Кейт Форсит - Relics, Wrecks and Ruins - Anthology of Speculative Fiction Short Works

The final two members of this ad hoc welcoming party were less immediately identifiable: a man and woman of similar middle age, both countrified professionals of some sort, or so their well-cut, subdued tweeds declared.

Behind them all, lounging on the upper step of the war memorial, a russet Labrador with intelligent brown eyes and muddy paws watched the new arrival with interest. Or perhaps she was looking at the rock cakes.

“Who are you?” bellowed Dame Keble, as if Mari was a county over, and not standing in front of her.

“I’m the district witch,” replied Mari. She undid her chin strap, took off her pointy hat, and flying goggles. Her hair was short, but not cut in a fashionable bob. She ran her fingers through it in a vain effort to make it sit down on top. “Aren’t you expecting me?”

“You are not the district witch,” declared Keble. “Mother Hartpool is, and she’s due any moment, so you’d better shove off. We don’t need any unlicensed witches here today.”

“I really am the district witch,” replied Mari, with a sigh. Mother Hartpool had warned her that Dame Keble was rather stupid, the beneficiary of tradition rather than any policing expertise. She caught the vicar’s eye behind the chief constable, noted her apologetic expression, and continued. “That is, I am a locum, standing in for Mother Hartpool. Didn’t you hear she’s been called away to her daughter’s? A new grandchild, I believe.”

“You’re too young,” said Keble, her eyebrows gathering together above her nose in what was either disbelief or anger. “We need someone qualified!”

Mari sighed, collapsed her hat and tucked it into her shoulder bag before rummaging around to retrieve her card case. Flicking it open, she took out one of her still new visiting cards and offered it to the chief constable. The worthy received the rectangular pasteboard gingerly, as if it might be cursed, and held it up so she could peer down at it through the lower part of her gold-rimmed spectacles. The sergeant stretched up to read it as well. He was very short, though broad across the shoulders.

Dr. Mari Garridge BWch MSorc MagD

Junior Fellow

Ermine College

University of Hallowsbridge

“Hmmm,” muttered Dame Keble. She still sounded suspicious. “Ermine College. Why would a Hallowsbridge scholar take on a locum here? And you’re still too young.”

“I have only recently taken my doctorate,” replied Mari diplomatically. “I’ve been in Morcoln for several weeks, doing some research into… well… naturally I had called upon Mother Hartpool when I first arrived, so when she got your telegram, she came around to ask if I might stand in, given her imminent departure to her daughter in Stondbury. I agreed, so here I am.”

“You can’t just become a district witch,” complained Keble. “Ermine College or not. There are necessary procedures, forms to be completed—”

“I hold a warrant as a provost of the university,” interrupted Mari. “So, ipso facto , I may be commissioned as a district witch at any time or in any county by the Board of Black Velvet. This was in fact done by telephone earlier today, and I have a letter from Mother Hartpool confirming I act in her place. Do you want to read it?”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” said Dame Keble, suddenly hearty. Mention of the far-off but potent bureaucratic power of the Board of Black Velvet in Londinium had her backpedaling as fast as she could. “Please pardon my initial… er… remarks, Dr. Garridge. My natural concern over the situation here has made me… worried. Very worried indeed.”

“Exactly what is the situation?” asked Mari. “Your telegram didn’t say. Other than it was urgent business for the district witch or wizard. Sir Henry sends his regrets by the way. The press of other duties, or he would have come too.”

Or, to be more accurate, Mari thought, but did not say, Sir Henry Brodlington had snaffled the more interesting problem of an ancient oak that had inexplicably relocated itself to a point three miles from where it had stood for a thousand years, its new rooting place unfortunately being in the middle of a significant crossroads.

“No one else is coming?” asked Keble. She looked up and down the road, as if some sort of convoy should be approaching. “I mean, you’re not expecting anyone?”

“No,” replied Mari. “I’m sure I can assist you with whatever the problem is. What is the problem?”

“Well, now you’re here, perhaps I should leave it to Sergeant Breckon to explain,” said Keble. “It is a local matter and he has all the details. Good luck. Come, Entwhistle.”

Mari was unable to hide her surprise as Dame Keble hurried over to her car, dove into the back and slammed the door behind her. The tall constable took a deep breath, strode stolidly to the front of the car to turn the crank several times before assuming the driver’s seat and pressing the ignition. The car started with a series of loud bangs. The constable engaged first gear and exchanged an indecipherable look with the sergeant, before the car departed in a cloud of blue smoke.

“Mother Hartpool is often followed about by the Morcoln Messenger and sometimes even reporters and photographers from the metropolitan newspapers,” said the vicar, stepping forward to join Mari, who was staring incredulously after the departing vehicle. “I am sure that’s the only reason Dame Keble came today. Since you have arrived without the folk of the Third Estate, we have become surplus to her diary. I do apologize for the poor welcome to Nether Warnstow, Dr. Garridge. I am Kathleen Evenholme, the vicar here, as no doubt you have deduced. My husband, Lawrence; the good Sergeant Breckon who represents the law in both Upper and Nether Warnstow and two other villages besides; Dr. Ware, who has the local general practice; Lady Lovatt’s steward, Arthur Robe, and her ladyship’s solicitor, Jane Rawson. Ah, I should say Lady Lovatt is our squire, but she is well past ninety now, and does not leave the manor.”

“Would you like a rock cake?” asked Lawrence Evenholme, proffering the plate.

“Not right now, thank you,” replied Mari. “But what exactly is happening here? Why do you need my help?”

Everyone suddenly spoke at once, a cacophony which Mari could not follow, though she was disturbed by the use of one word they all employed.

Malediction .

Mari held up her hand. “Quiet please! I cannot listen to you all at once.”

They stopped talking. The police sergeant and the vicar both tried to start again, but the vicar’s glare and sniff put paid to the sergeant’s effort and he closed his mouth with a thwarted huff.

“As I was saying,” said Kathleen Evenholme. “There appears to be a curse on the village. Some malediction has been laid, and we need it found and lifted.”

“I see,” replied Mari, though she didn’t. There was no evidence of a curse or malediction. Usually it would be all too apparent. Dying trees, browned grass, sickened livestock, dead birds, streams and ponds turned to blood, bloated toads burst upon the road… there was none of that, or any of the other portents. The people of Nether Warnstow also looked perfectly healthy. “How has this curse manifested?”

The vicar held out her thumb, followed a moment later by the others all doing likewise, save the solicitor, Rawson. Mari obligingly stepped forward to peer at the vicar’s offered digit. It was rather red, more so than Evenholme’s other fingers. But only as if she had been washing dishes and her thumb had somehow soaked in the suds longer than the rest of her hand. The others all had similar, somewhat reddish, perhaps slightly chafed, left thumbs.

“The curse has made your thumbs a little red?” Mari asked. She knew a faint smile was spreading on her face and tried to pull her mouth back into a stern, professional line.