Читать книгу The Language Of Spells - Sarah Painter - Страница 11

Gwen had taken a long bath and eaten the bread that Lily had left with the casserole and, by the time she headed into town, she felt almost human again. All she had to do was remain focused. The next time she felt the Finding, she’d just ignore it. Simple as that. Just because she’d inherited one of the Harper family powers, didn’t mean she had to use it. She’d managed to stand up to Gloria all those years ago and refuse any more training, and she’d kept magic out of her life for the last thirteen years. Being back in Pendleford for one night wasn’t going to undo that. No matter how many creepy little notes Great-Aunt Iris had left for her.

The solicitor’s office occupied an imposing Georgian townhouse on the main street. Of course, all of the buildings were impressive, so that diluted its effect somewhat. Gwen hesitated outside the building. It was ridiculous. She had no connection to the Laings, not any more, and she’d never met Mr Laing Senior. There was nothing to worry about. Gwen found the reception and was directed straight into Mr Laing’s office.

‘He’s waiting for you,’ the secretary said, her rose-pink lips pursed.

Gwen opened her mouth to explain that the parking in this undeniably quaint and picturesque town was satanic and the unexpected twenty-minute fast walk had made her late, and then closed it when she caught sight of Mr Laing. The man didn’t look like he had much time left on this earth and probably didn’t want to waste it listening to excuses or parking zone rants.

‘Ms Harper. You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up.’ Mr Laing gestured to his wheelchair. ‘Please sit.’

Gwen sat and tried not to stare at the ancient being opposite. He must have been at least ninety. Well preserved, for sure, his nails freshly manicured and eyes bright, but surely someone who had earned retirement. What kind of firm was this? The kind you could only leave in a box?

Mr Laing picked up a sheet of heavy-weight cream paper and held it out. ‘This is the original of the document that we sent to you. Your great-aunt’s will. I understand there is some confusion on your part.’

Gwen kept her hands in her lap, refusing to touch the paper. ‘Not confusion exactly.’

‘How can I help?’ Mr Laing steepled his fingers.

‘I wanted to know if I could sell the house straight away.’

‘The terms of the will state that the property cannot be placed on the market for six months. After that, you can sell as quickly as you like.’

‘Right. I read that.’

Mr Laing waited.

‘I was wondering, though.’ Gwen swallowed. ‘Is there a way around it?’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Can I put it up for auction, or something?’ Gwen wasn’t going to embarrass herself by explaining that she needed cash right now. Or that she couldn’t stay in the house because Iris appeared to be talking to her from beyond the grave.

‘Ms Harper was very clear in her instructions. She updated her will six weeks prior to her passing and instructed us to send it to you.’

‘But how? How could she do that?’

Mr Laing’s white eyebrows crept upwards again. ‘She was an exceptionally organised woman.’

‘I mean…we weren’t in contact. How did she know my address?’

‘She was your great-aunt. Isn’t it possible that she spoke to another family member?’

Gwen shook her head. That was most definitely not possible.

‘Is there no way to release equity from the house or something? Immediately?’ Gwen realised that her voice was getting louder and she snapped her mouth shut again. Shouting at a defenceless old man was not cool. It wasn’t his fault he worked in a soulless leather-and-oak hell and looked like an extra from The Godfather.

Mr Laing looked back at her calmly. ‘I see.’

Gwen sank back.

‘If you will excuse me, I will get my grandson in here.’

‘Sorry?’ Gwen sat forward.

‘He prepared this file but…’ Laing paused ‘…became overscheduled and passed the baton to me, as it were.’

‘Okay. Fine.’ Gwen remained perched on the edge of the padded leather chair and waited. She thought of her beloved minivan. It was stuffed full of her possessions and business stock and she barely fitted amongst the boxes. She didn’t want to stay at End House, but she didn’t want to sleep in the van again. Then she processed the word ‘grandson’. It couldn’t be—

The door opened behind her and Gwen turned.

The man in the charcoal-grey suit was both older and taller than she remembered. His face was tense, though, and that sadly fitted her last memory of him to a tee. She gaped, then, realising that she probably looked like a village idiot, closed her mouth.

‘Hello, Gwen.’

‘Cam.’ The word felt odd in her mouth. Wrong.

‘Don’t get up.’

Gwen realised she was suspended, half out of the chair like she was poised to run a race.

‘Is there a problem?’ Cameron Laing had been twenty-three when she’d last seen him and thirteen years was a long time. Which would explain the blank and professional expression he was levelling in her direction.

‘You’re a lawyer,’ she said stupidly.

‘So it would appear,’ Cam said.

‘Ms Harper wishes to contest the Harper will,’ Mr Laing senior said.

‘No. I’m not saying that,’ Gwen said, suddenly desperate to appear reasonable. She had a good idea that ‘reasonable’ was probably not the first word that Cam would use to describe her. She wanted to show him she’d changed. Not that she needed to. There wasn’t going to be any antagonism after thirteen years. Probably no emotion at all. ‘I was just wondering if there was a way to convert the house into cash. Quickly.’

It hardly seemed possible, but Cam’s expression became more rigid. ‘Let me see.’ Cam ran over the same details, then plucked the paper from Laing’s desk and put it into Gwen’s hands. She took it to stop it sliding off her lap onto the floor and, despite her intentions, glanced down. Iris’s signature was there at the bottom of the sheet. The same looping writing that was on the note in the purse. There was no mistake: Iris wanted her to have the house. She really wanted her to stay in Pendleford and had even put an instruction not to sell into a legal document. A part of Gwen felt flattered. It was nice to be wanted, even if it was by a woman she’d been taught to avoid like the plague.

Cam was frowning as he flipped through the file. ‘Where are the title deeds? They should be here.’

Mr Laing senior shrugged.

‘Great. Iris must’ve left them at the house.’ He looked at Gwen. ‘You’ll need that when you come to sell. In May.’

Gwen looked into Cam’s brown eyes and felt something thud inside her chest. ‘Six months. Right.’

‘You’ll need to find it,’ he said. ‘It’s pretty important.’

‘Right. I’m just not sure if I can—’

‘What? You’re too busy?’ Cam shook his head as he handed her the file. ‘This isn’t the usual way people react when they find out someone has given them a house.’

‘Oh?’ Gwen couldn’t stop looking at Iris’s handwriting. She felt as if the walls had shrunk, and when she looked up at Cam, the room swooped to the left.

‘They usually say “hooray”.’

‘Cameron!’ Mr Laing was shocked. ‘Ms Harper has lost her aunt.’

‘It’s okay. I didn’t know her,’ Gwen said.

Just as Cam said, ‘It takes more than that to shake Gwen.’

‘Hey!’ Gwen said. So, a little hostility still.

‘Spare keys.’ Cam plucked a brown envelope from the desk and tipped it upside down.

‘Thank you.’

‘Well, if that concludes our business?’

Cam’s face was older, harder. Gwen didn’t think it was possible, but she actually found him even more attractive than the Cam of her memory. Which was inconvenient.

‘I don’t want to keep you,’ Gwen managed.

Cam bowed his head slightly and left the room.

‘Well…’ Laing senior looked baffled. ‘What was that about?’

Gwen shook her head. She felt sick. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that Cam’s grandfather didn’t know about them; not many people talked in-depth to their grandparents about their relationships but, still, it hurt.

She shook Mr Laing’s hand and thanked him for his time. It wasn’t his fault that she couldn’t convert the house into money and go rent a flat in Leeds or London or on Mars. Six months. How bad could it be?

Back at End House, Gwen closed the door, then leaned her head lightly against it. Perhaps the country air was getting to her, but it felt as if the house was breathing with her. She closed her eyes and saw Cam. Frowning at her.

She went to the kitchen and flicked through the file that Cam had given her. There was a white envelope with her name on it, written in Iris’s handwriting. Inside, there was a small key and a single folded sheet of paper:

My dearest Gwen. I’m sorry I never got to know you. I hope you are all that I believe you to be. With power comes responsibility. I want you to accept all that I bequeath you but, by doing so, you accept all that it brings. Yours in haste, Iris.

Nicely cryptic, Iris. Thanks for that.

The back door swung open. ‘Knock, knock.’ Lily appeared, her spike heels gouging chunks out of the worn lino. ‘Only me.’

‘What can I do for you?’ Gwen asked, pushing the letter back into the file and flipping over the brown cardboard cover.

‘It’s what I can do for you. I have such happy memories of helping your auntie, I’m willing to offer you a discount.’

‘Sorry?’

‘To help you out.’ Lily looked pointedly at the mess of papers, used coffee mugs and plates on the table. ‘Looks like you could do with a hand.’

Gwen felt pressure around her temples. ‘I don’t need any help, thank you.’ She stood up and tipped crumbs from the cake plates into the bin. ‘And I couldn’t afford it if I did.’

‘If I clean, it will free up your time for—’ Lily paused ‘…well, whatever it is you do.’

‘I’m fine, really.’ Lily didn’t appear to be listening and was unpacking her bag on the table. A flask appeared. And a brown paper bag that smelled of yeasty goodness.

‘I brought you some soup and bread.’

‘You don’t have to—’

‘Just while you settle in. Bless you, I’m sure you haven’t been shopping yet.’ She gave Gwen a disconcertingly direct look. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not staying. I’m not one of those nosy neighbours. Always popping in. Some people like to be social and some people don’t. We respect that round here.’

‘Right—’

Lily gave a little tinkling laugh that lifted the hairs on the back of Gwen’s neck. ‘Watch out for Janet, though. She runs the Honey Pot and is the town gossip.’

There was a pause as Gwen wondered how to get rid of Lily. ‘I was thinking about sorting through things today.’

‘Don’t forget to check the list.’

‘The list?’

‘The list of contents. Everything is in its place. I don’t want you thinking I have light fingers. You have to sign to say everything is as it should be.’

Understanding dawned and Gwen blushed. ‘I didn’t mean I was checking. I didn’t—’

‘That’s all right. You don’t know me, after all. You aren’t local. You don’t know what a good friend I’ve been.’

‘I’m sure you’ve been wonderful.’ Gwen wanted Lily to leave. She hadn’t sat down, which was a good sign, but good manners overtook her mouth. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Idiot.

‘I won’t take up any more of your time. You’ve got your work cut out for you here.’

Gwen smiled. Relief made her giddy. ‘I’m quite looking forward to it. I’ve never had my own house before.’

Lily looked at her curiously. ‘You’ve never bought a house?’

‘No. Just rented. Usually just a room in a shared house, actually.’

‘Oh?’ Lily pursed her lips. ‘Isn’t that a bit cramped?’

‘A bit. I’ve always moved around so much – for my work – my domestic arrangements haven’t mattered much.’ Gwen had always felt safest moving around. Pendleford had been the last place she’d called home and that hadn’t ended well.

‘You’re not working now, though.’

‘Not right at this second. No.’ Gwen didn’t feel the need to explain Curious Notions to Lily. She seemed like the type who would turn her nose up at second-hand, let alone ‘craft’.

‘You’re going to stay, then?’

‘Yes.’ For now.

Lily made a face. ‘Make sure you find that list. I don’t want any trouble.’ She picked up her bag and headed out of the door at a clip. ‘And make sure you have that soup tonight. It’s chicken.’

Okay, Gwen thought. So Lily was a bit odd. A bit intense. She opened the file again and plucked out the sheaf of stapled A4 paper with ‘End House, Contents’ typed on the top sheet. It was handily split into rooms, but after a minute of reading: one candlestick, pewter, broken base; one wool rug, red; three fountain pens; one wastepaper basket, her will to live fled. She was sure Lily hadn’t taken anything, anyway. She flipped to the last page and signed the declaration at the bottom. She made another mug of tea and drank it at the kitchen table. Why would she be so anxious for Gwen to check the list if she had? Unless she was looking for something. Gwen shook her head to release the ridiculous thought, but instead found herself staring at the small grey key.

A key for a locked door. Gwen didn’t have to pause; the knowledge jumped to the front of her mind; an extrovert piece of information that couldn’t wait for its turn in the spotlight. She ventured outside to the small outbuilding beyond the vegetable patch and tried the whitewashed door. It was locked. The key turned smoothly and the door swung inwards. The room wasn’t big, but it was obviously well used. A scrubbed wooden bench sat against one wall, a chair pushed neatly underneath. Another wall was filled by shelves and these were crowded with jam jars, neatly labelled. Gwen picked one up and read ‘Wolfsbane’. Okay.

There were bunches of herbs hanging from the ceiling and a butler’s sink in the corner with a wooden draining board to the side. There was a tartan-print cat bed in the corner. Gwen sighed with relief. That explained the noises in the night. The poor thing could be shut in somewhere or was hiding out of fear. Odd that Lily hadn’t mentioned a pet. Her heart clenched as she imagined it hungry and afraid, clenching harder when she realised that she was now responsible for it.

Her eye was caught by a notebook. It was spiral-bound and had a plain cover. She flipped it open and was confronted with tightly packed writing in black Biro. Iris’s writing sloped violently to the right and she seemed to have little regard for the spaces between words. Gwen pulled out the chair and read a page at random.

M D came again today. I knew she would’ve been drinking to get up the courage and by the smell of her it was sweet German wine. Not surprising that she has the palate of an illiterate eight-year-old. I gave her the usual prep (2 x WB, 1 x F, 1 x LLB).

Okay. So Great-Aunt Iris had an acerbic streak. She flipped to another page.

That bloody woman was sniffing around again. There’s nothing worse than a frustrated witch.

Witch. Gwen felt sick. If the cat’s black, she thought, I’m out of here.

That night, Gwen didn’t even pretend to consider sleeping in Nanette. Yes, she didn’t want to be in Pendleford or inside End House, but it was forecast minus six and too late to drive very far. Gwen knew she could be irrational, but she wasn’t about to sleep in her van when she owned a perfectly good, warm bed. And food. She poured the soup from the flask into a pan to heat it. Rich smells of leek, garlic and chicken rose up. Gwen got down a bowl and cut a thick slice of the fresh bread. She managed a couple of mouthfuls, but tiredness mugged her and she put the spoon down. She trailed upstairs to the master bedroom and the enormous bed. Her mind and heart were trying to reconcile the coldness from Cam. Coldness that she’d expected. It was exactly what had stopped her from picking up the phone so many times over the last thirteen years. She’d heard that the anticipation of pain was usually worse than the pain itself. Well, not in this case. Gwen couldn’t believe how much it hurt to look into Cam’s face and see nothing. Nothing but a chilly disdain. She closed her eyes and a spiral of colour twisted in the darkness. She watched it turn and writhe until sleep took her.

Gwen opened her eyes. The darkness pressed against them as she struggled to wake up. She’d been dreaming about the river. Black water, icy-cold. Stephen Knight’s pale face emerging from the thick depths as if he were floating in oil, not water. His eyes open and accusing. His mouth opening, filling with the black liquid.

Scritch, scratch. There it was again, the sound that had woken her up. Gwen forced herself properly awake. She ignored the window that had inexplicably opened and tiptoed onto the landing. She peered over the banister and there, sitting squarely in a patch of moonlight on the hall floor, was the skinniest cat she had ever seen. She crept down the first couple of stairs, watching carefully to see if the cat would bolt. It stayed motionless, watching her with unblinking eyes that were nothing more than reflections in the half light. Gwen looked casually away and then back, showing that she wasn’t a threat. The cat hadn’t moved and it looked reasonably relaxed. In fact, it looked like it was waiting for her, so she tried a couple more stairs. Then it meowed. Instinctively, Gwen put her hands over her ears. The noise that split the air wasn’t feline. It was like a rusty saw being dragged over corrugated iron. ‘Jesus!’

The cat regarded her with disgust. Perhaps it didn’t like blasphemy. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘You startled me.’

The cat got up and walked into the kitchen, its bottle brush tail high in the air.

Gwen followed obediently and then realised there wasn’t any cat food in the house. She took down a tin of tuna and mashed up a little on a plate, while the cat wound its wiry body round and round her legs. ‘You’re going to trip me over,’ she said.

The cat screeched.

‘All right, all right.’ Gwen put the plate down in front of it.

While the cat made short work of the tuna, she filled a saucer with some watered-down milk. ‘You shouldn’t really have dairy, but you look like you need the extra calories.’ I’m talking to a cat. God help me.

The cat sniffed the liquid, then lapped. Gwen felt a ridiculous sense of achievement.

She fetched one of the sad-looking cushions from the living room and put it on the floor of the kitchen. ‘You can sleep in here tonight.’ Then, shutting the kitchen door, she went upstairs. She went to the bathroom and washed her hands. There was no knowing what the animal had. Worms or fleas or, quite possibly, scurvy. She would need a litter tray, food, a new cat bed, and to get it checked by a vet.

Gwen paused on the landing, looking at the moonlight on the hallway tiles and listening to the night-time sounds of the house.

The cat was curled up on the foot of the bed. Gwen looked at it for a long moment. The cat looked steadily back at her. Then she got into bed.

Gwen opened her eyes. Two yellow ones hovered about an inch from her nose. She stifled a scream and blinked. The cat stretched lazily and jumped off the bed, landing with a thud. ‘I thought cats were light-footed.’ The cat paused, looking at her with an expression of disgust. In the daylight, Gwen could see that it was most definitely not a black cat. It had a mix of markings, not tortoiseshell or black and white or marmalade, but all of them. Like several cats had been put in a blender. Which was a horrible image and one Gwen instantly tried to whitewash over. The cat regarded her sternly as if mind-reading. ‘Sorry,’ she said, and then felt ridiculous.

She fed the cat some more tuna, bulked out with bread soaked in water. Then she remembered the leftover soup. She took it out of the fridge and sniffed it. Chicken. The cat started to wind around her legs, crying out and purring. ‘Smells good, huh?’ She poured a tiny bit into a saucer and put it on the floor. The cat dived for the dish, then stopped. His hackles rose and his fur stood on end. He hissed at the dish, then disappeared through the door, a streak of fur and fury.

Gwen picked up the saucer and sniffed it again. Maybe the cat objected to herbs. She began clearing up.

The back door, that Gwen would’ve sworn blind was locked, swung open. ‘Knock, knock. Only me.’

Lily Thomas smiled, her tiny teeth sparkling. ‘Soup for breakfast?’

Gwen realised she was still holding the Thermos in one hand. ‘Just washing up.’ She plunged it into the sink full of soapy water. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Just come to pick up my dishes.’

‘Of course.’ Gwen finished rinsing the flask and dried it on a checked tea towel. Then she fetched the ceramic casserole and handed them over. ‘Do you know the name of Iris’s cat?’

Lily frowned. ‘Iris didn’t have a cat.’

Gwen decided not to mention the cat bed in the outbuilding. It would be like directly calling Lily a liar, which probably wasn’t the way to be a friendly neighbour. Besides, there was something snake-like about Lily’s eyes. She kept her voice mild: ‘Well, I’ve got one now. He seems pretty at home.’

‘Must be a stray. Don’t feed it or you’ll never get rid of it.’ Lily paused. ‘Have you had a chance to check that list yet?’

‘Kind of. Yes.’

‘Did it mention a notebook?’ Everything about Lily was casual – her stance, leaning against the kitchen counter, her voice, her open expression – but Gwen could feel the tension thrumming in the air.

She shook her head. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s completely fine. Just a little thing. Silly, really, but I was so fond of Iris and it would be something to remember her by.’ Lily wiped delicately at her dry eyes.

‘A notebook?’

‘With recipes,’ Lily said quickly. ‘I always admired Iris’s tomato chutney and she promised to leave me the secret.’

Gwen frowned. ‘Why didn’t she just give it to you?’

Lily laughed. ‘I keep forgetting that you didn’t know your auntie at all, did you? She was very protective of her recipes. Adamant that they should be passed down through family —’ She broke off, perhaps realising what she’d said, then continued smoothly, ‘And she always said I was her closest family, that I was like a granddaughter to her.’

‘Well, as soon as I find the recipe I’ll pass it on.’

Lily smiled properly, her face lighting up and becoming pretty. ‘Thank you. I’d appreciate it.’

Gwen drove to the big supermarket on the outskirts of town and stocked up; she couldn’t rely on handouts from the neighbours for ever. She picked up cat food and a red velvet collar and put the receipt into her bag without looking at it. She was close to the limit on her emergency credit card and hoped, fervently, that the cat didn’t eat very much.

Back at End House, she set up her iPod dock and put on Johnny Cash at full volume. She stacked tins and packets and jars, filling the kitchen cupboards, then cleaned through the house, swiping away dust and cobwebs and muddy paw prints.

The cat appeared and pronounced the cat food a success. ‘Don’t get too used to that stuff. It’ll be value tins next time.’

The cat tilted his head and regarded her disdainfully.

‘And then I’ll have to re-home you, I suppose.’

The cat blinked slowly.

‘Unless I stay here. And adopt you.’

The cat began licking itself.

‘Great,’ Gwen said. ‘Is that supposed to be a sign?’

The sun had disappeared by four o’clock, making Gwen think about an early dinner. She pulled out pans and knives and started cooking. It was such a treat to have a kitchen again. And no annoying housemates to share it with. A spark of happiness flared as she followed the ritual of making pasta sauce. The movements were soothing. They calmed the feelings stirred up by the shock of seeing Cameron Laing.

Gwen chopped a handful of fresh basil, almost cutting off the tip of her pinky in the process. ‘Damn it.’ She ran her finger under the cold tap and told herself off for thinking about Cam while in possession of a sharp object. She threw the basil into the tomato sauce simmering on the stove and tried not to think about him in his dark suit. Cam in a suit was weird. When they’d been together, she would’ve sworn his Ramones T-shirt was surgically attached to his body. Except when he was peeling it over his head that time on the beach. She shivered, remembering the way his eyes had turned black, holding her like he was a drowning man. It had always been like that. Something wild and desperate and, with hindsight, probably not all that skilful. She closed her eyes and imagined what Cam might’ve learned in thirteen years. She leaned against the worktop, breathing in garlic-and-wine-scented steam and feeling the pressure against her suddenly thrumming and alive body. Her eyes flew open. Someone was knocking on the back door.

Gwen knew her face was flushed, but figured she could blame it on cooking. She wrenched open the door, ready to tell Lily Thomas politely but firmly to sod off, only to find a woman she didn’t recognise peering at her anxiously in the dusk. She was wearing a navy trouser suit and carrying a matching handbag, but she still looked a little ragged around the edges. Her skin was pale and there were dark circles around her eyes.

‘You’ve got to help me,’ the woman said and pushed past Gwen into the kitchen and sat in the biggest chair.

‘I’m sorry?’ Gwen managed.

‘You’re Gwen Harper, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Gwen tried to smooth out her frown. Manners cost nothing, after all. ‘Do you live next door?’

‘Of course not. I’m Marilyn Dixon.’

‘Right,’ Gwen said. It was official; the people in this town were insane. She gestured to the stove. ‘I was just about to eat. Are you hungry?’

Marilyn opened her eyes wide. ‘Will that help?’

Gwen gave up on reason and took the chair opposite. ‘Can we back up a bit? Speak slowly; I feel like I missed a memo or something.’

Marilyn’s fingers gripped her handbag on her lap, her knuckles bright white. ‘You are Iris Harper’s granddaughter, aren’t you?’

‘I’m her great-niece.’

‘Oh.’ Marilyn looked ridiculously disappointed. Her bottom lip stuck out like a toddler. There was a short silence, broken only by the soft popping of the simmering sauce.

‘Did you know my great-aunt well?’ Gwen tried for some polite chit-chat.

‘Not really. She kept herself private. Not a mixer.’

‘Right.’

‘But she always helped.’ Marilyn sniffed. ‘Wasn’t very nice about it, but she helped.’

‘I thought she was quite infirm herself.’ Gwen couldn’t imagine what Iris had been doing for Marilyn Dixon. Marilyn was no spring chicken, but she was easily thirty years younger than Iris.

‘Ha!’ Marilyn said and Gwen jumped a little. ‘She was as strong as a horse. Healthy as anything. Never got ill. Well…’ Marilyn paused and Gwen could almost hear her thinking ‘…until she died, of course.’ Another pause. ‘God rest her soul.’

Gwen frowned.

‘I’m sorry. Should it be goddess rest her soul? I was never really sure on that,’ Marilyn said.

‘I’m still confused.’ Gwen shook her head to clear the fog. It didn’t help. ‘Can we start with the basics? Who are you and why are you here?’

Colour flushed up Marilyn’s neck. ‘Your great-aunt was known for helping people. She said you were going to move in after she was gone.’

Gwen frowned. That made no sense. ‘The last time I saw my great-aunt I was thirteen and she said no such thing.’

‘Don’t shoot the messenger,’ Marilyn snapped. ‘And besides, I would’ve thought you’d be a little more grateful.’ She waved a hand. ‘She left you her house.’

‘Does everybody know my business?’

Marilyn looked at her in surprise. ‘In Pendleford? Of course.’

‘God help me.’ Gwen raised her eyes skyward.

‘Well, I can see I’m not wanted.’ Marilyn began to rise.

‘Don’t go. I’m sorry if I was rude. I’m just a little confused.’ And frightened. Gwen took a deep breath. ‘Can you talk me through the kind of help my great-aunt dished out?’

Marilyn sat back down. Her face softened in sympathy. ‘You really don’t know?’

‘I really don’t know,’ Gwen said, although she was starting to suspect. The secret room full of jars. The weird noises. The cat. Great-Aunt Iris had been a bit eccentric. And it seemed that the Harper family reputation for ‘weird’ was alive and kicking.

‘She was magic.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Gwen hoped she’d misheard.

‘She could help with stuff.’ Marilyn shrugged. ‘Like if your hens stop laying or you’ve got a cold that won’t go away. She’s got a brilliant medicine for that.’

‘Like homeopathy?’ Please let it be homeopathy. No flipping tarot cards.

Marilyn’s face brightened. ‘Exactly. People are always using homeopathy or reflexology or having someone stick needles in their sore bits. Seeing Iris was no different.’

‘And you paid her?’

Marilyn’s face fell. ‘It wasn’t like I didn’t try. She wouldn’t take it.’

Well, that was different. Gloria had had a price list printed up. Gwen got up and stirred the sauce. The motion was soothing and so was not having to look at Marilyn Dixon, who had popping blue eyes and a determined set to her mouth.

‘I always knew I owed her a favour, though. She didn’t take money, but you knew she’d ask you for something, some time.’

Okay. Enough nonsense. Gwen stirred the sauce faster. She couldn’t help this woman. She didn’t make potions or cast spells or even give good advice. And she wasn’t about to start.

Gwen turned to face Marilyn. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just not sure how I could help you. I’m not Iris.’

By the door, Marilyn gave her a long sweeping look, up and down. ‘No.’ And then she left.