The Piddleton Unrest Read online

  “You mean, as I hang dying on the gibbet, I have to keep up the pretence?”

  “Of course,” smiled Edna. “It’s about time you did something heroic. You certainly never helped when Whistle was killed, poor darling.”

  As they left, they said little to the sheriff, who simply stared and said that he would not countenance regular visits.

  “I doubt we’ll bother coming again,” Rosie told him. “Even though our friend is entirely innocent, and you will be known forevermore as the sheriff who committed the greatest act of unlawful stupidity.”

  Glowering in return, Dickon opened the door for them and said loudly, “Instead, I’ll have you know I shall become famous for the capture and execution of Piddleton’s most appalling criminal.”

  They left him to dream of fame, although not of fortune since Little Piddleton’s sheriff was a very poorly paid position. It had been supposed that the village would not be a place of regular criminal activity, especially that of murder.

  Back at The Rookery, Rosie sighed and turned herself back into a cat. Edna patted her lap, and Rosie climbed up and dozed. Edna and Peg, meanwhile, discussed the inevitable future. They sat on the bench at the rear where the sun was brightest in the afternoons and looked out over the uneven grass which marked the three graves. Here, the great wizard Whistle was buried. Since he had been a father of sorts to Rosie, they had planted daisies, clover, primroses and buttercups across the top. The next grave was where Kate the maid had been buried, and the flowers were naturally trailing there as well. The third grave was that of Boris, and no plants grew. Instead, there was the smell of dark shadows wafting from the rise, and only a strong wind could blow it away.

  But it was not smell that interested Peg and Edna.

  “Rescue will only incriminate ourselves,” Peg muttered. “We have to find the real killer.”

  “And prove him guilty.”

  “We’ve done it before.”

  Edna smiled. “And we’ll do it again.”

  Three

  Bob did not look overly pleased to see the three customers when they turned up again the following day. This did not stop Rosie’s joyous greeting, nor Edna’s order of three cups of the best wine and three platters of roast lamb with bacon rolled over sliced carrot and spinach.

  “But the wine first,” said Rosie, and then added softly, “is he here?”

  “No idea what you’re talking about,” sniffed Bob, “but I shall bring the food when ‘tis ready.”

  When he brought the food, he held out his hand for payment, frowned at them and said, “No. And if you keep coming and keep asking, I shall have to forget what you’re talking about.”

  Three of the young men they had guessed to be the murderers, were sitting at a central table not far off. No other customers were seated, since it was too early for drinking themselves stupid, and even too early for fighting or singing. It was not difficult, therefore, for Rosie to stagger past the other table with her cup in hand and trip, almost falling, but managing not to spill the wine.

  “I’m dreadfully sorry,” she said to the oldest of the group, though surely not above her own age. She was almost sitting on his lap. He wasn’t actually objecting, but she stood in a hurry. “My own fault,” she added. “But I’m not tipsy, truly I’m not. My mother would be cross if I went home tipsy.”

  “Well, I don’t mind one bit,” the boy said. “You can drink all you like, mistress, and sit right back on my knee to do it, if you reckon it would be comfy.”

  It did not look in the least comfy since he had knobbly and prominent knees sticking up from his tight woolly hose. However, Rosie smiled as if she found him magnificently alluring and murmured, “Can I buy you a drink to make up for the accident?”

  Sitting up, grinning, the boy said, “No, but I’ll buy you one, lady. What’s your name? I’m Rollo.”

  “Hello, Rollo. I’m Rosie. Do you have many such accidents?”

  Laughing, Rollo shook his head, while marching over to Bob’s son, a young man at present serving while his father was in the back, rolling out more of the barrels. “The lady wants a drink,” Rollo called. “You got the best wine on tap, Edgar?”

  Edgar filled the two cups and passed them back. Rosie noted that neither Edgar nor anyone else in the tavern seemed to be wary of Rollo or treat him as a possible killer. He brought the brimming cup to her and drained his own.

  “You’re mighty welcome, lass,” he called. “And just remember, you can sit on my lap any time.”

  With her cup carefully in hand, Rosie wandered back to Peg and Edna. “It’s not him,” she said. “He doesn’t take offence easily, so I doubt he’d kill, unless he already had a real hatred of the sheriff. So one of you will have to test those other boys.”

  “We can’t do the same thing,” protested Edna. “It would look somewhat suspicious.”

  “Just click your fingers, and we’ll watch from a distance,” Peg said, somewhat impatiently.

  Watching carefully, Edna hid her hand beneath the table, and the others heard the tiny click and looked around to see the result.

  This time it was Bob’s son, Edgar, who slipped on the wet floorboards and crashed headfirst into one of the other boys, and the tray of strong beer flew directly into the face of the third boy. All three were now covered in the beer, the broken cups shedding jagged pieces of pottery into their hair, their clothes were soaked, and their own drinks now knocked off the table into their laps.

  Edna held her breath and waited. She hoped no one had a knife.

  But the hilarity blocked everything else. The three boys were helpless with laughter as Rollo helped Edgar from the floor and rescued his tray while the other two collected kerchiefs to wipe him off and restore his face and hair, if not his soaked clothes.

  One of the boys began to dance, shaking the beer from his long dark curls flicking the liquid from his hands onto his friends.

  “Reckon that’s it,” called one. “Time to stagger home.”

  “I was hoping to replace my lost ale.”

  “Forget it,” said Rollo. “I didn’t mind that pretty lass on my knees, but Edgar ain’t so much fun. Clearly ‘tis a day for daft accidents.”

  “Reckon I should sit on your lap too,” called another boy.

  “Forget it, Martin,” Rollo shouted. “Too big, you are. You’d squash me flat.”

  Rosie, Edna and Peg wandered home with disappointed stares, walking slowly until they were out of sight from everyone, when they gathered their skirts in a handful each, and flew.

  Back at The Rookery, they compared notes. Mandrake was not home, so they retired to Edna’s rooms at the very top of the cottage. They were greeted by Edna’s cockatoo, Twizzle, who was bored with being left alone. He quickly flew from one shoulder to another, pecking each ear as he went, until satisfied that he had said hello to each. He then settled on the window sill, muttering about the beer being warm and no Vegemite sandwiches.

  “Those boys didn’t seem the killing type after all,” Peg sighed. “So either they have a nastier friend, who hasn’t turned up lately, or the killer is someone else entirely.”

  “Let’s get out the toadstool, cup and spoon,” Rosie suggested. “I think they’re the best hope now.”

  Having placed the toadstool, spoon and cup on the table, she sat and produced a large jug of cool water. Rosie took the jug, filled the toadstool through its little open spots and then drank. The sense of refreshment was always a pleasure, and even more so when she filled the spoon and drank that water too. Lastly, and most refreshing of all, was drinking from the cup, then Rosie leaned back content.

  “So,” she smiled at her very odd friends, “who killed Piddleton’s Sheriff, Arthur Gill? And why?”

  The silver objects snapped through their usual routine of taking and giving, before finally the cup said, “Mandrake Tamery.”

  And everybody stared before the usual shouts of, “Ridiculous.” “Impossible.” “Completely untrue.”

 
“So why?” Rosie insisted.

  “The motivation,” said the cup, sounding distinctly pompous as usual, “was an unintentional mistake.”

  “Ah.” With a triple sigh, everybody leaned back in their chairs.

  “I imagine,” said Peg, trying to remember exactly what had happened, “it means the knife went in deeper when the wretched man fell over Mandrake’s feet and bounced onto his lap. Then Mandrake pulled the knife out, which probably opened whatever it was that bled everywhere.”

  “In which case,” Rosie asked the cup, “who was it who had stabbed Arthur Gill inside the tavern? Explain the situation.”

  It was always a mistake to ask for explanations. The cup’s answers were invariably curt, brief and exact. But when asked to explain, it could talk for hours.

  Now the cup wobbled a bit, making itself comfortable. “Within the tavern named the Juggler and Goat,” it began, settling to a long story, “there was an argument concerning the moral distinction between the instructions of a male, and those of a female. The general consensus of opinion was simply that a man being unfaithful to his wife was acceptable, since he could not be expected to breathe in a healthy manner if he was inwardly constrained. Whereas a female, being kept and protected by her husband, must be faithful to him. All parties agreed. This was easily achieved since no females were present.”

  Peg sighed. “Can’t you get on with it?”

  The cup ignored her. “This exhibition of human morality became heated,” it continued. “However, in order to relax the stressful and belligerent nature of the discussion, one customer called out, ‘So who is sleeping with whose wife?’”

  “I get it,” cried Peg. “Some idiot was sleeping with the killer’s wife.”

  “Not entirely,” said the cup with a superior air. “A young man named Rollo Snoop, being somewhat inebriated, leapt up and shouted that the prettiest girl in the village, Maggs Trout, had been sleeping with Sheriff Gill. What this young man had not cared to check was that both Maggs Trout’s husband was present, and so was Sheriff Gill.”

  “I see,” said Edna and Rosie together.

  “It was clearly levity,” said the cup, “since Maggs, wife of Godwin Trout, was extremely attractive, whereas Sheriff Gill was old, ugly and permanently drunk. The affair was therefore highly unlikely. Indeed, it was intended as a joke.”

  “I suppose they were all drunk,” said Rosie.

  “Indeed. And a fight ensued during which both Godwin Trout, the sheriff himself, and another man named Peter Dross began to stab at each other. Godwin Trout attempted to stab the sheriff, believing him to be having an affair with his wife. The sheriff, too drunk to blink, tried to stab everyone in self-protection, shouting about arresting the entire tavern-full. Meanwhile Peter Dross was attempting to stab Godwin, since Dross genuinely was having an affair with Godwin’s wife, and hence knew that Godwin was an abusive husband who should be eliminated. Meanwhile almost every other person in the tavern was fighting either to protect themselves, or because they disliked someone and was now drunk enough to enjoy stabbing for simple satisfaction.”

  “I can imagine it,” said Rosie, although she couldn’t.

  “At this time, both Bob Pops and his son Edgar became involved, attempting to stop the fight. However, by pushing and shoving, it was the shoulder of Edgar Pops who pushed against Peter Dross, whose knife was therefore forced into the arm of Godwin Trout. Screaming with pain, Godwin turned to knife the person who had injured him, but the sheriff was in the way. Godwin’s knife slashed against the sheriff’s throat. He then raced outside, wishing both to escape and find help. However, tripping over Mandrake Tamery’s feet, which then caused his death.”

  The cup slid into a satisfied silence while Edna, Rosie and Peg all gulped and tried to remember all the various names.

  “So number one,” she said tentatively, “Bob’s son, Edgar. Number two, Peter Dross. Number three, Godwin Trout. And sadly, number four, our Mandrake.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” said Peg.”

  “What?” Rosie demanded. “Be so clever?”

  “Keep to the point,” Edna said, leaning forwards. “If we dismiss the mistaken actions of Mandrake and the tavern owner’s son, we are left with both this Godwin person and the one called Peter Dross. You could even include the sheriff himself and Rollo, who began with his unwise joke.”

  Peg grinned. “So we could,” she looked directly at Rosie, “have gone up to number six.”

  “In other words, no one,” snorted Rosie. “Perhaps it’s Godwin Trout who is the closest to being the culprit, but since he now has a wounded arm he will look more like a victim. And there’s no one at all who deserves to hang for this drunken nonsense. So what do we do about Dickon and his newfound pride at being the sheriff?”

  “Kill him off too,” suggested Edna.

  “I think we need to remember that they’re all human,” Rosie sighed. “Which means none of them have any idea how to behave, and they’re all well-nigh as stupid as our bats.”

  “An insult to our bats,” noted Peg.

  Four

  “The seems to be a significant lack of Troilus bugs around these days,” said Rosie, chatting vaguely to Oswald as she climbed into bed.

  Since Oswald was a ruby-tipped hat pin, it was difficult to judge his expression at any specific moment, but as he lay on the small chest at the side of her bed, he was close enough to Rosie’s head for her to hear his sigh.

  “Reckon she’s found a warm place to hide,” Oswald sighed.

  “You know this?” Rosie demanded. “Or you’re guessing?”

  “My guesses,” Oswald replied with his usual air of superiority, “are as accurate as knowing the facts.”

  It had been mid-May when Rosie’s adopted mother Alice had been proved guilty by the high Wiccan Court, and immediately turned into a Troilus beetle. Various lodgers at The Rookery had muttered about standing on her and squashing her as soon as they saw her again, since a Troilus bug was an unattractive little beetle. But evidently Alice had a new talent. The bug could burrow. And Rosie had an idea where she might have aimed for when burrowing underground.

  “My first duty is towards Mandrake,” Rosie sighed, more to herself than to Oswald.

  But Oswald heard anyway. “Always best to lie and cheat. Produce a couple of your people and get them to swear they were witnesses.”

  “Good idea,” Rosie said, and fell asleep.

  Mandrake, clicking himself out of the cell every night unseen, was also now fast asleep in his own bed. He did not enjoy, however, returning to the cell every morning, and so had his own plans.

  It was the following day, brilliant sunshine bursting above the horizon as usual, that Rosie sat at the breakfast table and discovered herself sitting opposite Mandrake.

  She glared at him. “That silly sheriff will see that the cell is empty,” she objected. “You have to return.”

  But Mandrake shook his head. “I’ve other plans. Don’t worry. Nothing will put The Rookery in danger.”

  “I was going to get a couple of our people to stand witness for you,” she persisted. “That would have been quite easy. And the sheriff would be forced to release you.”

  “My way,” Mandrake said, “is more fun.”

  “So tell me,” Rosie demanded, and knowing he would try to wriggle out of it, she pointed one index finger directly at his head.

  “Umm – arr – ” said Mandrake, trying not to be forced by Rosie’s spell, and then admitted, “I made that stupid sheriff Dickon completely confused and told him to release me last night. He thinks he got everything wrong – which of course he did – but he’s got everything else wrong too. Thinks he’s the Duke of Buckingham, and sometimes he’s Thomas Stanley, and sometimes he’s the last king’s boy, Edward, still hoping he might be accepted as king one day. He can’t remember his name either.”

  Rosie smiled. She didn’t approve – not officially – of playing with humans in such a manner, but accepted that
Mandrake never should have been arrested. He could not be blamed for setting himself free.

  “I suppose,” she said carefully, “you can be forgiven. But we’ll have to see how that boy Dickon manages to do his job. If a genuine crime happens in the village, a decent sheriff might be needed.”

  “But he never was a decent sheriff,” said Mandrake.

  That evening after supper, and a home-cooked roast chicken, though the chicken was not a real one; the genuine chickens still roamed the grounds clucking and pecking at each other, Rosie muttered, “Oswald, my dear, ask Whistle whether this situation with Mandrake and Sheriff Dickon is safe enough. I have my doubts,” but she was also yawning. “Though I admit it is extremely tempting just to let it go. I can’t be bothered with the sheriff, I can’t be bothered with humans at the best of times, and to be frank, I can’t be bothered with Mandrake. He’s a bit of a twit for a seventy-eight.”

  “A witch’s life will never be a quiet one,” said Oswald with suspicious ambiguity. “If you do nothing, there will be significant consequences. If you do something, there will be significant consequences. Worrying about it is a waste of time. Go to sleep and dream of home-brewed brandy.”

  It seemed like a good idea.

  Rosie decided that it hadn’t been such a good idea after all on the next occasion, a week later, when she visited the Juggler and Goat with Edna, Peg and her adopted father, Alfred. He had never accompanied her before, as he hardly ever left The Rookery, except to visit the surrounding wildlife, and she thought he needed a change of scenery. That probably hadn’t been such a good idea either.

  Recognising Rosie, both Rollo Snoop and Martin Fipps staggered over to her table, offering their laps and a cup of wine, beer, or hypocras. Rosie declined, but thanked them. This was the moment that Sheriff Dickon Wald came in for a drink. Unfortunately, he also recognised Rosie and strolled over to the corner table.