Witch in trouble

The scrape of the trowel was the only sound. The air hung still, as if holding its breath for something unknown, and there was a faint bite to it. I lowered the trowel again, prising stubborn bindweed from between the serried rows of herbs. Amazing how fast they grew in the autumn sun. I arched my back hard work, this. A checked shirt tucked into my jeans, a beige apron tied over it, sleeves rolled up despite the chill. On my feet, a pair of practical workman’s boots. My long dark hair was pulled back with a simple band. Kneeling over the herb bed was making my back ache; I wasn’t used to this sort of labour. Beneath my knees, an old rubber mat kept the damp and cold from seeping through my jeans. I wondered how Gran had managed it all these years.

At the thought of her, a tear slipped down my cheek. Damn it I’d promised myself I wouldn’t cry again, but, as always, I failed. Three weeks since she died, one since the funeral.

The memory of finding her still made me shudder. She’d been lying beneath the washing line, stretched out as though she’d simply sat down to rest. The basket was half full, a towel clutched in one hand, two pegs in the other. I’d come home from work, wheeling my bicycle down the gravel path to the brick-and-stone shed at the bottom of the garden. The shock had almost been too much, but I’d remembered to phone for an ambulance. Two paramedics had been first on the scene, their eyes full of quiet sympathy as they told me it was a heart attack. That was three weeks ago; the funeral was only last week. I hadn’t been out here, in this place where she died, since then. But grief had to stop, and the living had to go on at least, that’s what I told myself. It still felt strange knowing she was no longer here. She’d been my whole life.

The sound of an engine in the road outside the house pulled me back to the present.

The sound was unusual for our quiet lane. No one ever came this way it was a dead end. The lane finished at a locked, chain-bound farmer’s gate, beyond which stretched a marshy, often-muddy field. Autumn now, but in summer we’d get the occasional lost soul, hoping to find some hidden back entrance to the hill visible from my garden. I glanced at it the green mound rising beyond the high hedges at the rear. Morgan’s Mound, we locals called it. Supposedly Neolithic, though no one had ever managed to date it with certainty. Archaeologists had combed over it again and again, yet found nothing to prove or disprove any theory. The current favourite was that it was a fairy gate. As a witch, I doubted that one. Even if I wasn’t a particularly talented witch, I’d know if there were magic involved. My skills were modest an occasional cantrip, the odd potion but nothing stronger. At moments like this, my hand went to the amulet around my neck: a strange disk carved with runes, suspended from a long metal chain. I’d worn it for as long as I could remember. I wasn’t even sure I’d ever taken it off.

The car sounded louder now. I heard it roll to a stop in front of the house. My home was built of red brick, with white trim neatly framing the corners. Two storeys high, it had four large windows on the ground floor two at the front, two at the back and six above, each side arranged in threes flanking a smaller central window. The smaller front window sat directly above the main door, which was reached by three steps. Two half-columns stood on either side of the door, supporting a Greek-style lintel.

Beneath the front windows, concrete edging framed a tangle of rose bushes bright with blossoms in summer, now bare and brittle in the thin autumn sun. The house faced a low, ornate brick wall with a wrought-iron gate. Beyond the wall ran a grass-filled culvert, spanned by a short concrete bridge leading to the gate. To the left, a wider gate allowed space for a car to pass through. Leaving my tools where they lay, I walked around to the front of the house. A silver car make and model unknown to me was pulling up outside.

Two men sat inside the car, both in suits. The sight of them made my stomach knot. I’d already paid for Gran’s cremation with my own savings, so it couldn’t be about that but they looked official. One was in his mid-forties, with grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard. The other was shorter, with thinning hair and a moustache. They wore identical dark grey suits, the kind you’d pick up off the rack in a department store. The matching look gave the odd impression of a uniform.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“I’m Detective Constable Hellier, and this is Detective Wright. We’re here to speak to Ida Smith.” Their voices carried the local accent.

I blinked. “That’s my gran’s name… but she died.” My throat tightened as I said it, and a shiver went through me. A tear stung at the corner of my eye.

Both men’s attention fixed on me, their expressions sharpening.

“When did she die?” Wright asked the one with the thinning hair and moustache.

“Three weeks ago.” A tear slid down my cheek; I wiped it away quickly. I wasn’t going to cry in front of strangers. “Her funeral was last week.”

“How did she die?” Hellier asked.

“Heart attack. She’d been having heart problems for months. The doctor told her to take things easy.”

“And you are?”

“Corvina Lafayette. Ida Smith was my grandmother.” I kept the sobs back. Gran had been my only parent she told me my mother and father had died when I was a baby. I noticed the slight lift of their eyebrows; I was used to that reaction when I gave my name. Corvina came from the Latin Corvus, meaning raven. My friends had taken to calling me Raven. I wished they were here now.

“Anyone else live here with you?”

“Only me. I used to live here with Gran, but…” My voice faltered. “It’s just me now.” Saying it made the loss feel raw all over again. Tears blurred my vision.

“I see,” Hellier said gently. “Do you think we could come in?”

I only nodded, not trusting my voice. Shutting down the wards on the door just as Gran had taught me I stepped aside to let the detectives in. The front door offered a straight view through to the back. To the right, the staircase climbed to the upper floor, with a utility closet tucked in behind it. The door to the right led to the kitchen and dining room; the one to the left opened into the sitting room. I led them into the sitting room, which stretched the full depth of the house, from the front window to the back. A massive fireplace dominated one wall, flanked by two armchairs one newer, the other threadbare. Gran had always refused to replace it, and now I’d never be able to. A couch faced a massive bookcase, with an older TV perched in the corner near the back window. A handful of side tables sat scattered around the room, and a large wooden desk stood before the front window. Pictures hung on the walls, some crooked. A faint embarrassment tugged at me; a fine layer of dust coated several surfaces. I hadn’t dusted in three weeks, not since Gran died. The garden work had been my first real attempt at normality.

“Sorry,” I said quietly. “I haven’t felt like cleaning since my gran died.”

“I understand,” Wright said.

“We’re sorry to intrude at a time like this,” Hellier added, “but we need to ask you a few questions.”

I settled into my armchair automatically, while Hellier took Gran’s. For a moment, I almost asked him to move but that was ridiculous. Gran was gone; she wouldn’t be worrying about her chair now. Wright dragged the chair from the desk and placed it beside Hellier. I didn’t like the arrangement. Sitting together like that felt deliberate, as if they meant to box me in. If that was their plan, I wasn’t going to let it work.

“So,” I said, “how can I help you?”

Hellier reached for his mobile phone.

“That won’t work here,” I told him. “The whole village is a null zone.”

He glanced down at the screen, and Wright did the same. A moment later, both slipped their phones away.

“I guess we’re doing this the old-fashioned way,” Hellier said, pulling a notepad and pen from his pocket. He flipped through until he found a blank page.

“Right to business. Do you know a Violet Rudder?”

The name tugged at something in my memory. I frowned, sifting through recent events. The funeral yes, I’d heard it there. But with the weight of grief pressing in at the time, I hadn’t paid much attention. Then it clicked.

“Just a second.” I rose and hurried into the hall.

Wright followed, his watchful steps close behind, as if he thought I might bolt. By the front door stood a small table with a telephone, an address book, and a pen. I snatched up the address book and returned to the sitting room. I remembered six ladies from Gran’s bridge club; I’d met them all properly for the first time at the funeral. I was almost certain Violet had been one of them. Flipping through the pages, I found the name.

“Here yes. Violet Rudder. She was in Gran’s bridge club.”

“Bridge club?” Wright asked, glancing at Hellier, who was already jotting down my words.

“Yes. Gran went every Wednesday night. I didn’t even know their names until they introduced themselves at her funeral it was the first time I’d met them.”

For some reason, the women had insisted I go home with them after the service. At the time, I’d refused, too buried in grief to think about it. Now, looking back, the offer felt… odd. Six strangers, wanting to take care of me. Why hadn’t I questioned it? But that wasn’t something I intended to share with the detectives.

“You only met them at the funeral?” Wright pressed.

“And not before? Did your gran mention them at any time?” Hellier added.

“Never.” I was certain of that. I flipped open the address book. “They gave me their names and phone numbers I scribbled them on a scrap of paper, then transferred them here when I got home.”

“I see,” Wright said.

“Are you sure about meeting them only at the funeral?” Hellier asked, looking directly at me.

“Yes.” Their tone was starting to wear on me. It wasn’t enough that Gran had died now I was being interrogated as though I’d done something wrong.

“And never before?” Wright repeated.

“I’m certain. Every Wednesday, without fail, Gran went to her bridge club. It was held at the Wagoners Rest, on the High Street at the bottom of the hill just past the old town hall in Greater Fayton.” I narrowed my eyes slightly. “You’re asking a lot of questions I don’t have answers for. You keep bringing up Violet, but I don’t know her in any real sense. I met her once, briefly, and I was far too emotional to pay much attention. Gran was a private person. I never pried into her affairs.” The words sat bitter on my tongue. As much as I hated to admit it, I was beginning to wonder why I hadn’t and that led to thoughts I wasn’t ready to voice to strangers.

“Violet Rudder was violently murdered,” Hellier said, each word deliberate. “I can’t give you the details, but that’s as much as I can tell you.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

“I’m surprised you didn’t know,” Wright added, his gaze flicking to the small TV in the corner by the back window.

“I don’t watch much TV. I prefer reading.” My hand lifted slightly toward the overstuffed bookcase, more out of habit than thought.

Wright rose to his feet. “Mind if I use your loo?”

“Upstairs, first door on the left.” Heat pricked at my face. I couldn’t remember if I’d tidied up. The image came unbidden the laundry basket overflowing, my knickers on top, the bathroom shelf cluttered with sanitary products. My cheeks burned hotter. No visitors lately. Certainly no men. “Sorry,” I said quickly. “It’s a bit of a mess.”

Wright only gave a small, dismissive wave before disappearing, his footsteps fading up the stairs.

That left me with Hellier, whose eyes hadn’t left me since delivering the news.

“What do you do for work?” he asked, the question almost casual, but not quite.

“I’m a shop assistant. Supermarket on the High Street.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched as we waited for Wright to return. He was taking his time. I wondered what he was up to. Then my mind jumped to the bathroom my dirty underwear, exposed to a stranger’s hands. The thought made me shudder. Maybe letting these two in had been a mistake. I was a woman alone here. Sure, I might be a witch, but my powers were weak.

Hellier broke into my spiralling thoughts. “One last question?”

“That is?” I nearly snapped but caught myself.

“We passed a thatched cottage on the way here?”

“Jeff and Graham Kerr,” I replied. “Nice couple. Newlyweds. They went on a honeymoon trip around the world. I think Jeff was something big in the city.”

Just then Wright reappeared. My hackles rose at the sight of him.

“I thought you couldn’t get internet here?” I said, narrowing my eyes.

“You can, if you’re on wire or fibre optic,” Wright replied. “Wi-Fi, satellite, or TV signals don’t work. The whole village is wired.”

“I see,” Wright said, but I caught the edge in his tone.

Hellier stood. “Thank you for your time, Miss Lafayette.” He frowned, reluctant to let the investigation go. “There will be a follow-up. Someone from London.”

With that, they left. I stood by the window, watching their car disappear down the lane.