Heathcliff grumbled under his breath as he shuffled up the stairs. Grimalkin trotted around his ankles, assuming if he was heading up to the kitchen, it would be to offer her a treat.
Quoth stayed behind to accompany Mrs. Ellis to the hospital. Morrie and I flanked Sylvia as she gathered her tote bags and left the shop. Glass jars and bottles clanked inside. What horrors she had hidden in the depths of those bags, I couldn’t fathom.
She poisoned her husband and started a new life. And now she’s doing it all over again. But why?
Miss Blume kept up a steady stream of chatter as we walked out of the village and along the road toward King’s Copse. Morrie’s hand hovered over his pocket, and I knew without asking he had some kind of weapon stored inside. That made me feel better, and I hated myself for that.I should not be looking to James Moriarty for protection.
We passed the narrow path where Heathcliff and I had entered the wood. Another half-mile down the road, a dirt driveway curved through the trees. We followed it into the wood, down to the half-circle of cottages.
In the daylight, the homes looked small and drab. Chimney pots collapsed against dilapidated roofs. Piles of rubbish were stacked along the stone walls. The boardwalk leading into the wood where Heathcliff and I had stood appeared to sink into the ground around it, boards broken and collapsing in several places.
“Here’s my humble abode.” At the last house, Miss Blume pulled a jangle of keys from her flowing skirts and inserted one into the lock. She shoved open the door, revealing a gaping blackness within.
I followed Heathcliff inside, waiting for the grey light from the windows to illuminate squares of the internal space. Inside, Miss Blume’s home resembled a cross between a prepper’s bunker and a witch’s lair. Narrow shelves lined every wall, crammed with cans of preserves and large bags of flour and sugar, along with hundreds of medicine bottles and jars of herbs. My stomach tightened as I noticed several bottles labeled with a black skull and crossbones.She’s got poisons everywhere in this house. Stacks of lopsided onions and dirty vegetables lined the benches in the tiny kitchen, while sprigs hung from large drying racks under the largest window.
“What’s all this?” I asked, scanning the carefully-lettered labels on the jars.
“Herbs. I forage and dry all of them myself.” Sylvia pointed to square wooden molds and cutting tools on the kitchen table. “I make herbal soaps and skin creams, as well as remedies, tea blends, and spell kits for my shop. The wood gives me such a bountiful harvest.”
I spied a round drum in the corner. When I bent to inspect its contents, my stomach tightened. Inside were several carved wooden walking sticks, all of different lengths and designs. I fished through the drum and found one identical in style to Dorothy Ingram’s floral design, and another that matched the one we found in Mrs. Winstone’s bushes.
Behind my shoulder, Morrie’s expression hardened.
“These are beautiful walking sticks,” I said, plastering a smile on my face as I held the moon-phase one out to her.
“Ah, trust Mina the artist to find those,” Miss Blume beamed. “I’m very proud of that particular design. Woodturning and carving are hobbies of mine. I make ritual bowls and statues for the shop. I carved all those walking sticks by hand, and they’re some of my best sellers. I use only fallen trees and branches I find in the wood. Would you like to see the studio?”
No. I’d like to get out of here and go straight to the police.“Very much so.”
Sylvia led us through the tiny cottage and out a rickety back door. As I stepped outside, I noticed buckets spread across the floor to catch drips from the leaking roof. I shivered in the damp conditions. These cottages really weren’t habitable.
Outside, an overgrown path led down to a small corrugated iron structure. Sylvia opened a narrow door and gestured for me to go inside. I glanced at Morrie and he nodded, leaning against the doorframe.
She can’t hurt me while Morrie’s here.
My nerves jittering, I stepped into the shed, casting my eyes around the shelves of carved bowls and trays and wooden clocks. In the corner, several more walking sticks stuck out of an umbrella holder.
“Most of the cottages have workshops attached. Lots of artists live here because the houses were so cheap. I stock a lot of their artwork in my shop, and we swap supplies and overstock where we can. We have our own wee community.” Miss Blume pointed across the low fence to another shed. “That’s Helmut’s shed. He’s a talented blacksmith, and I sell many of his magical knives and other implements in my shop. He lives with his sister, who bakes the most amazing treats.”
“Greta. I know her.” I forced a smile.
“Yes, she’s lovely. I’ve been working closely with her and her brother these past few months as we’ve made submissions to the planning committee to get the housing development expedited.”
“You… you wanted the housing development to go ahead!”
“Of course! They needed this land for the new houses, and they were going to pay each of us a huge sum of money, much more than these old shacks are really worth. Helmut was going to build a proper forge, and I planned to buy my shop outright and live upstairs.” Sylvia rolled her eyes toward the roof, where rust had eaten large holes in the iron. Water dripped onto the cold stone floor. “Oh, to live in a warm, dry, home, I cannot even imagine the luxury! Of course, with all the hullabaloo over the planning application, we haven’t got our payout yet. And if the Lachlans go away for dear Gladys’ murder, I’m not sure we ever will.”
Sylvia wanted the development to go ahead! Mrs. Scarlett’s protest was getting in her way!
“Thank you so much for showing me your workshop, Sylvia. If you collect the things you need, we can walk you to your shop.”
“Of course. Thank you very much. Mabel and I really appreciate everything you’re doing. The police have been less than helpful. They still believe the Lachlans poisoned Gladys, can you believe it?”
No, I really can’t.
As Sylvia bustled around, filling two more tote bags with soaps and crystals and jars of weird leaves, Morrie and I pretended to hunt for signs of the killer’s presence while we carried out a hushed conversation.
“There are more poisons in this room than in Lucrezia Borgia’s parlor,” Morrie said.
