The Witching Hour (The Witches Pendragon Mystery Series Book 1) (3 page)

Chapter 3 (Noelle)

I, Noelle, spent the morning, as usual, cracking open the cocoa beans, seeking out their precious nibs. Then I begin the conching. These days, I use a large industrial mixer. When I first opened my store, I used mortar and pestle –it was a brutal process and one that left me with little time to do anything else. Nowadays, I pour all the nibs into the conching machine and turn it on high. I just love modern technology.

An hour and a half later, I am pouring finished chocolate into molds, watching carefully as the silky dark liquid fills up each plastic square. Finished, I transfer the molds to the refrigerator so the chocolate can set. Then, I glance up at the clock. I should be right on track for opening the store at half past ten. I’ve kept an eye out for my spirit friend this morning, but in my experience, ghosts don’t materialize much in the daytime.

At quarter past, I arrange all of today’s chocolates in neat little rows in the display case before turning the sign from
Fermé
to
Ouvert
on the shop window. The first person through my door this morning is a local. Monsieur Rene owns a café nearby and has come to inquire about selling “
Elfie’s Chocolate Surprises
” to his after-lunch crowd.

“Sorry, she’s not in. It’s chocolate with lime today, or chocolate with chili pepper,” The little man hurries away mumbling something about “no-no, not those ghastly lime things again.” In modern day Gaul, everyone is a food critic. I try to ignore them but still, sometimes their words sting. Luckily the tourists keep me in business, especially the Americans.

With hopes that some tourists will soon pass by, I head back to my workroom –a good witch always washes out her cauldron. I am halfway inside my huge iron vat wearing latex gloves up to my elbows, when I hear the bell over the front door.

I hasten out to the front, hoping for a big-spending American but there’s nobody here. Suddenly the temperature drops in the shop and all the hairs on my head stand on end.

I can
feel
the presence.

I’m not sure why, but today I feel spooked. Dealing with the paranormal is always different. Some ghosts are content to leave well-enough alone while others are back from the dead to punish the living. Which type is my ghost? Is he angry or sad? Abruptly, my old-fashioned cash register zings open and euros rise up out of the till, swirling around my store.

I am tempted to run for it, but I don’t.

“Oh, ha-ha, very funny. If you want me to help you find your murderer and bring him to justice, this is not the way to do it.” I bend down behind the counter to pick the euros off the floor.

The bell jingles again and the room warms; I’m sure the ghost has left. “And a good riddance to you, Sir,” I say as I scramble to scoop up all the money.

“Who are talking to?” comes a young man’s voice causing me to stand up so fast that I hit my head on the lip of the counter.

“You all right, Madam?” he asks.

“Fine, fine.” I rub the front of my head where a bump is beginning to swell. Standing before me is a policeman in uniform. He must have come through the door at the same time the ghost was leaving. He looks young, probably mid-twenties, with hair cut so short it brings the word ‘Nazi’ to mind.

“Can I help you? Would you like a sample of chocolate?” I ask him.

“Actually, no. I’d just like to ask you a question or two.”

Oh dear, here it comes. The town has figured out that Elfie is putting cannabis into the
Chocolate Surprises
. That’s why the candy she makes has become so popular and the townspeople, in my estimation, have become so placid. I argued with her about it. I told her that cannabis is illegal in most modern day countries. She laughed and said, “But it has so many healing properties. I’m doing it to help everyone out.” There ensued a very heated exchange over it at the chateau one day, and Hatha told Elfie if she didn’t stop making her
Chocolate Surprises
, she would throw her out on the street.

“Seems very hypocritical, we used it all the time in the Feral Forest. You know it’s good for everything – stress, depression, anxiety…”

I swear I’ve never seen Hatha so worked up. Her face was as red as the leaves on the miniature ash tree that stands in front of our chateau.

Their disagreement caused a lot of ugliness, with Elfie erupting in a fit of temper and Hatha stating firmly, “Elfie, this is a different world we are in now. Unless you want to move to Aspen with Emmeritrude, Adeline, and their warlock, you must stop using cannabis.”

Suffice it to say, Elfie didn’t stop. She’s been coming into my store and making them from time to time. I stopped arguing about it when I saw that the
Chocolate
Surprises
were flying off my shelves. I should have stopped it, I know, but for the first time since opening, the shop has actually begun turning a profit.

“Have you seen this boy?” the policeman asks and holds up a picture. I’m so relieved he’s not going to arrest me over the
Chocolate Surprises
that I almost fall over. I regain my composure and scrutinize the picture. A skinny teenager, wearing jeans, a white tea shirt, a denim vest and a huge sneer on his face stares out at me contemptuously.

I almost nod in the affirmative, but then I remember myself. Of course I’ve seen this guy, he’s haunting my shop. I’m pretty sure that’s not the kind of thing the policeman wants to hear.

“Isn’t that the vagabond who went missing? His pictures are all over town,” I respond.

“Yes, it is the vaga…or er…homeless lad that was hanging out in Amboise up until he went missing about a week ago. I guess I should refine my question. Did you ever see this young man in person?”

Oh dear, how to answer this question. I don’t believe in lying. 

“Has something happened that you are out canvassing the town? You don’t canvass for every missing person, do you?” I ask, answering his question with a question.

“Indeed, something’s happened. Something very bad. We found this poor guy floating dead in a pond in the Parc Leonardo.”

A normal person would gasp in horror. That is what I would do if I were genuinely shocked.

“How awful. When did you find the body?”

“Yesterday morning, when the Parc opened up for the tourists.”

“I see,” I mumble as I return the euros to my old-fashioned cash register. It makes a pleasant dinging noise as I shut the drawer.

There, all the bills are back in their place. I love neatness. I glance up from the register to find the officer continuing to stare at me intently.

“Yes?” I ask.

“Oh well, it’s nothing really.” He rocks back and forth on his shiny shoes, a blush of pink comes over him and he stares at the floor. I find his behavior baffling.

“Go ahead, I’m all ears,” I encourage.

“I-I was wondering if you might like to have dinner with me some time,” the policeman spits out in one long string of words.

“Oh?” I reply somewhat startled. I’m afraid it’s not an encouraging “Oh?” Even though I have adapted to the modern French world and wear modern French clothes, I am still a member of the coven of the Feral Forest. We don’t date. Witches don’t have boyfriends. It’s all about the sisterhood.

I smile at him but he still looks nervous.

I think through his proposal. After all, we are in France, and I have adopted many of their local ways. Maybe I should try dating. And, if I go out with him, I might be able to pump him for information about my mysterious ghost; how he died, who he is, if there are any suspects etc. I do have a vested interest in finding some justice for my ghost and getting him to move on to the next world, if only to keep him out of my cash register.

“Sure, wonderful, how about tonight,” I respond a moment later.

The policeman’s face lights up. “Great, how about
L’Epicerie
at 8:00 p.m.?”

“Sounds wonderful,” I toss out in my best French. The young policeman shuffles back out my front door looking as if he’s on cloud nine. I watch him walk down the street and realize I don’t even know his name.

Chapter 4 (Elfie)

The four of us (Camille, Hendra, Hatha and I, Elfie) are greeted at the Chateau by the Count himself, a thin man with balding hair, as well as his wife who looks half his age. The wife’s name is Claire-Elaine. She is impeccably dressed in a classic white Chanel suit with patent-red kitten heels, and a delicate string of pearls at her neck. Her shiny chestnut hair is cut in a page boy. Everything about her exudes money. The Count also has two absolutely cherubic looking children, daughters ages three and six who cling to the mother.

“Sister Hatha!” Claire-Elaine cries, gently pushing her children aside before striding across the lawn to give our head witch a warm embrace, including a small airy kiss on each cheek.

Hatha smiles her beatific smile, and lifts the hems of her robes as we stride up the steps to the front entrance.

“We’re so glad you could come,” Claire-Elaine says. “We’ve called the parish priest and he refuses. Says it is all nonsense. Called exorcism a bunch of hocus pocus. Says this type of stuff is right up there with witchcraft and voodoo in his opinion, if you can imagine.”

Hatha twitters at this and I shoot a glance at Monique’s pointy hat, hoping she won’t give us away.

“So you see, you Sisters of Perpetual Patience are my last hope.”

Hatha says something reassuring at this point and we all make our way through the front door. Curiously, as soon as Hatha crosses the threshold, she crosses herself. I do a double take, because I’ve never seen Hatha act so…well…Christian.

Hendra notices too, and raises a brow. I shrug. Is it because Hatha is converting to the new religion, or is it because, like myself, she senses something particularly sinister and is crossing herself to cover all her bases? I don’t know.

“I’ve taken the liberty of preparing some tea,” Claire-Elaine says as she ushers us into what she calls “The Red Room;” the paint in this room proves to be an overpowering scarlet color; a color which is repeated on all the upholstered furniture. On the walls hang paintings of ancestors of the Count. Taking pride of place in the room is a white marble fireplace with ornate carvings.

“Are those gargoyles?” Hendra ventures with a suspicious glance in the direction of the carved mantelpiece. It’s probably worth explaining that as pagans, we witches do acknowledge the dark side of the universe, but we don’t dwell in it. What did we worship back home in 546 A.D.? We worshipped Mother Nature in all her glory. We thought of ourselves as priestesses of the earth. Despite what modern people think about witches, in Anglia, we were known as healers and helpers, not as proponents of evil. In fact, we witches of Forest Fosse don’t
do
evil. We don’t do evil at all, and I can tell that Hendra is not impressed by grotesque faces carved into a fireplace to ward of malignant spirits.

“Please, have a seat,” the Count offers, and the four of us sit down side-by-side on the empire sofa. “How do you all take your tea?” The Count asks pointing to a sterling-silver tea service on a rolling cart.

“Oh Sisters, you don’t know how thankful we are to have you here. Things are getting worse with our resident ghost,” Claire-Elaine cuts in.

“Please tell us everything. We’ll do all we can to help, but of course we make no guarantees,” Hatha replies graciously as the Count hands her a porcelain teacup.

The count passes out tea to the rest of us, then hands his young wife a cup. She takes it with a trembling hand and sits down in a wing chair.

“Let me tell you a short history of the ghost,” the Count begins. “This chateau was originally built in the 11th century. It came into our family a short while later, a gift from the king to a distant ancestor who fought many battles in support of the monarchy. The outer walls were rebuilt and reconstructed in the 1550’s…”

“Do get on with things,” Claire-Elaine snaps abruptly. Perhaps she thinks we are growing bored with her story since Monique has dropped off into a deep sleep and is snoring up a storm. I want to tell her it’s okay, Monique is well over 200 years old. She sleeps when she needs to. But Hatha shoots me a look. She finds Monique’s behavior unbecoming and since I am sitting next to the old witch, she wants me to do something about it. Gently, I jostle Monique who startles awake.

“Right, the ghost,” the Count clears his throat. “I was just coming to that. You see, Sisters, over the years, a figure of a woman, who we call the Lady in Blue, has been seen roaming the halls. Well, I’ve never actually seen her, but reports of her have been made by past residents as early as the late 16th century. We don’t actually know who she is or what she’s doing here, but we do know one thing –she’s starting to become more aggressive.”

“What do you mean by ‘more aggressive,’” questions Hatha, who leans forward in her seat.

“The ghost is going after the children,” Claire-Elaine answers for her husband.

This produces a loud outburst from those of us on the sofa.

“No!”

“Oh the depravity!”

“That’s not right!” Hendra, Monique and I utter in turn. Only Hatha retains her composure, saying, “What do you mean going after the children, Countess?”

“Oh, I’m not a countess,” Claire-Elaine replies calmly, “I’m sorry if you were misinformed. I don’t have that title yet.” She shoots her husband a penetrating look.

“Yes,” the Count replies, coughing into his hand, “My ex-wife is the Countess de Trisse. She was very strong-willed. She wasn’t going to divorce me unless,” here he coughs into his hand again, “she was allowed to keep the title. We are suing her in court over the whole affair. Anyway, you don’t want to hear our sordid family affairs, you want to know about the ghost.”

“Quite,” agrees Monique, having a rare moment of lucidity.

“We fear the Lady in Blue has been visiting our oldest child at night,” Claire-Elaine takes over the story. It’s clear by the intense look on her face that she doesn’t think her husband was telling the tale fast enough. “My eldest daughter Mathilde reports a presence in her room every night. She says the first thing she notices is that the air in the room turns glacial. Then she reports this…this…depraved ghost is pulling off her covers while she sleeps.  She wakes up in the room, with her covers off even though it’s freezing.”

“Although, to be truthful, this castle is drafty,” the Count replies sternly. “All the rooms are cold at night. And my daughter tosses and turns, she might be kicking her own covers off.”

“So you are saying you don’t believe our daughter?” Claire-Elaine challenges the Count, her knuckles white as she grips her teacup. On the sofa we witches bustle in our seats.

“I absolutely do believe little Mathilde. She is my child too,” the Count replies. Claire-Elaine gives him a withering look before returning to the subject of the ghost.

“Things have gotten so bad, that our eldest daughter reports having her feet grabbed at night.”

“Oh!” I sit up as if pricked by a pin. “How horrid!”

In my limited experience, ghosts are typically pranksters, but Hatha has been reading up on awful spirits in the local library. She read to me part of a book called
Deterring the Demonic,
a book she found rotting away on some shelf in the library’s basement. The few pages she read about ghosts haunting humans until they became gravely ill or committed suicide kept me awake all night. Back in our tree-hugging, earth-worshipping days, I never even imagined such horribleness. The worst things we had to deal with in Anglia were the Dark Queen to the south and the peffer-footed battle cracs that roamed the forest looking to snack on a wayward witch.

“We absolutely cannot allow that kind of thing. We cannot accept ghosts harassing children.
Ordior arma,
” Monique pontificates and rattles off of the first few lines of the poem the
Punica
.

Claire-Elaine absolutely beams at this, as though this is exactly what she needs in the house. I hate to tell her that Monique speaks mostly in Latin and is simply recounting the battle between Carthage and Rome; she’s not uttering some anti-ghost religious gibberish. The truth is in Anglia of 546, the well-do-to all spoke the language of the Romans. By the time I was born, the Romans had left the island and I learned enough Latin to get by; but, like most of the witches, I speak in the vernacular known as Anglian. Of course, nowadays I also speak a smattering of modern French. I have Francine and Lizelle to thank for that, they correct my French all the time.

“If I may interject,” the Count says after Monique finishes the fourteenth stanza of the
Punica
. “Our daughter has never liked sleeping alone in her room. Most nights she snuggles in our bed. It is only in the last few days, since we’ve put our foot down and insisted on her sleeping in her own bed that she claims to be haunted by the Lady in Blue.”

Monique mumbles more Latin. This time, she’s not reciting the
Punica
. I understand enough Latin to know what she said: “
The husband clearly doesn’t believe the child is being tormented by the ghost while the wife is most convinced.”

Monique is right. Claire-Elaine stares at us beseechingly, as if she has reached wit’s end.

“It is quite a scary thing,” Hatha states, “when ghosts become physical. It’s not something to be taken lightly. Dear Count, dear Claire-Elaine, do you suppose we might have a look around?”

“Oh, you don’t know what a relief it is to hear you say these things.” Claire-Elaine puts down her teacup and jumps to her feet. “We called a second priest who came highly recommended from Tours, but he said that since we, ourselves, are not Catholic, he wouldn’t help us. Then we called a protestant priest…Church of England I believe. He was in Paris. But, like our local priest, he said he doesn’t do exorcisms. He too claims they are witchcraft.”

There’s that word again. Witchcraft. Heh. Honestly, these people haven’t the faintest idea what witchcraft is about.

Hatha has heard enough. She rises to her feet, her eyes steady as she meets Claire-Elaine’s. “Madam, we are not exorcists. I have convinced a few ghosts in my day to move on –some refuse to do it. We shall at the very least try to communicate with whatever presence lives in your home and bring it to some sort of understanding. Sister Monique sensed something sinister when we drove up.”

From her seat on the sofa, Monique nods.

Claire-Elaine looks both relieved and vindicated, the corners of her lips turn up into a weary smile.

“Now if you don’t mind, we would like to have a look around.”

“I’ll show you the way.” Claire-Elaine motions to the hallway.

“No,” Hatha stops her. “The four of us should split up and go in different directions. We will need access to the entire castle.”

“Is that really necessary?” the Count questions at the same time that Claire-Elaine says, “Absolutely, please have a look around, you may go wherever you wish.”

*****

When Claire-Elaine said, “You may go wherever you wish,” I didn’t think I would be given the task of searching the tunnels underneath the castle. Before I head down the stairs, the Count hands me a flashlight. “The wiring is old and the bulbs in the basement are dim,” he informs me with a grimace.

Well, that sounds awful
, I think, and brace myself for the unpleasant task of searching for a ghost in a dimly-lit medieval castle basement. I switch my flashlight on and swish it around. Before me the stone stairs are configured round and round like a corkscrew. The steps are so old that at the bottom they have simply melted away into a ramp. Here I lose my footing, and start to slide, ending up with a bruised tailbone after I hit the floor.

“Ow!” I mutter, standing up and rubbing my derriere. The Count was right, it’s so dim it’s as if the electrical system cannot keep up. The wall-mounted fixtures are very faint, emitting small patches of light. They make a crackling noise as electricity hums along the aging wires. I swish my flashlight around the room, revealing hundreds of cast-off objects from eras past –mostly excess furniture covered in white cloths, but also baby items: a white cradle, a plastic washing tub, and a tricycle are all piled high in one corner.

I am a pagan. I am a witch. And I am distinctly uncomfortable down here by myself.

Come on, ole
girl,
how bad could it be?
It’s just a basement
. I give myself a pep talk as I walk along, my high-heels clicking on the stone under my feet. I stop and stare at what must be some of the world’s largest stone footers, running my hand along the rough stone. The footer is so old pieces of mortar chip off and fall to the ground.

“Ah, but technically speaking you are not as old as me,” I whisper to the footers. “I was born in 520 A.D., so I have you beat by over half a millennium, I’m sure.”

After the crowded first room, I duck my head under an archway and enter the next one. Here, the wall-mounted lights seem to have died some time ago. Without my flashlight it would be pitch black. I swish it around, watching the beam bouncing all over the place, not having the slightest idea what I’m looking for. Along one side of the floor I notice the stones form a little channel, probably a medieval system to collect any water that might enter the basement, but I’m not really sure. Nervously, I follow the narrow groove in the floor to a low stone arch.