Image by Kah Lok Leong from Unsplash

8/9 Free Chapters

It was seven in the evening and still that idiot woman hadn't responded to Gary's calls. Not that Brigitte had been any more successful. At some point she had sent a message she was about to escort the group to dinner, leaving him alone to prowl a sitting room besieged by shadows and a volley of questions. How on earth had Ms Wordsworth managed to lose one of her charges in the water works? Where was the guy now and what state might he be in? Other than wet, obviously.

Visions of compensation claims shot across his mind, like clay pigeons fired from a trap. He didn't own a gun; his hands were empty, so all he could do was sit and watch stupid game shows. Or hobble around to keep the mind babble at bay. How he hated not being in control. It went against his sense of duty and decorum, drilled into him from a very young age. The lords of Nettlehole might well have lost their ancestral home and the trappings that came with it, but the sense of duty still prevailed, a beast of burden mentality that had propelled his ancestors into insect-filled jungles, dusty deserts, and other places suffering from a climate incompatible with Celtic genes.

His toes hit Jon's football and sent it rolling towards the settee. Suddenly, the musky stink of the room registered, and he wondered when somebody had last opened the big folding doors to the terrace, one of the house's "unique features", as the salesman had enthused. With a growl, Gary limped towards the row of dark window panes and yanked at the handle. At first, it resisted, but after another determined pull the handle capitulated, and he pushed the panels aside, throwing the place wide open to air heavy with the scent of wood smoke, rotting apples and a crispness that signalled the coming frost.

From behind him, light fell into the room. "What's for dinner, Dad?" asked Jon.

That was a very valid question. One he didn't have an answer to.

"Let's check out the fridge, shall we?"

"Why are the doors open? It's freezing in here."

Jon was obviously not born to become an arctic explorer. "It stinks. We need fresh air occasionally."

Jon hugged himself. "That fresh air of yours is disgusting."

Gary sighed. "We'll leave them open for five minutes, okay?"

Together, they turned their backs on autumn and made their way into the kitchen. Jon hurrying along and Gary hopping after him like the lame duck he was. He didn't expect much, and he found even less: The fridge was empty apart from a half-full bottle of orange juice, five eggs and a pack of butter that looked as if it got injured in a car pile-up. Geriatric lettuce and a Tupperware box with leftover pizza, curling at the edges, completed the mix. It also smelled somewhat fusty.

Emma would have freaked had she been around.

"How about an omelette?"

Jon pulled a face. "Not again. We had one yesterday. Burger?"

Only iron control stopped Gary from fielding the question with the—admittedly correct—answer they had one the day before yesterday. And pizza the day before that. Though, by the looks of the leftovers, that might have been last week. Had his diet really grown so one-sided?

He grunted and was closing the fridge when Gladys sauntered into the kitchen with a flick of her fluffy orange tail. Gary groaned again. If they now were out of cat food, he would—do what? Scream? No, that would spook the boy. And the cat, most likely.

Jumping from the nearest bridge was also out of the question, Jon had only one parent left and the surviving set of grandparents, Emma's mother and father, were lost in grief over the death of their only child.

Must ring them, actually.

Gary banged open a cupboard and found six packs of Kibbles. Good. At least their feline companion wouldn't starve. And he didn't have to do anything he would regret later. But the vile stuff wasn't fit for human consumption, and while the cat wouldn't go hungry, they still were facing a catering crisis.

"I think I might have to do a supermarket run. We're completely out of stuff. I haven't even got milk for your muesli. Or bread. Or anything."

"It's alright, Dad," Jon said, an expression of patient martyrdom on his face. "I've got the cash you gave me earlier. I'll buy myself something in the morning. And a burger will do fine for now."

Gary could imagine what the "something" would look like. Or what it had looked like for the last few days. Sugar, white flour and useless carbohydrates would feature high on the agenda.

He was losing it. Plain and simple. Good job he had parked his ancestors in the attic. Otherwise, those paintings would now curl up their edges in shame. "No, this isn't on. I need to go shopping. How about steak and chips?"

"With ketchup?"

"If you insist. Can you check what drinks we still have? And do me a favour, have a look into the bathroom. Soap, deodorant, things like that."

"Dad! I want some food tonight."

"If we organise ourselves, it won't take long. Chips we can slap in the oven, and a steak is done quickly."

"Eeek, I don't like those. Those chips taste like unwashed feet."

Gary could only hope the boy hadn't been sucking his toes out of desperation. From experience, he knew suggesting a side salad instead would be strictly no-go, at Jon's age he too had been convinced greenery did not belong on dinner plates. He was still searching for an acceptable alternative when the phone shrilled into action. Leaning on his crutch, he extricated the blasted thing from his pocket.

"Do me a favour and check on the drinks and the hygiene stuff, will you?"

That cost him an eye roll but at least Jon shuffled off, and Gary could take the call in relative privacy. The cat didn't count. She was busy scoffing her goo, anyway.

"I beg your pardon? You were the one who went incommunicado."

"Yes, well, I was busy making a statement to the cops. Frightfully sorry, old chap."

Her words hit his insides like an arctic blast, freezing him to the marrow. Jessica's fake plummy accent was harmless by comparison.

"Would you care to repeat that? Perhaps with a few more details, such as what actually happened?"

Her normal voice was back. "I don't know how to package the news. I'm afraid it's a bit of a shocker."

"What is?"

"How much do you know?"

"I spoke to Brigitte, she said you were missing one pair of Wellingtons, and the consensus was that one of the tourists might have absconded with them. How am I doing?"

"That's what we thought at first, but it's more serious than that, I'm afraid. One of the Cambridge professors is dead."

Gary's fingers spasmed around the grip of his crutch. That was worse than expected. A death. On their first tour. As the ice spread into his stomach, a strange sense of detachment came over him, as if he was watching himself free-wheeling across the edge into mid-air. Next stop: plunge.

No, it wouldn't do, he had to remain rational, had to explore the consequences and the options he had. Which didn't look all that healthy: Not only would they have to hand out refunds, the rest of the trips would be in trouble and Litera Tours most likely doomed. It appeared, rational didn't work. He might as well hang himself in the attic. Strike that—not in the attic. Or at least not before he had removed those portraits.

"Jessica, please. Can you just tell me what happened? The full story."

"You tell me: How can you stay so calm? I frigging freaked. Twice actually. First when I found him, the second time when Harry told me he was dead."

"Who's Harry?"

"Sorry, Kommissar Stoffelhaut's aide. I didn't quite get the title. It's one of these complicated German words. Something like a Detective Sergeant I would figure. He was ordering around the uniforms. The other bloke must be something like a DI. They don't dress frightfully official though."

If Jessica were not miles away across the Channel, he would have reached out and strangled her. "Yes, well, I'm sure this is all very interesting. But I still don't know why you have a dead don on your watch?"

"Oh sure, keep blaming me, Gary. I've had a very long day, no dinner and a headache, so don't give me that crap."

"I apologise for any transgressions on my side. But I would still appreciate if you could be more forthcoming with the facts."

"Right. The professors kept having arguments, and I asked them to chill a bit. They then went away and split up to have a look at the underground reservoir. Friars, the dead professor, didn't come back with the rest and it appears he might have had an accident. Slipped or something. He basically suffered from what the cops called 'blunt trauma to the skull'. I'm glad I didn't see the back of his head, you know? Only the front. He was bleeding from the corner of his mouth."

"What do you, or rather—the police mean by 'might'?"

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.

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 This chapter is dedicated to Ruthzykira1616, thank you for reading and voting on the Avebury Witches cozy mysteries!!!