together and ignite them with the blazing torch of my mind, just as the door blows inward, consuming me in blue and purple flame…
“MISS! I’m sorry to wake you, but it’s a note from the vicar! …Miss!”
I open my eyes to find a flustered-looking woman in a badly fitting bonnet staring down at me with an insistent look plastered across her wide, red face. Who on earth is she and what is she blathering on about? I’m groggy and dull-headed as if I’ve awoken on the wrong side of a bottle or two of Shiraz, but instinctively knowing that isn’t the case. No matter, I fully expect things will come back to me soon. “A note from who?” I mutter, my voice oddly posh-sounding and high-handed with a hint of an accent.
“A note from the vicar!” the woman repeats, waving a square of folded paper covered in spidery writing at me like it is some kind of improvised fan.
I sit up and find myself in a quaint, chintzy-like bedroom with far too many hanging patterned sheets and flowery bits for my liking. It’s a rather old-fashioned, country-style room with white walls and a wooden floor. The furniture is mostly antique pieces, including an old mahogany dresser that stands against one wall, flanked by two wingback chairs and a tall wardrobe. A dressing table sits close to an open window, next to an ancient looking radiator. I’m lying in a four-poster bed, covered with a patchwork quilt and an array of colourful pillows. An open door leads to what looks like a bathroom and another to a landing outside. A fire roars in a fireplace on the far wall facing me whilst a draft of air blows inside from flung open windows. The quality of the light is summery, but the air has a morning chill to it.
“You need warmin’ and airin’, miss,” the woman says in explanation, her voice a mix of hard to place, generic rustic tones. “A roarin’ fire to keep you warm, and fresh air to improve your humours. Somethin’ I swear by.”
I eye the woman again, hoping for my recollection to return, but she’s a complete stranger to me. “Who… who are you?”
“I’m Molly, miss, your new maid.” She performs a half-curtsy.
I give her the once-over. Molly is a short, thickset woman of indeterminate age, dressed in an old-fashioned maid’s uniform. A mad array of russet-blonde curls sprout from underneath her bonnet, seemingly with no real idea about what they are doing there, other than adding to her general sense of agitation. “Have we met before?” I ask with the startling tone of an interrogator.
“Yes, miss, the day you arrived.”
I stare at her again. Nothing. This isn’t an early morning brain freeze, but something more serious. “Then, my dear, it appears we have somewhat of a situation.” My voice sounds odd to me, the words precise and well-formed, like I’m giving a lecture rather than having a conversation. And I sound so dreadfully condescending, even though that isn’t my intention.
Molly doesn’t appear to notice or care—she’s far more fixated upon the note she’s holding. “That’s right, miss… the vicar’s comin’!”
“The situation I’m referring to doesn’t actually involve the vicar—whoever he may be, not yet at least—but it does very much involve the fact that I have no idea what this place is, who you are, and, most importantly of all, who I am. Unless my thumping headache is anything to do with it. Have I been in an accident?”
She gives me a wide, inane smile. “You were taken all peculiar after your long trip from Africa, miss. You’ve been asleep for nearly two days, no wonder you’re all discombobulated.”
Africa? Could that be the reason for my odd sounding voice?
Molly waves the note insistently at me and I feel obliged to take it off her.
Miss Emily Crookshanks
Woodside Cottage
The penmanship is excellent and practised. Lots of cursive sweeps, loops and self-important twiddly bits. The name meant nothing. “And that’s me is it… this Emily Crookshanks woman?”
“Yes, of course, miss.”
“And this reverend fellow?”
“He’s comin’ here for tea,” Molly says, carefully pronouncing her aitches. “This morning!”
“How do you know that? I haven’t opened the note yet?”
Molly flushed. “It were young Billy, miss. It were ‘im who delivered it. Does a lot of work for folk around the village. Mostly deliveries and whatnot. Said the reverend was plannin’ to visit you. And I’m sorry for speakin’ so plainly, miss, but you ‘ave to finally get out of that bed, get dressed, and come down to meet ‘im.”
Something isn’t right. I’m anxious, but I’m not sure what about. “I don’t think I’m up to meeting more people. Not at the moment.”
“But you can’t say no to a vicar…”
“Write him a note back at once and apologise,” I bark, again unintentionally, my voice ricocheting off the walls.”
“Me write a note, miss? Me? A maid? To t
“What is it, Molly?”
“You can’t say no to a man of God. You just can’t.” She crosses herself dramatically. “And Mrs Willoughby won’t be ‘appy with me. Not at all. She’s a big lady with quite a lip on her. I sure don’t want to get on her wrong side.”
“She sounds like an ogre.”
“It’s not for the likes of me to say one way or t’other, especially as she does so much work for the church, havin’ taken over the duties of the vicar’s poor wife.”
“What’s wrong with the wife?” I ask, a strange euphoria enveloping me. Asking questions is giving me quite the thrill.
“Now you mention it, I’m not sure. She’s not well enough to help the vicar like a vicar’s wife ought to. That’s all I know. She spends a lot of time in her rooms and even misses the Sunday sermon. And no one dares to miss ‘is sermon. So it must be somethin’ serious. But here I am blatherin’ away when the vicar ‘as sent you an important note….”
I take the hint, opening the envelope and unfolding the paper.
The Reverend Wilson-Smallsey
The Vicarage
Little Pucklewick
Monday, June 5th 1922
Dear Miss Crookshanks,
Let me first welcome you to the enchanting village of Little Pucklewick. It is a quiet place, with everything fitting perfectly in its place. I’m sure you will also fit in perfectly.
I would have invited you to the vicarage, but I am informed that you are presently indisposed which is the reason you missed my church service yesterday. No doubt due to a malaise associated with your travels from that awful continent upon which you previously resided. No matter, God’s representative on earth will find a way for all of his flock to hear his word!
Please be expecting me today at eleven o’clock this morning, prompt.
Yours faithfully,
The Reverend Wilson-Smallsey
The man’s signature is as wide as the page. “He sounds rather pompous.”
“The Reverend Wilson-Smallsey knows everythin’ that goes on in Little Pucklewick, miss. And he takes ‘is duties seriously. Very seriously. Like I said, you can’t say no to ‘im. You just can’t.”
The woman is on the verge of tears. “I see.” The letter intrigues me as does the man and I realise that I want to meet this Wilson-Smallsey. I take a deep breath. “The last thing I desire is to cause an international incident. I suppose I could meet the fellow.”
Molly squeals in delight.
“Apparently, he’s coming here at eleven o’clock prompt.”
“The reverend is comin’ at eleven?” Her excitable green eyes glance nervously at an impressive clock perching heavily on the mantle above the fire. “That’s only an ‘our and a ‘alf! Right! I’ll get downstairs and get started on me bakin’. And after that I’ll make a fire in the sittin’ room and be back up here to dress you.”
Before I can tell her that I am more than capable of dressing myself, she’s gone, thumping out of the room like an elephant on a mission to snaffle all the buns.
I get out of bed, noticing something drop to the floor. An antique fountain pen made from polished and rolled tortoiseshell. I pick it up noticing how nicely it fits in my hand. Perhaps I’m a writer of some kind? Shrugging, I make it to the window on unsteady feet and stare outside, unexpectedly feeling vulnerable and stepping back to peek from behind the curtains. This house sits on a small hill with a gnarly, old wood to one side and a picturesque village on the other, both nestling within an impressive, sweeping, velvety green valley. Little Pucklewick—what an odd name—looks like a picture postcard created by an artist who possessed a romantic love of the past. It’s almost too perfect. A beautiful church sits across the lane at the bottom of my garden. Beyond is a village green circled by shops and cottages. The village itself is surrounded by greener-than-green fields, criss-crossed with hand-built stone walls and crammed with sheep and black-and-white cows.
I enter the bathroom and wash myself, pipes rattling as the water struggles to warm up, aware of my reflection in a large mirror, and frightened of it. I steel myself and take a look. But it’s just me. Emily Crookshanks, I guess. A rather good-looking woman, in her thirties with long, unruly hair and intense green eyes.
There’s another door in the bathroom that leads to a walk-in wardrobe where I find an array of similar-styled black jackets, trousers and skirts, and a rack of black boots. However, the chief feature of this room are the shelves of brightly coloured hats festooned with costume jewellery, bows, feathers, and other adornments. The hats look out of place against the drab black clothing. Flamboyant and ostentatious maybe, but beautiful. I find myself mesmerised by them.
I put on a grey blouse and a skirt. But the skirt doesn’t look right on me. Instead, I choose black trousers. They are loose around the legs but tight-fitting around my bottom. I look in the angled mirrors and I’m impressed. Next, I pull on a pair of boots and find that they fit me with the intimacy of long use. The jackets are long, and all have multiple pockets. Both inside and out. I marvel at how functional they are. I slip one on and check myself in the mirror. My bottom is hidden by the long jacket, which is probably for the best. But something is missing. What I need to complete the ensemble is some decent headgear. And I have a vast choice. I try on the different hats, which are all agreeable but just not quite right. I spot some hatboxes and accidentally knock them over. One of them opens and spills out newspaper cuttings from a series of South African newspapers, cut-outs that feature a rather fetching woman wearing a long jacket with many pockets, trousers, and boots. Myself! And perched on my head, a series of fantastic hats, some that I recognise from my collection. I scan the headlines.
The Headmistress solves the mystery of the disappearing Pretoria Pearl
The Cape Town Cutthroat caught by amateur sleuth, Emily Crookshanks, the Headmistress
The curious incident of the body in the locked attic - another triumph for Emily Crookshanks
I read some of the stories, marvelling at myself. I’ve solved a lot of high-profile mysteries and made quite the name for myself as a sleuth. So what am I doing in England with amnesia? I notice one more cutting.
Emily Crookshanks—the scandal that shook South Africa
Before I can read further, Molly shouts from downstairs.
“I lost all track of time, miss! The vicar, he’s comin’ up the path now!”
I drop the newspaper cut-out, grab a magnifying glass from the dresser top, and the nearest hat—bright red with a large purple bejewelled bow and a single magnificent peacock feather—and quickly head downstairs just as the doorbell tinkles.
“The Rev, he’s here!” Molly appears from what I’m guessing is the kitchen. “You’re not meeting the vicar looking like that… are you?”
“What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?” I reply, taken aback.
“I’m sorry miss, there’s no time to change now.” She quickly points me towards the sitting room, and I slip inside and sit down, noticing that the windows are wide open, letting in rain from an early summer shower, the sun shining beautifully from behind heavy droplets. I experience an urge to slam them shut and to quickly draw the curtains—but I’m not sure why. The room is warm from another of Molly’s roaring fires. My maid is, I’m guessing, rather peculiar.
I hear the flustered tones of Molly as she ushers the Reverend Wilson-Smallsey inside and, seconds later, the sitting room door opens to reveal a rather imposing but charismatic-looking gentleman in his late fifties. Handsome and then some, with an unexpectedly rugged jawline and impressive cheekbones. His full head of thick white hair gives him an unkempt appearance, and yet it doesn’t detract from his good looks. If anything, his hair, unlike Molly’s curls, knew exactly what it was doing upon his head—being weirdly sexy for a start. He stands a good six-foot and strides into the room with a sense of grandiose purpose that comes with all self-important men.
