A Very British Witch Boxed Set Page 13

  Karl raised his hands. “Whoa, whoa, slow down. Ronnie said what?”

  “I found my wheelbarrow at Ronnie’s house. When I confronted him about it he said you used it to bring wine cases to his house for the party and left the wheelbarrow there in his backyard.”

  Karl just sat there, as if waiting for more.

  “Well, did you?” she asked.

  “Yes, actually.” Karl’s tone seemed less than definitive.

  “You borrowed my wheelbarrow without asking.”

  “I did ask, and you were fine with it.”

  Why is he lying about this?

  “I don’t remember you asking.”

  “I asked about the wheelbarrow when I asked about the shovel.”

  “I don’t remember that, either.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Scarlett.” He glanced at the clock. “Except that we need to open the store now. It’s two minutes past already.”

  She stayed in her seat. She’d come this far; she might as well go all the way.

  “What were you talking to Tarquin about?”

  Karl played dumb. “Tarquin?”

  “On Friday. Tarquin came in here, into your office, and you guys had some kind of closed-door meeting.”

  “Right, yes.”

  “About what?”

  “Business.”

  “What kind of business do you have with Tarquin?”

  “He needed my help with something.”

  “I thought you didn’t like the guy?”

  “I never said that.”

  “And now you’re helping him with something in secret?”

  “Secret? You’re starting to sound paranoid, Scarlett.”

  “I just don’t like being lied to,” she said quietly.

  “Okay, well calm down.”

  I am calm you frikking moron! You’re the one acting all weird and defensive. She stopped herself from shaking her head and reacting. It wasn’t the first time a man had accused her of being emotional when he was the one getting upset.

  “I am calm,” she replied evenly. “I just want the truth.”

  “It’s not a big secret,” Karl said. “It just hasn’t been announced yet.”

  “What?”

  “Really now, I can’t go into the details, Scarlett. That’s why the door was closed.”

  She crossed her arms, waiting him out.

  He glanced at the clock again and then seemed to let out a small sigh. “Okay. Tarquin is hosting an event at the bookstore. He wants to include some wine tasting. I can’t go into the details because it’s not finalized yet. It may not even happen. But he wanted to know if I would be willing to donate a few cases of wine. It’s sort of a charity event. Hush-hush, I admit. But nothing nefarious, I assure you. As for our friendship, yes, we haven’t always seen eye to eye. Tarquin and I have a history I’d rather not get into because it’s between the two of us, and mostly it’s resolved, I think. We’re working through it. I did some things and he did some things and it sort of snowballed and blew out of proportion but looking back on it now it all seems silly in retrospect. We’re patching things up. I’m not sure I’d call him a good friend, not anymore, but I certainly don’t hate the man.”

  He paused as she took that in. “Are you satisfied?”

  The door chimed and rattled. Someone had pulled on it, but it was locked.

  “We can talk about this later,” Karl said. “Now pull yourself together and go do your job.”

  She got up and left his office, wondering if she had done the right thing, or if she’d just made the biggest mistake of her life.

  She moved quickly from the office and through the shop. Worrying about her fate was going to have to wait. The good citizens of Bicester need their alcohol, and she wasn’t going to deny them that.

  She wasn’t a monster, she thought, flicking her hair back over her shoulder dramatically.

  +++

  Malaprop’s Bookstore, Bicester, England

  Stepping into Tarquin’s bookshop was like entering Aladdin’s cave. Compared to the sunlight blistering the sidewalks, the dim bulbs inside the shop seemed designed to conceal as much as reveal.

  Cliff stood for a moment near the door to let his super-power eyesight adjust and listened for heartbeats to get a lay of who was where.

  The shop had that old-book smell Cliff had loved since childhood. Childhood before he acquired his special abilities. It had been a faint vanilla scent, mixed with the slow decay of paper, glue, and ink. Under that he detected the muskier scent of leather.

  Now the smells were quite distinct to him. He could even smell Tarquin in the back room. And what he had eaten the day before.

  His nose twitched in mild disgust. Some things he really did not want to know.

  Half a dozen customers browsed the bookshelves, pawing at spines and thumbing through pages. No one spoke and there was no ambient music in the shop, only the soft, slow percussive sounds of heavy hardbacks being pulled from and returned to their solid wooden shelves.

  The front of the store boasted contemporary books on popular subjects. Cliff crossed through to where the far wall opened into a wide book-lined passageway. Ambling through, he noted once again how the shelves were organized less by subject than by publication date, so that stepping from the front door to the rear atrium was like stepping back in time.

  The atrium in the back was a large circular room with rounded shelves. Clearly it had been an extension to the main building. Here the floor was even and the construction more modern. A chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling. This chamber, the Sancta Sanctorum of Tarquin’s shop, was reserved for ancient texts and specialized tastes, containing the arcana of long-dead centuries. There were no prices listed for these books. If you had to ask, you couldn’t afford them.

  And you probably couldn’t read them.

  Very few of these volumes were in modern English. Most were in Latin, ancient Greek, old Arabic, classical Persian, Middle Chinese, and Sanskrit. Plus a number of lesser known languages that Cliff suspected were lost magical languages.

  He idly wondered how many of them Tarquin could actually read. The man was secretive. Elusive. Mysterious. Cliff was sure he had some skills. Special abilities, as it were. But quite the extent of them, he didn’t know.

  He hoped he would never have to find out.

  Vampires were always wary of sorcerers. Being magical creatures, they were susceptible to all manner of hexes, including syphoning. He shuddered, hoping the old codger couldn’t read his thoughts.

  There were two tall wooden ladders that rolled on wheels and along guiderails. On one of these ladders stood a tall man with short dark hair graying at his temples. A young-looking fifty-two, he was nevertheless an old soul.

  “Tarquin, old boy,” Cliff cooed as he entered the room.

  The man glanced down. “Cliff, I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Yeah. I’m just like the Spanish Inquisition like that,” Cliff joked.

  Tarquin didn’t react to the comment, but climbed down. “What can I do for you?” he asked, as if he didn’t already know what the problem might be.

  “We need talk in private,” Cliff said, careful in case Tarquin being circumspect was on account of others being within earshot.

  “Yes, I figured,” he said, walking to the right hand side of the atrium.

  Though the curved shelving along the wall seemed all of a piece, one section split apart, then opened as a door into a hidden room. Cliff didn’t know how Tarquin triggered the door. Just another one of Tarquin’s many tricks.

  Or illusions, he told himself. There was probably a mundane explanation, like an electronic button in the magician’s pocket, but Cliff never asked. He knew Tarquin wouldn’t say, and would likely get a kick out of knowing something he didn’t know. Conjurers were notoriously egocentric. And unreliable, with one exception: they knew how to keep a secret.

  Tarquin motioned for Cliff to enter first. “Shall we?”

 
; Cliff stepped into Tarquin’s back office. It was a small room with a desk and a chair and a filing cabinet. There was no computer or phone on the desk. No electronics at all. The desk lamp was gas-powered, and beside it was a large and nearly exhausted candle.

  Against one wall stretched a cot with rumpled bedding. Above the cot was a stained-glass window that let in more light than air. The air was stale, with the smell of the sandalwood candle masking the faint funky odor of unwashed bedding. Tarquin had a house down the road, but slept most nights in his bookshop, as if more at home in the past than the present.

  Cliff never understood Tarquin’s longing for the past. Having actually lived in the past, Cliff much preferred the present. He considered Tarquin like a war veteran does a tin soldier. To the antiquarian, history was an adventure. To the ancients, it was hell.

  Tarquin closed the door. “Tell me.”

  “She’s asking too many questions,” Cliff said.

  Tarquin pursed his lips. “Some confusion is natural. Most people forget things without questioning, but when prompted by others may attempt to fill the lacuna. The mind is like a palimpsest that can be read one way but–”

  “In English, please.”

  “What kind of questions is she asking?”

  “The wrong kind,” said Cliff. “It’s not just about what happened Thursday night. She’s starting to connect the dots, make associations. I’m worried that if she starts putting those puzzle pieces together–”

  “You’re mixing your metaphors.”

  “And you’re missing my point. Scarlett is growing more and more paranoid.”

  “With good reason. This investigator is stirring the pot.”

  “Then you need to stir up something a little stronger.”

  “Are you questioning my skills?”

  “I’m questioning your judgment,” Cliff said. “You went too easy on her. The spell is wearing off again.”

  Tarquin furrowed his brow. “Unusual. That spell should have held indefinitely.”

  “Well, it didn’t. And if she remembers anything clearly, and tells that investigator, we’re all screwed.”

  Tarquin nodded. He unlocked his desk drawer. Inside was a tray of small glass jars. He removed three jars containing herbs. From another drawer he took his mortar and pestle. He carefully measured out equal amounts of the three herbs, then ground them into a powder. With the help of a stiff brush he swept the powder into a small plastic baggie and handed the fresh packet of potion to Cliff.

  “This should be more than enough,” Tarquin said. “One pinch per eight ounces. No more than that. We don’t want to permanently damage the poor girl.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Private Lounge, The Bicester Hotel

  Tim was sleeping in the lounge, having dozed off reading the collected blog posts of the recently deceased Bill Knight. His phone rang. It startled him, and the laptop slipped off his chest and crashed to the floor.

  “‘Uck ‘ee”, he cursed, his mouth not working yet.

  He’d been sleeping on his back with his head propped up on a pillow.

  It took him a second to orient himself to his surroundings and locate the phone on the side table near his head. He tried to reach the phone without getting up but couldn’t stretch that far. He rolled off the sofa to the floor, landing on hands and knees, and crawled forward to grab the phone.

  “Hello?”

  A man spoke on the line. “This is PC Baldwin calling for Flight Lieutenant Tim Clarke.”

  “Speaking.”

  “Flight Lieutenant Clarke, I found the answers you were looking for.”

  “What?” His mind was foggy. “Who is this?”

  “PC Baldwin, Bicester Police Department. DCI Yates told me to run some vehicle registrations, said you needed it for the Bill Knight homicide, and I should call this number.”

  “Right, yes. Sorry, you caught me napping.”

  “Happens to the best of us,” PC Baldwin said matter-of-factly. “I looked up all vehicles registered under the name of Scarlett Slater.”

  Tim sat down on the sofa. Before him was a wall of surveillance and suspect photos, in which Scarlett Slater figured prominently. “Yes?”

  “She owns a 2016 Mini Cooper.” There was a pause. “Would you like the registration number?”

  Tim glanced around for a pen but didn’t see one on the side table and abandoned the search. “You could text or email that to me, please?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Tim rubbed his eyes, which were gritty in the corners from sleep. “Is that the only vehicle she’s registered?”

  “The only one currently on file under that name, yes.”

  “Currently? What about past registrations that may have lapsed?”

  “Yes, I did look into that. I went back ten years, to when she first got her driver’s license. Scarlett Slater has only registered one other vehicle, a Ford Fiesta in 2008, She renewed her registration yearly until she sold the title in 2016.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “That’s all that came up.”

  “You checked trucks as well? Not just cars?”

  “All vehicles on record, sir.”

  Tim stood up and started pacing, keeping the phone to his ear. Scarlett could have rented a truck, but that seemed unlikely unless she had crafted an elaborate plan to escape detection. It was possible, but Tim knew that most homicides were acts of passion, not cold calculation.

  “Would you happen to have rental records?” he asked.

  “No, we don’t track that. You’d have to ask the car rental companies.”

  “Were you able to run a general query for trucks in the area?”

  “Yes, I’ll text that info to you as well.”

  “Thank you, officer.”

  Tim hung up and thought it through. He was certain that Scarlett had to have had access to a truck to move the wheelbarrow. If she didn’t own a truck, she must have borrowed or rented one.

  He checked her Facebook profile, but it was private. She had nearly two thousand friends on Facebook, and he made a list of those who were local, but not many of them indicated which city they lived in.

  Needle in a haystack, he muttered to himself, despondently.

  If he had more manpower or time, he could cull through all the names and search them individually online and check their vehicle registrations. But that would mean dozens if not hundreds of records requests, and he didn’t want to go down that rabbit hole unless he had to.

  What he needed was to determine her living patterns. Where she went, who she interacted with, who might be close enough to her to give her the keys to their truck.

  That meant surveillance.

  Tim checked the time. It was nearly five o’clock. Scarlett would be at the shop now, but closing soon. That gave him a good window to pick up her trail, see where she went after work.

  Feeling a slight thrill at tailing his suspect he shuffled upright and prepared to leave.

  He locked up the room and went to his car. It was walking distance to the wine shop, but he didn’t want to tail her on foot. He knew she liked to walk home, but she would be more alert to a man following her on foot than cars in the street. Also, she knew what he looked like, but not the make of his car. That gave him some concealment, in case he crossed her line of sight.

  As Tim drove out of the hotel parking lot, doubt began to infect his thoughts. Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe she didn’t kill him. Tim had been so sure when he talked to the witness. The last person known to have been with Bill Knight before he died was Scarlett Slater.

  That didn’t mean she was the killer, of course. She could be a valuable witness.

  But when he had first interviewed her, Scarlett chose to play dumb. She’s insisted that she wasn’t at the White Hart, and her feigning forgetfulness seemed criminally suspicious. His first instinct was that she was guilty.

  Tim’s gut told him that she was involved. His gut had never been wrong.

  He wa
s going to get his man.

  Or in this case, his woman.

  No, no. Good lord. That didn’t sound right. Not like that…

  He shook his head at himself and turned his attention to the traffic determined not to get himself into a smash up.

  +++

  Costa Coffee, Market Square, Bicester, England

  Cliff arrived at Costa Coffee to find Scarlett waiting inside. She had secured one of the small round tables, away from any other patrons.

  “Cliff!” She stood up for a hug and he wrapped her in his arms, keeping it friendly.

  “Hope you haven’t been waiting long,” Cliff said.

  “Just got here.”

  Seated a couple of tables over was a young mother with two rowdy boys, about four and five years old. The boys were trading punches on their shoulders to see how much pain they could take and screaming “Ow!” with each blow.

  The mother, on her cell phone, seemed deaf to the ruckus.

  “I’ll get the drinks,” he suggested, trying to ignore the children. “What do you want?”

  Scarlett sat back at the table. “Caffe latte, primo. Thanks!”

  “One caffe latte primo coming right up.”

  She beamed up at him. “You’re a prince.”

  He beamed.

  Oh, you like that, she noticed. I’ll be you do, you handsome, grrrr. She growled predatorially in her own mind, the imagined jungle appearing around her.

  He’d already turned away. She felt safe talking to herself in her head.

  Knock it off, Predator-Scarlett! Just be cool. BE. COOL.

  She sat down, and collected herself, exhaling and putting herself into her zen-like state as best she could.

  Cliff headed up to the counter to order. There were four people waiting in line ahead of him. He put his hand inside the pocket of his jacket and felt the plastic ziplock bag with Tarquin’s potion.