The Howling Hag Mystery, page 2
How much easier if you could just come out with it: It’s Nightshade, thank you very much.
Stray? I would not forget that insult in a hurry.
The troublesome boy, Morti, was awkwardly holding out a packet of prawn cocktail crisps as he tried to manoeuvre his awful bike on to the street. Raven, a bright and considerate child, reached out to help him and looked thoughtful as she accepted the crisps.
‘I can tell that you are annoying mostly because it’s the way to be noticed and you want to make new friends,’ she said. ‘But that you are really very kind, you always mean well and are warm and generous.’ Higher praise than he deserved.
I could see Raven Charming was dithering over the seriously bad idea of taking him to Knox’s. Did she really need me to leap in and point out the dangers? Not a danger that Morti might find himself zapped and suddenly sprout white fur and whiskers (the Charmings were skilful enough for that not to happen). But there are things the eyes of a nosy boy like Morti Scratch are not supposed to see.
‘I knew you were smart, that is totally how it is!’ nodded Morti. ‘Is that witchcraft? Bet you know I stole these crisps too. But no one’ll miss them.’ He shook out some more into her hand. ‘These prawn cocktails are dead unpopular.’
They chatted, I listened: Raven stoutly denying anything to do with witchcraft was real, Morti pointing out some of the unsettling things that had started happening at the school. Like that chanting. And he might be right.
I’d heard it. It went around like a scared whisper after anything strange happened. She’s going to trick you. She’s going to get you. She’s going to eat you. Not something you want to hear in any school. And I’d started to watch Rookery Charming, standing to one side of the crowd, watching the latest incident unfold with her creepily intense light-brown, sometimes yellow eyes.
There can be trouble when you are young and not fully trained in the magical arts. Sometimes you do magic without even meaning to. Can lead to uncomfortable questions if someone notices. It was certainly going to be pretty awkward for Rookery Charming if there really were two witches in Twinhills and one of them was up to no good.
I shrugged myself up and padded along the warm wall, dappled with nice end-of-afternoon sunlight, and reminded myself I was on holiday. All I wanted to care about was that it was almost time for a nice plump fillet of salmon to be dropped into a nice clean china bowl at the Maudlins’.
‘Even cycling up that hill is better than staying here,’ said Morti, glancing at a house which stood to attention between the school and the inn. It was called Tidy House and, true to its name, it had a garden so neat that weeds would not dare drop their seeds on it. ‘Don’t want to risk being here and having to watch Mr Odorless spray weedkiller all over again.’
That was indeed one of the most unfortunate things about the very pleasant village of Twinhills – the head teacher lived right next door to the school. And Mr Odorless himself was unfortunate. He had a pale, very flat face, although this could turn a nasty shade of violet when he was cross. Which, as far as I could tell, was most of the time.
I was actually waiting for him to arrive as it brought me a fun moment in my day: Titus would be let into the garden. An objectionable, small, yappy, snappy excuse for a pooch. Utterly hideous. When I lay full stretch along the top of this wall, my tail can’t help being the perfect length – it dangles slightly higher than Titus is able to jump. Annoys him into a snapping, wheezing frenzy. Quite irresistible joy.
So much better than a hot walk trying to prevent a couple of kids from plunging headlong into some very nasty trouble, or worse – some seriously sinister magic.
I heard the sound of the front door of the school being locked, followed by the familiar tread of Mr Odorless’s scuttling footsteps as his short figure approached. I think that sound made Raven decide. Because she and Morti began the tough cycle up the very tediously long hill to Knox’s, presumably with a plan to tackle bad magic and possibly upset a vengeful witch, as if that would be no trickier than sharpening your claws on a tree.
The end of my tail twitched in readiness at a delightful few moments tormenting Titus, followed by a superb piece of plump fresh salmon. Then a comfy cushion right where the afternoon sun would have moved to. My definition of a perfect afternoon.
But I was getting that feeling. The one I get when a mouse I’ve been watching silently, intently, and without moving for a very long time, thinks I’ve gone. That feeling that nothing good was going to happen.
Was I really going to give up my holiday and help that insulting boy?
Stray!
Surely there was no choice. I leapt off the sunny wall and trotted along after them.
4. An Uproar of Untidiness
I took the cross-country route through the dark and shady heart of Beechy Wood. It didn’t stop it feeling like the wrong day to be wearing fur, and Morti and Raven still arrived ahead of me.
Most people would pass by and not even notice Dandelion Cottage. The cottage was wound with long tendrils of protective ivy and stitched together with moss and appeared to grow out of the wood itself. Daisies sprouted on its grass roof. You had to look closely to see the jumble of logs entwined with leaves and branches for what it really was. But perhaps that was the point.
I finally flopped up at my destination and slumped, practically melting on to the nice wide windowsill, peering into the kitchen, hoping someone would notice me and bring out a nice refreshing drink. Raven and Morti were torturing me with a lot of slurping and loud rattling of ice cubes as they sipped tall glasses of home-made lemonade. I pressed my pink nose against the glass.
Dandelion Cottage must be heaven for one of those can-never-be-still children like Morti. He pushed at a jar marked spaghetti here, closed a drawer full of string there, all the while explaining the unpleasant incidents at school to a man with luxuriantly long and dark curly hair who busily spooned dollops of red jam into pastry cases. Knox Charming.
What I’d seen of Knox in the short time I’d been in Twinhills told me he was very much the sort who could do a spell to lock a door, but he wasn’t likely to remember to use it.
At least there was one thing he was careful about – he kept the secret trapdoor to where he did his spells hidden. A fancy patterned rug disguised it completely. All magical folk tend to be pretty good at keeping magic a secret. Yet Morti Scratch had only just arrived in Twinhills for the last term of the year and he had latched right on to the fact that there were witches here. This was not good.
‘It’s small things mostly, but strange,’ Morti was explaining, while slurping noisily. ‘Ones that upset people. Like Ella got these fancy red shoes that totally vanished. They reappeared magically dangling either side of the spelling trophy on the shelf outside the school office. Gave everyone a laugh –’cept Ella, of course.’
My detective instincts were twitching. If Morti Scratch was right, this Howling Hag was going to ruin things for a lot of people. Not least these two, if they seriously planned on tackling a sorcerer who sounded as if she was bent on mischief. How was that going to end – other than with one of them on the pointy end of a very nasty spell?
‘Money was swiped and there was some mystery about how it was taken. Miss Percy went around looking grim for days. We lost to Fivetors again because of Sam Carruthers – you can’t tell me it was just bad luck he burnt his hand and fumbled a catch in cricket and lost the tennis tournament to Bianca in the same week. You can’t tell me this isn’t a dangerous curse we’re up against. Old Odorless was mad as a hornet in a jar when Sam missed that catch.’
Knox made a slightly strangled response. ‘I know Twinhills is riddled with superstition, but what makes you think any of that was down to a witch?’
‘It’s the chanting, mostly.’ Morti shuddered. ‘Then there’s those words that appeared on the board in Miss Sunny’s classroom: Watch out! I am here and I am going to eat you.’
‘I can see how that might upset people,’ said Knox as he began delving distractedly through an assortment of canisters lined on a crowded dresser before eventually finding one marked tea. When he lifted the lid, he looked puzzled as he extracted a handful of miniature scrolls made from ancient paper.
‘But that message on the board was just a joke, wasn’t it?’ put in Raven, slurping the last of her lemonade.
I settled down, interested to hear how Knox was going to deal with a load of very intrusive questions. Because you could not ignore that people here were more than a little jumpy, as if an ill wind had blown in from Beechy Wood.
Knox stuck his thumbs into his plum-coloured waistcoat. I had yet to see him without a velvet waistcoat and matching bow tie, as if he hung around awaiting invitations to important places, even when sliding a tray of jam tarts into the oven like he’d just done. Did the man even possess any pyjamas?
Knox slowly made a brew in a large striped mug and asked mildly if Morti would even know if he met a witch. This was an impossible question, one that tested the minds of some of the most senior Elysee sorcerers: How can you tell if someone is magical? Morti Scratch had no idea what he might be up against.
‘Course! I’d spot one right off,’ answered Morti quickly. ‘They wear gloves, as they have claws instead of fingers. They have a secret plan to take over the world by turning children into mice by offering them sweets.’
Knox lifted the lid of a jar marked coffee. He took out a white paper bag and held it out to Morti, who extracted a chocolate rabbit and bit off the head cleanly.
‘They use crystal balls to check out what ill will befall you.’ Morti hardly paused to nibble the feet of the chocolate rabbit. ‘They make straw dolls and stick pins in to make you do stuff. If you don’t avoid their evil eye they make you sick just by looking at you. They feed you potions, bad spells they’ve made in big black bubbling cauldrons full of disgusting stuff while muttering evil enchantments they’ve found in crusty old spell books.’
Knox lifted an ancient book from the centre of the kitchen table and tidied it on to a shelf. ‘Always women, are they? Men don’t make the grade?’ He offered another round of chocolate rabbits and lounged against the stove, where an enormous black saucepan simmered gently.
‘And I suppose they have pet toads and cats,’ put in Raven Charming with a nice scoff. ‘And cackle, wear pointy hats and fly around on broomsticks.’
Morti bit off a second rabbit head. ‘They curse your sheep, sour the milk. And they make your crops fail.’
‘I’m not so sure all that many people these days have sheep and crops to worry about.’ Knox tucked away a stray scroll inside a jar marked sugar and sipped his tea. He sniffed the air suspiciously, as if trying to remember if he was in the middle of doing something.
I hoped he was going to recognize the smell of jam tarts browning nicely.
Morti lifted the lid on a butter dish and leapt back, startled, as a soft brown toad crawled out. ‘Oh. Does this belong to anyone?’
‘Ah, Mimi!’ said Knox. ‘I wondered where she was.’ He gathered the toad to him and plopped her out on the front doorstep. If a toad can look affronted, that was how Mimi looked as she crawled into a hole in a big stone. ‘She croaks to me every morning and has the most beautiful voice.’
Morti was continuing unstoppably. ‘They have huge nostrils to sniff out children to eat them. Worst thing you can do is be clean as you give off the most ghastly stench to a witch. I reckon all the kids at Twinhills should stop taking baths immediately.’
‘Um, I think you might find,’ said Knox, fiddling with his bow tie, ‘that at least part of that is from a book by Roald Dahl. It is a very good book, but that doesn’t make it true.’
He dragged a hand through his perfect hair and leant on the rough bark of the tree that grew through the centre of the cottage.
Most magical folk are not trying to eat children, let alone try to take over the world. Most magical people I know are too busy practising getting a door to slam or bending a spoon. Magic can be a proper pain to get right. It’s one of the reasons magic needs to remain a secret. Because if it got out about magic you can bet people would go around demanding miracles for breakfast. People tend to assume magic can do a lot more than it really does. It would bring a lot of expectation and lead to a lot of disappointment. And it would mean trouble for all those magical folk pottering about their daily business, using their magic quietly to help people, in the way that all magical folk should.
‘Occasionally people might call on a wise woman,’ said Knox carefully. ‘They used to be called “cunning folk”, and they were once an accepted part of village life. Skill with herbs and a few well-chosen words can—’
‘What we need to know is the best way to tackle the Howling Hag and stop her being mean to everyone. That witch bottle tied to the front of the school isn’t going to cut it.’
Knox blinked at Morti’s interruption. ‘The Howling Hag? Who’s the Howling Hag?’
‘There’s a picture of her on the sign outside my new home,’ Morti pointed out helpfully. ‘I heard there’s a legend and my dad was decorating and found these weird symbols carved into the woodwork. You can come and see them if you like. The inn is dead old. Dad looked ’em up and them symbols are to ward off evil. Same as that witch bottle. Anyway, it has to be an evil witch targeting the school, because of that black cat. It’s been hanging around, poking its pink nose into everything. It’s a sign. Worse is about to happen.’
This jolted me out of my almost-snooze. Hanging around and poking in a pink nose? I had a nasty feeling the boy might be talking about me.
I have been keeping watch. It’s easy to do. Well, it is if you’re a cat. The teachers have been delighted that such a very smart and dignified cat should choose to keep an eye on the place. Pretty much all the children are lovely, as long as they keep away from my fur. Their hands, particularly the youngest of them, are a little sticky, often covered in paint, glue, or a smear of whatever was in their sandwich for lunch.
‘Tarts!’ Finally Knox launched a rescue mission, using a pair of oven gloves shaped like goldfish, sliding the pastries on to the big table in the centre of the kitchen, jam still bubbling.
‘Witches have black cats, that’s something everyone knows,’ insisted Morti. ‘That black cat hanging around has to be the Howling Hag’s. Probably marking out the next victim.’
‘Next victim?’ echoed Knox, hunting about for plates and finding some under a pile of freshly picked herbs.
I hadn’t come to Twinhills to save a cursed school. Or to track down witches or save annoying boys. I was here because there had been no place for me in the latest adventure of my best friend and partner in crime, Seth Seppi. He was undercover on a case for MagiCon, the magical police. An old friend of his father’s lived hereabouts and I deserved a break. I was glad to be away from all the skulduggery and exhausting mayhem that generally surrounds Seth. My life has more explosions and showdowns with sorcerers-gone-bad than is usual for most cats. It interferes with both snoozetimes and mealtimes. Despite all that – call it super detective senses if you like – I’d drifted into watching the school. But I didn’t want my holiday to be over.
I did quite want a jam tart.
It would be the work of a moment to get to that table. I could swipe a tart and be out of here before anyone even noticed.
I moved from the window ledge, silent as a shadow, sneaked along to the door and slipped inside. I leapt beautifully, with all my natural grace, landing on all four paws perfectly and soundlessly on the kitchen table, right next to where a dozen tarts had been placed to cool.
I reached out a paw gently to seize one. But it was at just that moment that Morti Scratch, the bothersome boy who had not stopped pacing and sticking his nose into everything, made the same decision.
The whole tray was precariously balanced, and as we both went for it at the same moment, the whole lot tipped. There was a clatter and a dozen perfect tarts cascaded into a crumbly sticky heap on the kitchen floor.
There are many important things you learn when you are a cat – including how and when to make a hasty exit. And how to make sure you never have to clear up after yourself.
5. Definitely Not Doing Magic
Morti Scratch had gone on about that cat being the Howling Hag’s spy, deliberately upsetting those tarts to stop him finding out any more from Grandpa Knox. But Raven had more urgent things on her mind than his insistence that the unpleasantness at school had to mean a malevolent witch was at work.
Every spare moment of the past couple of days, Raven had been tidying and disguising the magical clutter of their home. Because the risk of discovery of the Charmings’ magical lifestyle was all too real and happening right now – danger was going to step right through their door.
Rookery had a friend coming to tea.
Rookery was not quite two years older than Raven, with their birthdays falling at opposite ends of the year. And they were opposites in so many ways. Rookery seemed to be growing taller than she needed to be and Raven felt she would never catch her up.
Rookery was silent and still as a lake. There was something more than a little unnerving about the way she looked at you, as if she could peer deep inside and know what you were thinking. She had midnight-dark hair that made the rest of her look like it was made of moonlight. Raven pretty much felt that Rookery was always just a step away from having to Deny Everything.
Raven, on the other hand, longed for any signs of being magical at all.
At first, Mum had decided against sending them just along the road to Twinhills School and they had gone every day to the neighbouring town, to Fivetors School. Mum no doubt hoped in a big school like Fivetors there was less chance of people noticing if anything strange happened around Rookery. Raven understood how much her sister needed to be protected from anyone discovering her secret. Rookery was so very magical, it was difficult for her to stop it spilling out sometimes. Often, Rookery explained, magic just happened.
