Potions Are for Pushovers Read online

  “Is your mother still making you go to the fête committee meetings?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “Then let’s meet there on Monday. Since it’s only Friday, that’ll give you all weekend to work. We can make Rachel come to the meetings with us.”

  Rachel agrees with her customary good humor. I don’t tell the girls that their presence at the meeting will also serve another purpose—to help me sort through the attendees to find the person most likely to have done in Sarah Blackthorne. After all, I’m supposed to be setting a good example here. Clandestinely recruiting them to help me solve a murder is hardly what I’d call good.

  Then again, it can hardly be worse than sending them on the trail of a mythical beast who howls at the moon.

  Right?

  * * *

  The MacDougal residence is one of the grander homes in the village. It’s also one of the more isolated, a gorgeous brick house surrounded by rising hills and farmland in all directions. I’m not sure what led the original builders to place the house at the bottom of those farms instead of the top, but it gives the feeling of being cupped inside a warm green hand.

  “It’s just down this path,” Lenora says as she trots along the lane alongside me. “And don’t mind the empty flower beds. My parents are keen gardeners, but George lopped all the heads off last week.”

  “George sounds an awful lot like he’s treading a firm path to juvenile delinquency,” I say as we near the residence. The two stories are perfectly symmetrical, offset on either side with twin carriage houses.

  Lenora giggles. “I’ve never met anybody who talks like you, Madame Eleanor. You always sound so fancy.”

  “An occupational hazard,” I say, not altogether untruthfully. Most of my vocabulary was gleaned from the gothic romances of my youth. “Spell books have a tendency to be written in archaic language. Is your brother here now?”

  “Probably not.” Lenora pauses at the end of her drive to check the mailbox. She shoves a parcel of letters under her arm and continues skipping up the drive. “He always goes out with his mates after school. He doesn’t like to be here when—”

  I don’t need her to finish. The sounds of an argument assail our ears before we make it to the front porch. The voices aren’t outright yelling, but there’s an angry vibrato to the female side that’s unmistakable. Similar sounds have been directed at me far too many times for me to pretend otherwise.

  “How could you do that when you know how I feel about—?”

  I mentally fill in the rest: Madame Eleanor. Witchcraft. Americans. Take your pick, they all fit the bill.

  “Oh, right. This is my fault. As if I’m the one who—”

  Handed Lenora over to an unstable, untrustworthy practitioner of the dark arts.

  “This was not the arrangement we made. You promised, Ian. You said we’d start—”

  “Uh, Lenora, I think I might have seen a werewolf track back there. Maybe we should double-check just to be safe.”

  “No you didn’t,” she replies with a frankness I find disconcerting. “You’re just afraid of interrupting their row. Don’t worry. They’ll stop the second they know we’re here. Hello? Is anybody home?”

  She calls loudly enough to stop the next remark from cutting through the air. There’s a careful nonchalance to the way she does it, as though she’s had to learn the hard way how to make her presence known in a way that’s unobtrusive and unoffending.

  It breaks my heart a little, to be honest. That’s an awful lot of adult wisdom to heap on such tiny shoulders.

  “Oh, Lenora—you’re home.” Dr. MacDougal appears at the door, her normally neat exterior flushed, but only slightly. If I hadn’t been looking for it, I might have missed it. “And Madame Eleanor. I see she managed to capture you.”

  Mr. MacDougal appears next to her. Whereas his wife is all sharp angles and clean, chic lines, he’s the quintessential British schoolmaster. His hair must have once been as frothy and gingery as Lenora’s, but it’s since faded away to match the pale ashen hue of his skin. His shirt collar is wilted and droopy, and his shoulders are hunched in a way that signals defeat.

  “Actually, I think I’m the one who captured her,” I say with a smile. If everyone else is going to pretend I didn’t just walk onto a scene of domestic dispute, then the least I can do is play along. “I’ve never had an apprentice before, but I get the feeling I landed on a gold mine with this one. Thank you for letting me have her.”

  Dr. MacDougal’s smile is thin. “Of course. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to the office. There are a few more patients coming in before the end of day.” She leans over and gives her husband a chaste peck on the cheek. She almost does the same with Lenora, but something about the way the girl holds herself off gives her pause. “I’ll pick up a takeout pizza on my way home. You’d like that, Lenora, wouldn’t you? With extra olives?”

  “Yes, thank you,” the girl says. She’s perfectly polite, but there’s no denying the response lacks warmth.

  Her mother opens her mouth as if to say more, but she must realize how close I’m watching because she presses her lips tightly together and continues on her way.

  “She’s been under a terrible amount of stress lately,” Mr. MacDougal apologizes.

  I wave him off. “I imagine it’s difficult, losing a patient the way she did.”

  He blinks, as if unsure what I’m talking about. “Oh. Oh, yes. Sarah Blackthorne. A real tragedy. She’ll be greatly missed.”

  Like most of the people I’ve talked to since Sarah’s passing, Mr. MacDougal’s lack of sincerity wouldn’t convince a baby to hand over its candy. But I know my role, so I nod and murmur something sympathetic.

  “A horrible way to go,” he adds thoughtfully.

  He’s prevented from adding more by the arrival of the infamous George, who comes barreling down one of the hills as though shot from a cannon. He looks to be about Lenora’s age—maybe a year or so younger—with the same wide grin and exuberance of youth. I like him on sight.

  He comes to a stop, mouth agape, when he sees me standing there. “Cor, Lenora,” he says, a whistle squeaking out between the gap in his two front teeth. “You brought the witch home to see Mum? And you didn’t wait for me? Oh, boy, I’d have loved to see her face.” To me, he adds a wide-eyed, “Is it true that you float in water and can’t be drowned?”

  I catch the pained glance on his father’s face and smother a laugh.

  “Alas, I’ve never been very good at swimming,” I confess. “I think you could drown me pretty easily.”

  George accepts this with a nod. He also tilts his head and looks me over, his eyes skimming over all the parts of my skin that are showing. “And have you got a witch’s mark? Where the devil made you one of his own? Or what’s t’other one—the witch’s teat?”

  “George Marshall MacDougal, that is quite enough out of you,” his father commands in what I can only assume is his best schoolmaster voice. It’s surprisingly authoritative; even I give a startled jump.

  “What? I said teat. T-e-a-t. That’s a real thing, isn’t it, Madame Eleanor? Where the devil goes when he’s hungry and you feed him—?”

  Mr. MacDougal swoops down and grabs his son by the collar. “I’m so sorry,” he says, his face suffused with red. “I honestly don’t know where they get it.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say with a wink. “It happens all the time.”

  Mr. MacDougal doesn’t loosen his grip, instead starts dragging his son into the house and away from any further embarrassing questions. As his attention is fixed elsewhere, I take a moment to pull the long sleeve of my dress back from my wrist. There’s a pair of pin-site scars on my forearm from a long-ago broken bone, which, in the right light, look exactly like I was bitten by a vampire’s fangs.

  I flash the scars long enough for George to see them before lifting a finger to my lips in a gesture of silence. Both he and Lenora share a wide-eyed start of delight, their joy at having the
ir theories confirmed a palpable thing. I ought to be ashamed of myself for indulging them, but shame is one of those things I lost touch with a long time ago.

  I draw the line at showing them anything resembling a teat, however. Even a witch like me is allowed some decency in this world.

  Chapter 7

  I’m disproportionately disappointed to find that few people in the village have heard about Lewis King’s arrival in town.

  When I show up on Sarah Blackthorne’s doorstep as early on Saturday morning as decency will allow, it’s with the full expectation of finding myself part of a long line of callers waiting to get inside. More specifically, it’s with the full expectation of finding that Penny Dautry has already come and gone.

  I don’t know Penny well, but she’s well liked in these parts—mostly because of the incredible chocolate cake she makes whenever someone dies. It sounds macabre, I know, but she’s something of a legend. No funeral is complete without her famous chocolate cake, dark and rich and so delicious I sometimes dream about it in my sleep.

  I’m not saying people would murder someone just to get a taste of it, but . . .

  “G-good morning. It’s Eleanor, right?” Lewis pulls open the door in a sleep-rumpled state that indicates I’m the first to arrive bearing gifts. I don’t have much—just an elderberry cordial I like to make when my kitchen isn’t bubbling with elixirs—but I’ve learned that one doesn’t pay these kinds of visits empty-handed.

  “Oh, dear. Did I wake you?” I take a step back, almost falling off the doorstep in the process. Sarah Blackthorne’s home is one of half a dozen row houses situated just outside the village center. They’re neither large nor imposing, but their tidy upkeep indicates they’re well loved by those who live in them. “I wouldn’t have come so early, only . . .”

  Only I wanted to make sure I got a piece of Penny’s cake doesn’t sound very sympathetic, so I let my words trail off. As I hope, he takes the hint and picks up the thread for me.

  “It’s no bother.” He pulls the door open and gestures for me to come inside. “To be honest, I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

  His comment leaves me feeling like a callous jerk, especially when coupled with his unkempt appearance, which hasn’t improved since our meeting at the pub yesterday. His neck beard hasn’t been trimmed in the slightest, and his flannel pajamas look as though they’ve been balled up in the bottom of his suitcase for decades. There are also heavy shadows under his eyes, which shine strangely yellow in the full light of day.

  In other words, he looks like a man who recently lost his aunt.

  “It might be easier if you stayed at the local B&B,” I say with a cluck of genuine sympathy. I step through the threshold into the house, which bears a musky scent I can’t quite place.

  He blinks. “The local B&B?”

  “Yes. I’ve heard Mrs. Brennigan does a mean fry-up. And I’m sure she’d offer you a discount, given the circumstances.”

  “Oh! You mean because of Aunt Sarah?” A conscious-stricken look crosses his face, and he clears his throat. “Of c-course. The local B&B—what a good idea. Is that for me?”

  He indicates the bottle in my hand in a clear attempt to change the subject. Since I’m supposed to be here on a condolence visit, I allow our path to veer. “Yes. It’s not much, just a cordial I make. It seemed the least I could do.”

  “Is it alcoholic?”

  “Yes.”

  “P-perfect. Grab a couple of glasses, will you? There should be some clean ones in the cupboard.”

  Drinking the syrupy sweet liquor at nine o’clock in the morning had hardly been my intention in coming over here, but I’m not one to judge. Nor am I going to cavil at the opportunity to learn more about Sarah Blackthorne. From what I can tell so far, her home is a fairly typical residence around these parts—a little dark and cramped, perhaps, but at least there aren’t buckets of rainwater everywhere. Whatever else her troubles, she obviously didn’t have trouble paying for roof upkeep.

  I open a few cupboards as I ostensibly search for glasses, taking a moment to examine each shelf as I go. They’re mostly barren and a little sad. A few stacks of functional dishware, one or two tins of soup, a box of biscuits that looks to have been there since the seventies . . . Ooh. The one above the stove appears to hold various household cleaners. I’m not entirely sure, but there’s a cylindrical container near the back that looks an awful lot like rat poison.

  People don’t keep rat poison strong enough to kill humans in their kitchens, Ellie. This isn’t a BBC miniseries.

  “D-did you say something?” Lewis asks.

  I whirl, a pair of glasses in my hand, to stare at my host. His position in front of a large picture window casts him into a shadowy illumination, his form dark with rays of sunlight breaking around him. Tufts of his hair stand up on either side of his head, and he stands hunched, those broad shoulders braced as if to pounce.

  But then he moves a little to the right, and the ominous image of him disappears as quickly as it came. He’s nothing more than a short man in baggy pajama pants, looking as though he could use a stiff drink.

  “No. No, I didn’t say anything.” I hold out the glasses and wait for him to take them. “Did you?”

  “It must have b-been my imagination.” With a half shrug, he uncorks the cordial and pours a liberal dose into each glass. “Like I said, I haven’t been sleeping, and Aunt Sarah doesn’t have anything stronger than cough syrup. She never drank.”

  “Good for her,” I say politely.

  “She never smoked, either. Or gambled.”

  No vices of any kind. Point taken. “What sorts of things did she do for fun?” I ask. I cross my fingers and hope he doesn’t mention the drowned kittens.

  It takes him a few seconds to come up with an answer. “She liked knitting. And crossword puzzles.”

  That seems like a woefully inadequate summation of a woman’s entire life, and a pang I can’t quite place floods through me. A small part of it is sympathy for this man and the aunt he lost, but the rest feels an awful lot like self-pity. As a woman living alone in a village like this one, I see much more of myself inside this house than I’m comfortable admitting.

  I must not be the only one undergoing a contradictory mix of emotions, because Lewis lifts his glass in a half salute and kicks the entire contents back.

  “This is really more of a sipping drink,” I warn, but he doesn’t so much as grimace at the sickly sweet taste.

  With that, I decide to join him. Not only am I determined not to become as stiff and unpleasant as Sarah Blackthorne, but day drinking is a great way to bring down walls and make friends. It doesn’t take a fake psychic to know that.

  “Well, then. Bottoms up.” I’m not quite as nonchalant as Lewis as the cordial coats my mouth and tongue, slipping in a warm trail down my throat, but I accept the refill he offers. “Those papers must have been in worse order than you thought,” I add as he drains another.

  He sighs and takes a seat, careful to keep the bottle close to his hand. “I have n-no idea. I haven’t found them yet. I looked everywhere.”

  “Oh, really?” I feign disinterest as I take a seat across from him, but he makes a pointed look at my glass. My stomach revolts at the thought of another draught so soon after the last one, but I pick up the drink anyway. The next batch I make is definitely going to have less sugar. “That’s odd. Maybe she took them to a professional to sort out.”

  He chuffs on a laugh. “That w-would be the first time. Aunt Sarah didn’t trust very many people.”

  “She trusted you.”

  The glance he gives me over the top of his glass is sharp. “How d-do you know that?”

  I don’t. But as far as I can tell, either Lewis is the only relative Sarah Blackthorne had, or he’s the only one close enough to her to drop everything upon hearing the news of her death. That means something.

  “What have you heard about me, Lewis?” I ask. I run my finger around the rim of my gl
ass to avoid his filling it again. The deep purple liquid matches my fingernail polish almost exactly.

  He shifts in his chair. “J-just what Nicholas said at the pub, that you’d moved into the mistress’s keep.”

  The mistress’s keep—great. Exactly the image I want to project to these people.

  “And?” I prod.

  “That you helped get rid of a ghost up at the castle.”

  “And?”

  His gaze snaps up to meet mine. “You’re a w-witch, right? A psychic?”

  I neither confirm nor deny the claim, opting instead to tilt my head and adopt a mysterious air.

  “So it’s true,” he says on a long, slow exhalation. “You can talk to ghosts? You can see the other side?”

  “If you find yourself in need of support during this difficult time, I hope you’ll come to me,” I say. Lest he think I’m the sort who preys on the newly bereaved, I add, “Free of charge. I only want to help you and your aunt find peace.”

  As I hope, the first tendrils of sympathy have the effect of loosening Lewis’s tongue. Either that, or the third glass of cordial he tilts down his gullet pries the last of his reserve away. His stammering is already less profound, his posture less rigid and uncomfortable than before. He leans across the table, sending a waft of the musky scent in the house my way. “Eleanor, I have to confess some—”

  A heavy knock at the door startles us both. I could curse the bad timing, but at least the foundation has been laid. Lewis King now knows who—and what—I am. And unless I’m very much mistaken, he’ll come seeking my services before too much time has passed.

  “With any luck, that’ll be Penny,” I say.

  “P-Penny?” he echoes as he goes to open the door.

  “Dautry. With the cake.”

  I call upon all my powers to make it so. Not only would having Penny show up with her chocolate masterpiece boost my image as a seer of things from beyond, but I need something to sop up all this alcohol.