A Spell of Murder Read online

  A Spell of Murder

  A completely addictive witch cozy mystery

  Kennedy Kerr

  Books by Kennedy Kerr

  A Spell of Murder

  Writing as Anna McKerrow

  Daughter of Light and Shadows

  Queen of Sea and Stars

  Contents

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Hear More from Kennedy

  Books by Kennedy Kerr

  A Letter from Kennedy

  For Jim, Peter and Margaret, whodunit fans extraordinaire

  LOCH CLAIMS LOCAL TEENAGER

  The identity of the body of a young man, pulled from Lost Maidens Loch at 7.42 a.m. on Sunday, March 23, 2008, has been confirmed as local teenager Patrick Robison. Patrick, who was 17 and had attended Cairnbeath High School until recently, appears to have drowned. Patrick was a well-liked young man in the community, an active member of the boat club and a keen swimmer.

  The police are not treating the death as suspicious. Inspector Kim Hyland said that despite being known as a strong swimmer, Patrick’s body was found on the north side of the loch, which is notoriously dangerous because of its rocks and the growth of the slender naiad weed, which can restrict the movement of swimmers if they become tangled in it. It has been noted however that no evidence of the weed was found on the body.

  Patrick is survived by parents John and Eleanor and brothers Matthew and Duncan, who ask that the community respect their request to be left alone to grieve during these first difficult and sad days.

  A funeral will take place at St Peter’s Church on Saturday, 29 March at 11 a.m.

  1

  In the sleepy village of Lost Maidens Loch, people sometimes disappeared.

  People disappear all over the world, of course: Lost Maidens Loch was not unique in having experienced unusual deaths and unexplained disappearances. But over the years, the small village, huddled at the edge of the loch, had gained something of a reputation. Legend said that the loch was named for a young woman who drowned in it, hundreds of years ago, though nobody could remember exactly when, or who, that young woman was.

  In high summer, a mist could hover over the loch at the most unexpected of times, casting the green hills beyond into question. When the fog came in, it could be hard to see your hand in front of your face and all too easy to doubt your senses or forget yourself entirely.

  People said the disappearances were something to do with the weather. The more fanciful among them said the loch itself was an ancient portal into a fairy world, but the more pragmatic villagers knew how easy it was to get lost in a heavy fog.

  Of course, some also said that people came to Lost Maidens Loch with the intention of disappearing. Temerity Love – who had always lived in Lost Maidens Loch and, furthermore, had no intention of leaving it – had enough experience of human nature to know that people’s intentions could often be a mystery, especially to themselves. Furthermore, she had a knack for finding the truth about lost things.

  Love’s Curiosities, Inc. sat on a quiet residential street of wide stone houses which in winter seemed to huddle together against the harsh wind and in summer seemed to spread out, as if they breathed in the warm air. The shop’s window and door were of the old-fashioned plate glass kind, with tarnished gold lettering that spelled out the shop name in simple capitals, like a private detective’s office. A large antique green glass hanging lamp – which signalled whether the shop was open or not – and an oversized yucca plant sat in the window, but if you pressed your face against the glass, a treasure trove of shining oddities revealed themselves.

  If a curious browser ventured inside, they would walk into a floor-to-ceiling explosion of antique ephemera. Glass witch balls – hollow spheres of green, blue and clear glass that were once used as fishing floats, then used as lucky charms to protect houses from evil – hung from the ceiling like Christmas baubles alongside various lamps, both glass and copper, some that looked like the type to house a genie inside. The main light in the shop glowed from the vintage crystal of an elaborate golden chandelier, a marvellously gaudy bright-gold, twelve-armed piece, four feet wide, that you would expect to see in the Palace of Versailles.

  But not everything in the shop gleamed. There were knotted rope charms, some of which contained swatches of what looked like hair and bone. On a shelf sat a row of thick glass witch bottles – an old British custom, made by witches to repel curses and protect houses; each bottle was obviously very old and sealed with wax. If you asked her, Temerity would tell you that the bottles had never and should never be opened; apart from the likely curse that would befall the opener, the bottle might still contain toxic urine, blood and the rust from the nails that were inside.

  In a tall glass cabinet to your left as you walked in, a collection of four genuine shrunken heads – made by the Shuar tribe in the Amazon rainforest in the nineteenth century – followed your steps with their sad eyes. Before Victorian collectors, with their taste for the gruesome, turned the making of shrunken heads into a corrupt economy, these heads had been made by a small number of tribes as magical artefacts to bring revenge upon their enemies.

  Rare oil and charcoal portraits of occultists, mesmerists and charlatans, framed advertisements for famous Victorian mediums and huge, grand, silvered mirrors lined the walls. Three antique mahogany and oak tables held collections of crystal skulls, candlesticks, crucifixes and boxes of vintage tarot cards.

  The only heat in the building came from either a temperamental wood-burning stove or two free-standing electric heaters. Temerity had one positioned near to the shop’s desk and her sister Tilda had taken one upstairs with her and refused to give it back. Even with them on, it was always chilly in the house, even in summer.

  On that cold February morning, Temerity sat at her laptop, reading an email that had just arrived and listening to the rain beat against the glass. As usual, her long black hair was tied up – today, it was plaited and pinned around her head, tied with a red scarf, a bow at the nape of her neck like a 1950s teenager, though she was nearer thirty. She wore a canary yellow twinset-style cardigan, buttoned up and a black pencil skirt with white polka dots; in contrast, she had thrown a voluminous tartan cape over her shoulders and wore thick navy football socks that were pulled up to her knees. She had a stern face, long and a little horsey with a strong chin, but her smile was warm and quick.

  A large blue parrot sat on the top of an upholstered easy chair opposite Temerity: the top of the chair was covered with a thick tartan mat, presumably to protect it from claw marks. The parrot had appeared to be asleep, but now it ruffled its bright blue feathers, disturbed by Temerity’s typing and stared at her with a haughty expression.

  ‘Sorry, Hebrides.’ Temerity didn’t look up from her laptop, but she held out
her left wrist for the bird, who hopped onto it and pecked her hand. ‘Be gentle.’

  ‘Gen-tle.’ Hebrides squawked. The Hyacinth Macaw wasn’t supposed to be as much of a talker as some other parrots, but in his forty years, Hebrides had picked up a good vocabulary. Temerity and Tilda had grown up with Hebrides; he had been intensely depressed when their mother passed away, but the sisters had looked after him until he stopped pulling out his feathers and screeching all night. He was slowing down a little in his old age, but not much – he still flew around Lost Maidens Loch and the village every day, incongruously blue against the slate roofs, surprising tourists who came to the loch looking for Scottish wildlife.

  ‘It’s not even ten and someone needs me. Can you believe it?’ She stroked the bird’s head gently, marvelling as ever at its feathery softness. Hebrides ruffled his feathers again, mollified.

  ‘Not even ten!’ he replied. ‘Time for tea?’

  ‘I know. I know! The world of specialist antiques never sleeps,’ Temerity continued, reading the email again. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea in a minute. They want me to go to a conference in Alaska, for goodness’ sake. Alaska! To give the keynote address.’ She sighed. Hebrides closed his coal-black eyes, ringed in a startling yellow, indicating his lack of interest in the matter. He loved tea, usually drinking it from a saucer.

  ‘If they think I’m going all the way to Alaska, they’ve got another think coming.’ She closed the laptop and stood up, depositing Hebrides back on his perch.

  ‘Tea is what’s needed here,’ she told Hebrides, who screeched in agreement. ‘Tilda! Do you want a cup of tea?’ she shouted upstairs. There was a muffled yell and the sound of something being dropped. Temerity winced.

  ‘What? What is it?’ a disgruntled voice thundered and Tilda, Temerity’s older sister by two years, appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘You startled me and I dropped Mrs Grieve’s Herbal on my toe. Hardback. I hope you’re happy.’ She sniffed, hopping on one leg and rubbing the afflicted foot, whilst still managing to shoot a disapproving look at Temerity.

  ‘I just wanted to know if you’d like a cup of tea.’ Temerity grinned.

  Tilda, in contrast to her sister, had short, curly brown hair that always looked in need of a comb. She favoured cord slacks, calf-length wool or tweed skirts, tartan pinafore dresses and hand-knitted sweaters and spent most of her time reading.

  ‘Oh. I suppose it’s too early for a glass of ginger wine?’ Tilda pushed her hair out of her eyes.

  ‘A bit, yes.’ Temerity grinned. They had both inherited their parents’ taste in drinks: crème de menthe, ginger wine, sherry and, in moments of dire need, brandy with a brown sugar cube.

  ‘Tea, then.’ Tilda sighed and walked carefully down the stairs, picking up a fat black cat that was snoozing on the least threadbare tread. ‘Scylla! You’re too big to sleep there. You’ll trip one of us up one day,’ she scolded. The cat, apparently not minding being moved, purred and rubbed her cheek on Tilda’s wrist. Having two cats (the other, Charybdis, a Russian Blue who was studiously ignoring everything from her bed in the corner) and a parrot could be an interesting experience sometimes; fortunately, after a couple of scuffles, the cats kept themselves to themselves. Hebrides had a very sharp beak and though he was gentle with Tilda and Temerity, he generally disliked strangers and hated other animals.

  Love’s Curiosities, Inc. was deceptively large, having been extended out into the long back garden. There was still a good-sized garden, but there was also a modern glass extension with a marble and steel kitchen that sat behind the shop.

  ‘I got asked to go to Alaska. Can you believe it?’ Temerity flicked the switch on the kettle and got a cream-coloured, cracked-glaze teapot out of the cupboard. She balanced two large mugs on top of a saucer to lift them down from the cupboard, but they overbalanced and fell onto the white marble kitchen top, one of them smashing in three pieces.

  ‘Temerity! Watch what you’re doing!’ Tilda tutted and pushed her sister out of the way. ‘Honestly. That’s the third one this month. I’m going to have to get another set.’ She picked up the pieces of broken pottery in a tea towel and put them in the bin.

  ‘Sorry.’ Temerity sighed. She knew she was clumsy, but she couldn’t help it: sometimes it took a long time for her brain to connect with her hands. Maybe it was on account of being so tall. She stood back and let Tilda finish making the tea.

  ‘Alaska! Who has conferences in Alaska, I ask you?’ Temerity mused, returning to her train of thought.

  ‘Alaskans?’

  ‘Ha ha, very funny.’ Temerity rolled her eyes.

  She picked Scylla up like a baby, stroking her silky little feet. The notion of witches having animal familiars that they could somehow embody, or converse with, was an old one. You could have a reasonable conversation with Hebrides, as long as you didn’t mind his screeches and whistles, but the cats, even if they had been able to speak, probably wouldn’t have had anything useful to say. They were incredibly lazy and, Temerity thought, if they could talk, they would probably sound like an elderly romance novelist she had once seen on the news: lying regally on her chaise longue, eating chocolates and drawling out her next story between puffs of a cigarillo.

  However, as witches, having animals was a good idea for a number of different reasons. First, cats in particular were excellent at detecting spirits and banishing malignant energies from a house. Sometimes one of the cats would wake up suddenly and stare into a random corner of the house, its hackles raised, and growl for a few minutes. Tilda would comment, They’re ghostbusting again, Tems. You could tell that was what they were doing, as opposed to listening to a mouse in the wall, because they would just as quickly close their eyes and go back to sleep as soon as whatever it was had gone. If they could hear a mouse scratching, then they’d jump up at the wall and yowl.

  The cats also made themselves useful in other ways. Tilda swore by the fact that Scylla, in particular, could always find the right herb in the garden or woods when Tilda needed it for a spell, poultice or other herbal preparation. Quite often, even in the garden, the cat had been able to find a herb that had started to grow wild, not having been planted by Tilda, but whose seed had flown in and sown itself – as if by magic.

  Both cats could also pick up changes in the environment – such as a storm coming in, before it had arrived. They were also excellent judges of character. If the cats liked you, you were all right in Temerity’s eyes. If not, not so much.

  ‘What’s the conference, then?’ Tilda asked.

  ‘They have an annual Ancient Chinese Pottery symposium. They want me to do a keynote speech. Alternative approaches to establishing provenance and authentication, or something along those lines.’ Temerity snorted as her sister poured hot water into the teapot. They’d built this extension some years ago, but all their possessions were either antiques, or not far from being antique, being their parents’ things. Therefore, there was a strange contrast between the sleek kitchen and the rather older items it contained.

  ‘Aren’t you going to go?’ Tilda asked.

  Temerity set the cat on the floor. She miaowed in protest and padded off to the large cushion in the corner where Charybdis was curled in a ball. Scylla arranged her hefty frame in the space left and gave a little snore, returning to sleep.

  ‘Goodness. To be a cat, eh? What a life,’ Tilda remarked.

  ‘You might as well be a cat. You spend your whole life in a chair, reading or snoozing,’ Temerity countered.

  ‘I do not! Managing rare books is a full-time job. I’ve got to keep up with developments.’

  Temerity gave her sister a meaningful look.

  ‘What, like, Help! This book’s still old.’

  ‘Don’t be flippant. Antiques are exactly the same.’

  Temerity shrugged, pouring strong brown tea from the old teapot into both mugs.

  ‘Anyway. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you sidestepping the question. Why aren’t you going to the conference?’
Tilda took her mug.

  ‘It’s too far away,’ Temerity said.

  ‘So?’ Tilda sipped her tea and watched her sister. ‘I’m assuming they’ve offered to pay your airfare and put you up in a nice hotel.’

  ‘Yes,’ Temerity muttered. ‘Come on, Tilda. You know I don’t like leaving Lost Maidens Loch.’ She turned her back on her sister, balancing the tea in Hebrides’ favourite saucer – he liked willow ware, maybe because it was blue, like him – and placing it on her desk by his perch.

  ‘Well, I think you should go. I can mind the shop without you. I don’t think we should deprive those Alaskans of the best psychic antique verifier in the known world,’ Tilda said. ‘Quite frankly, I don’t know why you hide yourself away out here in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘You live in the middle of nowhere, too,’ Temerity argued, her back still to her sister.

  ‘Yes, but I like it. You yearn for something else. I know you do.’ Tilda smiled, but her eyes had a hint of sadness in them. She was naturally quiet and studious, with a caustic sense of humour. Temerity was, of the two of them, the slightly more sociable and acceptable one. Her job was, at least, on the face of it, running an antique shop. It was a reasonably normal occupation, whereas Tilda, even though she was a rare book dealer, was known in the village as a herbalist and witch. It made people wary. The fact that Tilda could often be found harvesting mushrooms, tree sap and various unusual plants by the loch or out in the woods made them suspect she was up to no good, and Tilda wasn’t someone who felt the need to explain herself. Thus she had few friends and while she pretended that she didn’t care, she did.