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 Oh Mummy!
Wonky Inn Book 14
By

JEANNIE WYCHERLEY

Copyright © 2022 Jeannie Wycherley

Bark at the Moon Books
All rights reserved

Publishers note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and
incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously
and for effect or are used with permission. Any other resemblance to actual
persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or

by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or
mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without
the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief
quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses
permitted by copyright law.

Sign up for Jeannie’s newsletter:

www.subscribepage.com/JeannieWycherleyWonky

Oh Mummy! was edited by Christine L Baker

Cover design by JC Clarke of The Graphics Shed.
Formatting by Tammy
Proofreading by Johnny Bon Bon
Please note: This book is set in England in the United Kingdom. It uses British
English spellings and idioms.
 CONTENTS

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue

Wonky Continues
Out Now
Also by JEANNIE WYCHERLEY
This book is dedicated to lovers of peace and kindness everywhere.

Stay wonky!

J.W
“I s that a jawbone?” I asked.
“Hoo!” Mr Hoo, overseeing matters while perched on the
spade I’d jammed into the bank just above my eyeline, sounded
doubtful.
However, Zara, the young witch next to me, leaned back on her
haunches and blew a lock of ginger hair away from her mucky face.
Her eyes were alive with excitement. “It looks like it, doesn’t it?”
We were occupying a trench together. Not occupying it in the
sense that we were at war with Germany—thank goodness—and had
therefore discovered the remains of a long-dead British soldier, but
in an archaeological sense. Whittle Inn tended to be quiet after the
excitement of Yule, so, given the ups and downs in my life over the
past twelve months, I’d decided to indulge myself by taking time out
for a retreat.
But not for me a pamper weekend at a grand hotel, or meditative
seclusion in Tibet with monks and goats and saffron robes and
endless solitude, or a blissful spa in the country with bubble baths
and warm pools and walks in the forest—I had all I needed in
Whittlecombe after all.
No, no.
 I knew I’d be incapable of switching my busy brain off long
enough to relax and enjoy myself, plus I hated the idea of being on
my own for any length of time. I’d drive myself crackers.
Nope. In my infinite wisdom, and much to the amusement of
everyone who knew me, I’d elected to spend a fortnight
volunteering on an archaeological dig. It was something I’d always
wanted to do, so why not? I’d stumbled across packages for
paranormal excavations while online one day and pored over the
details of their short-term vacancies. Like a fool, I’d summoned up
images of balmy summer days—although to be fair, you’d be lucky to
have many of those in March in the British Isles—and jovial
colleagues in holey rainbow-coloured jumpers and tangled
dreadlocks, homemade pickle in my sandwiches and songs around
the campfire.
And in my heart of hearts, I knew I’d be a great success and
would find untold treasures.
Oh yes, I’d make a brilliant archaeologist. I felt it in my bones.
But before you get too excited, I should also confess that I
hadn’t felt entirely comfortable travelling too far away from home. I
mean, would you trust your twenty-first-century livelihood to your
deceased Edwardian great-grandmother’s ghostly ministrations?
Uh-uh!
Having decided I’d feel more comfortable if I could keep an eye
on things at home, albeit from arm’s length, I’d applied to a local dig
near a village just outside of Exeter and had been delighted to be
accepted. Run by the university, I’d been offered accommodation
too, but one look at the basic tents on offer—the camp beds, the
field kitchen and the hole in the ground that passed as a loo—and
I’d decided that, you know what? Alfie doesn’t camp. Alfie enjoys
her home comforts.
Therefore, Alfie needs to commute.
So that was what I’d done for the past eight days. Every
morning, even Sunday, I’d donned my oldest robes, packed my
lunch—okay, you’re right, I’d accepted a packed lunch especially put
together by my housekeeping ghost, Florence—and jumped in Jed’s
old van. A quick dawdle up the A30, singing my heart out to tunes
on the radio until I’d almost reached the outskirts of the city, and I’d
hang a left to whip down a few country lanes. There’d never been
an issue with traffic because I had to be on-site from eight in the
morning and I worked through until five or six, depending on how
busy we were, so I missed the worst of it.
Don’t ask me why I’d suddenly decided that archaeology would
be my ‘thing’. To be honest, although I’d been interested in history
at school, I’d never been particularly academic. Once upon a time, in
my dreams, I’d imagined I could be a botanist or something like
that, but after my dad had disappeared and my relationship with my
mum had started to deteriorate, I’d looked forward to the day I
could leave home and earn my own living, well away from the
tension Yasmin seemed to thrive on creating.
That’s how I’d ended up working in bars and clubs in London. My
career choice, if you can call it that, had been fine for a while.
Exciting at times. I’d met loads of interesting people and enjoyed the
craziest of wild parties.
But at some stage in your life, enough is enough.
Inheriting my wonky inn had been life changing. I’d swapped my
lie-ins and late nights for early rising and early-to-bed and replaced
my pretty young things out clubbing for elderly witches making the
most of their winter years.
And now I wouldn’t change a thing.
But it was nice, occasionally, to have a little break.
So here I was, on a dig site in a field known locally as Gallows
Meadow, wearing a pair of Millicent Ballicott’s bright orange wellies—
slightly too big for me—and up to my knees in a trench-come-bog,
the Devon mizzle making everything damper and colder than was
strictly necessary, every fingernail a thing of the past, and the only
cake on offer the mud plastered to my robes.
As for the cheerful colleagues I’d expected, well, like everything
in life, they were a mixed bag. Zara, bless her heart, had been
sharing my trench since day one. We’d worked side by side, learning
on the job. A sweet young thing, she had red hair like mine,
although short and straight, with a smattering of freckles across the
bridge of her nose. She’d told me that she was taking a year out
between completing her degree in Mechanical Engineering and going
on to do a Masters in Broomstick Aerodynamics. “I wanted to try
something a little different,” she’d told me when I questioned her
choice of study, “but I’ve always loved history.”
Well, this certainly qualified as ‘different’.
The main upside of my retreat was that the location for the dig
was glorious. Or rather, I imagined it would be if half the field hadn’t
been dug into neat little trenches. Surrounded by rolling hills, we
could barely make out the city behind us, hidden in the troughs and
valleys of the countryside. Instead, on a good day, you could see as
far as the coast to the south and back towards Dartmoor to the
west. To the east were forests, to the north, more farmland, and the
sky was a freeway for seagulls and every wild bird you can imagine.
In terms of ‘retreating’, I found it did my soul good simply to
stand and listen and take everything in whenever I had the
opportunity to do so. The beautiful birdsong, the cries of the gulls,
the melodic tones of the breeze … and the constant clanking of
spades and trowels against flint.
But therein lay the problem, because unfortunately, it wasn’t the
done thing simply to stand around doing nothing. We were here to
dig.
And that was all.
Zara called out to June, a research fellow and one of the official
archaeologists on the dig. The second we found anything
interesting, we had been ordered to stop digging, scraping and
smoothing and instead gain the attention of someone who knew
what they were doing so they could examine our finds and decide on
the next course of action.
Ostensibly what we were looking for was evidence of a
settlement of seventeenth-century witches. Local lore described how
a number of women, fed up with being ostracised and persecuted in
their own villages, set up a community where they came together
and supported each other over decades by farming, hunting,
gathering and cooking collectively. Apparently, they pooled their
skills and knowledge about herbs and medicines with each other and
created items to sell at local markets. Of course, the men of the
parish didn’t take kindly to such entrepreneurial spirit and eventually,
following a period of tyranny and intimidation, some of the wise
women were dragged before the courts for vagrancy and witchcraft.
Three of them were hung and the other women were sent packing,
no doubt to die in impoverished infamy.
June eased her way into the trench and crouched beside us,
carefully stroking the object Zara had unearthed with her specimen
brush. About Zara’s age, she studied and taught at the university
and had the air of a serious scholar that both Zara and I found
intimidating.
“Could it be a jawbone?” Zara asked, her voice carrying across
the quiet field.
“Wait!” a man’s voice bellowed.
I poked my head above the parapet to spy Professor Robin
Charwood steaming towards us. As the person in charge of the dig,
we were all more than a little in awe of him. He had an intellect to
be reckoned with, a list of publications as long as your arm and over
forty years in the field. Literally in the field. In his mid-sixties, he was
still sprightly—a slim little man with some pixie blood in his DNA, I
would imagine, but unfortunately, he had the temperament of a half-
starved goblin.
“Huh-oh,” said Mr Hoo.
Huh-oh, indeed. I shrank into the ground and pretended to busy
myself with my own patch of soil.
Professor Charwood slid into the trench as though his wellies
were on wheels. “What have we got here?” he asked.
June shifted out of the way to create room for her boss and
pointed. “Zara thought this might be a jawbone.”
Charwood produced his specimen brush with a flourish, the way
a magician might pull a scarf from his sleeve. “Let’s see, shall we?”
He swept across the surface of Zara’s find in an almost derogatory
manner. “A jawbone, you say?” He turned grey eyes on her, as hard
as the flint that peppered the soil beneath our feet.
Zara swallowed, an audible click. “Yes?” she asked, hesitantly.
“Good goddess above.” Charwood’s tone was mild, but there was
no disguising the derision. “June? Which universities do these idiots
study at?”
“They’re volunteers, sir,” June reminded him and cut an annoyed
scowl our way.
Mr Hoo ruffled his feathers. “Hoo-oo ooo!” Pardon us.
Quite!
Charwood dug his thumb into the earth and extracted … not a
jawbone but a long, slim chunk of stone. To my mind, Zara could be
forgiven for the misunderstanding. It did have a little hook at the
edge, and it was white, narrow and slightly curved. From a distance
—to the uninitiated, or perhaps the visually challenged—it might
have been a jawbone.
Clearly though, we could all now see that it wasn’t.
Charwood sighed heavily. “As if students aren’t bad enough, we
have to put up with these amateurs.” He threw the stone out of the
trench, narrowly avoiding Mr Hoo, who rose from his spade and
hastily flew away towards a nearby copse.
“Wasn’t it you pair who thought you’d found a pearl necklace the
other day? Didn’t that turn out to be a cluster of vacated snail
shells?”
“Erm … yes.” That had been me.
“And an emerald from a priceless brooch?”
“Well, yes,” I said. Also me. I was keen, you had to give me that.
“But—”
“And that was a shard of glass from an old beer bottle?”
“Mmm.” I pressed my lips together.
Charwood tutted. “Honestly, June, if you can’t do better than this
when you’re selecting volunteers for my digs, I need to seriously
consider whether I need you around.”
June gaped at him. “But Professor—”
Charwood gave his head a little shake. “Do better, June. Do much
better!” With that, he made light work of climbing up the slippery
bank and out of the trench. Seconds later, I heard a man shriek and
the sound of pottery falling. “Watch out, lad!” Charwood shouted,
and I found myself pitying the poor person who had now drawn the
professor’s ire in the wake of our mistake.
 I poked my head above the parapet again, just in time to see the
young man in question—Ray, another doctoral student—glaring after
the professor as he knelt to pick up some broken urns or bowls or
something.
“You two are letting me down big time!” June grumbled. “If I lose
my position here, that will be the end of my funding! I can’t
complete my fellowship without funding and access to this dig site.”
“Sorry,” Zara mumbled. She looked ready to burst into tears.
“There’s no need for him to be so crotchety,” I ventured, trying to
remain calm. “As you pointed out, we are volunteers. We don’t have
a clue what we’re doing. We came to learn and have a little fun at
the same time.”
And we paid for the privilege!
“Well, I tell you what,” June said. “Have less fun and learn more.
In fact”—she kicked at the soil beneath her feet—“maybe just
pretend you’re digging, but don’t actually touch anything or uncover
anything. How about that?” She grabbed the wooden ladder that,
unlike Charwood, we mere mortals had to use to climb up the steep
bank and began to pull herself out of the trench. “And don’t call me
over to look at anything else again. Like, ever!”
I sucked my teeth and watched her disappear. “I didn’t come
here to pretend,” I told Zara.
She sniffed, her face a picture of woe. “Nor me.”
I thrust my mattock into the soil beside my foot. “I thought this
would be fun, but it’s a bit like working for an exceptionally bad
employer.”
Zara giggled. “I can’t comment because I’ve never had a proper
job yet.”
“Seriously?” I scraped the soil away from another potential body-
part-come-rock. “That’s something for you to look forward to, then.”
“Is it hard work running an inn?” she asked. I’d told her all about
what I did, of course, and she had sampled some of Florence’s
wonderful fayre.
“It certainly can be,” I told her. “Long hours, you know? Some
guests can be a little bad-tempered.” I jabbed my mattock in the
direction Charwood had gone. “A bit like the mad professor there.”
 “Oh dear.” Zara laughed, oddly cheered by that thought. “And to
think I had the choice between coming here and going to Egypt!”
“Egypt?” I wrinkled my nose. “You’d have to be out of your mind
to go on a dig in Egypt.”
“Why?” Zara asked, kneeling next to me and beginning her
excavation once more.
“Heat. Dust. Flies. Dysentery—”
“Dysentery?” Zara didn’t like the sound of that.
“Not to mention that you’d come home stinking of camels,” I told
her. “Trust me on this. I know aaaaaaaaall about it.”
“W hat,I bypushed
all that’s green, is that?”
past a wooden box standing at least eight feet
high and three feet wide. Other boxes and trunks and a couple of
old suitcases were piled up against it.
“Ah, good evening, Miss Daemonne.” Archibald Peters, a one-time
colonel in Her Majesty’s army—and by Her Majesty, I mean Her
Majesty Queen Victoria, not Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II—and
now the ghost who ran reception for me, drifted out from behind his
desk. “These were delivered this morning. I believe they are some of
Mr Silvan’s belongings.”
“Some?” I kicked at the nearest box, accidentally dislodging a
load of mud from my toecap all over Florence’s freshly swept floor.
“They’re taking up a lot of space! Are we expecting more?”
“I … er … I couldn’t say, madam.”
“Oh, Miss Alf!” Florence apparated into the hallway, waving her
feather duster over the pile of boxes. “I’m so glad you’re home!
What should I do with all these boxes?”
Charity, her hair a particularly vibrant turquoise today, bustled in
from the bar. “That’s what I want to know, too. Our guests have
been struggling to enter and exit the inn. I wasn’t sure where you
wanted to put everything or I would have asked Ned and Zephaniah
to move it all.”
“What’s in the boxes?” I asked, as though Charity, the young,
human manager of my inn had somehow become a clairvoyant since
I’d seen her last.
“I wouldn’t know.” She folded her arms. “It’s none of my
business.” Her inference, of course, was that it was mine, and I
should be the one to sort it out.
The thing is, as nosy as I am, even I draw the line at poking into
my fiancé’s belongings. “Silvan did tell me he was forwarding some
bits and bobs,” I conceded. “But, er, I must admit there’s more here
than I thought there would be …”
“Well, it can’t remain in the vestibule, Alfhild.” My great-
grandmother’s prissy tones rang out a millisecond before she
apparated into view. “It’s cluttering up my inn.”
Dipping my head, I rubbed my eyes with filthy fingers. It didn’t
seem to matter how often I washed my hands, there was no getting
rid of the red tinge of good old prized Devon soil. I’d been hoping for
a long relaxing soak in my tub, but it looked as though I’d have to
put that on hold for a while. “It’s my inn,” I muttered under my
breath. After all, Alfhild Gwynfyre Daemonne—after whom I’d been
named—had been dead for several decades.
“Sorry, dear? Did you say something?” Gwyn arched a haughty
eyebrow.
“I … erm … no.” I would have to admit defeat. “I’m just
wondering where to store Silvan’s things.”
“Won’t Silvan be moving into your suite of rooms?” Charity
enquired. Suite of rooms was a grand name for what amounted to
the inn’s office, my bedroom and bathroom, and a tiny kitchen.
“Is there any room in the kitchen?” I asked Florence doubtfully.
She twirled her feather duster in indignation. “Good heavens, no,
Miss Alf! We’ve only just cleared it out.” It had been a terrible mess.
I’d been using it as a dumping ground and, well, I could be a bit of a
hoarder at times. But now, as I examined Silvan’s pile of belongings,
I realised I wouldn’t be the only one in our relationship who couldn’t
let go of things.
 We were in big trouble.
“It would only be temporary.” I tried to appease her. “As soon as
Silvan takes a look through all this, I’m sure he’ll have plans for …
erm … maybe getting rid of some of it.”
“If I may, madam?” Archibald cleared his throat. “Might some of
the boxes be transported to the attic?”
Not a bad idea, but I wobbled my head, unsure. The fact was,
successive generations of Daemonnes had dumped unwanted items
up there, and while it was a good size, it was pretty chock-a-block.
Truth to tell, if you had a few spare hours to kill—not that I ever had
—you could find some amazing antiques and vintage treasures up
there.
“That depends what’s in the boxes.” Charity tapped the one
nearest to her. “If there are any perishables, you don’t want them up
in the loft, do you?”
Florence reached up with her duster to clean the top of the
tallest crate, gold sprinkles flying in all directions. “And there’s no
way this one’s getting all the way up there without taking half our
good paintwork with it on the way up!”
Something inside the box clunked.
“Did you hear that?” I asked, entirely unnecessarily. Everyone
had instantly looked straight at the crate. I tilted my head, listening
carefully.
Florence and Charity exchanged glances. “He hasn’t brought a
pet with him, has he?” Charity asked. “A dog or something?”
Puzzled, I scrutinised the crate’s markings, studied the sheer size
of the thing. “That would be an oddly shaped dog,” I said. “Related
to a giraffe, maybe?”
“Unless it’s the wrong way up,” Florence cried in alarm. “Oh, the
poor thing! We should lie the box down the proper way and open it
up!”
“Don’t take on so, Florence,” Gwyn intervened, pointing at an old
paper sticker. “The label here clearly says the box needs to remain
this way up. And there aren’t any air holes. Even Horace wouldn’t
allow a creature to suffer inside an airtight box, I’m certain of that.”
I cut my eyes at Gwyn. “Of course he wouldn’t, Grandmama.”
 “So there you have it. Whatever is in the box, it’s not alive.”
I pressed my ear to the wood, straining to hear. “Probably
something has come loose—” I jerked away. Was it my imagination,
or could I hear something rustling inside? “Ooh!”
“What?” Charity clutched her heart.
“We need to get this open,” I said, grabbing the padlock. Nothing
special about it. It hadn’t been bound with an enchantment. It just
needed a key.
“Stand back,” ordered Gwyn, before I could reach deep inside the
pocket of my filthy robes where the piece of Vance that I used as a
wand was buried. “Resigno!” she snapped, and a blistering bolt of
lilac energy surged out of the tip of her wand, obliterating the
padlock and the metal casing that secured the door. Skinny shards of
half-melted iron rained onto the floor, so Florence hurriedly swept
them away with her feather duster.
“Overkill, Grandmama,” I scolded her, reaching for the lid or door,
or whatever you call the opening side of a hefty crate.
“If a job’s worth doing, Alfhild,” she replied airily. Floating closer
to me, she peered inside the slither of a gap I’d created.
The panel was sticking, so I slipped my fingertips inside and
carefully prised it open a little. There was a breath of air, as though
whatever was inside had breathed out, and I reeled backwards a
foot or so. “Phew!” I said, wrinkling my nose at the sudden stink of
musty fustiness.
“Oof,” Charity complained. “What is that? It smells old!”
I waited a few seconds for the odour to dissipate, then cracked
the panel a little more. This time I caught sight of what was inside.
“Crumbs,” I said, and yanked the door wide open.
“Huh-oh,” said Mr Hoo.
“Wow!” Charity gaped at the contents of the box.
Gwyn, entirely unperturbed, reached out as though she would
stroke it, not that she could interact with anything physical. “That’s a
beauty!” she said.
We crowded together, studying the prize in front of us. A
beautifully carved stone sarcophagus, the paintwork not as fresh as
the day it had been painted but certainly still lively in shades of
yellow, red, white and black. “It is glorious,” I said, my voice oddly
breathy. “Where did Silvan get it from?”
“More to the point,” Charity interspersed, stepping backwards, “is
there anything in it?”
“In it?” I asked, confused.
“Yeah!” Her brows knitted together in horror. “Like a mummy, I
mean.”
“They do normally go together,” Gwyn confirmed. “Like salt and
pepper. A mummy and its sarcophagus.”
“Ha ha.” I laughed. No-one else joined in.
Glancing around, I realised that everyone else was staring at me.
Not just Gwyn, Florence, Charity, Archibald and Mr Hoo, but a
number of our guests too.
“What?” I asked.
The realisation dawned on me. They wanted me to open the
sarcophagus and examine the contents. They could dream on.
“Survey says ah-ah!” I told them. “Show’s over. I’m off for a bath—”
“Spoilsport,” a diminutive wizard grumbled. A few of the other
guests nodded their agreement.
“Whether you’re opening it or not, you can’t leave it here!”
Charity complained.
“Our guests are waiting to go outside,” Archibald pointed out.
“Alright, alright,” I grumbled. “Have the lighter boxes delivered to
my little kitchen—” I grimaced at Florence’s thunderous glare.
“And the sarcophagus?” Archibald enquired.
“Just put it out the way.” I waved a hand, dismissing the
problem. “Anywhere it will fit. As long as it’s not in the way of our
guests.” I checked with Charity. “Okay?”
“Right,” she said. “I’ll see to it.”
“Jolly good.” I hurried for the stairs, calling back over my
shoulder, “I’m on a retreat, remember? So I’m now retreating to my
bath. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“Hoooo,” said Mr Hoo.
He sounded far too wise for my liking.
I genuinely should have known better.
Wallowing in my deep bathtub, blowing bubbles from the tips of
my fingers just for fun while breathing in the clean, fresh scent of
Millicent Ballicott’s bergamot and rose bath soak, I finally allowed my
aching muscles to relax. Closing my eyes, banishing the thoughts of
everything else, I tipped my head back and sighed happily.
Perfection.
The fluttering of wings ruined my repose.
“Mmm.” That was the only greeting I, heading for a micro nap,
could be bothered to muster.
“Hooo. Hooo-oooo ooh.”
“I know I’m turning the water red,” I told my little friend. “It’s the
stain from the clay soil. I don’t care.”
“Hooo-ooo ooh?” Did I care about anything?
“Not right now.” I yawned. “Maybe tomorrow.”
Thunk.
I opened an eye.
Something had clattered against the wall. The wall that
separated the first-floor corridor from the bathroom.
Thunk.
I opened the other eye and frowned. “What was that?”
Thud.
“Ooooh hoo. Hoo! Hoo hoo!”
“They’re not?” Sitting up, I sent a cascade of blush coloured
sudsy water over the side of the bath, swamping both the bathmat
and my towel, which I’d casually tossed down beside me.
“T-wit.” Mr Hoo tittered.
Thunk.
“They are!” I hoisted myself out of the bath, water streaming,
suds sliding down my body, and stepped onto the wet floor.
Grabbing my towel, I slid towards the door and rushed out into the
bedroom to yank the door there wide open. I was just in time to see
Zephaniah and Ned guiding the sarcophagus and its monstrous
wooden crate into the office.
“Wait!” I shouted, struggling to wrap the towel around myself.
“Hello? Zeph?”
He popped his head around the door, took one look at me, then
hurriedly averted his gaze. “Erm, yes, Miss Alf?”
Covering my modesty, I followed him into the office. The wooden
crate hovered in the air, several feet off the ground. It took up all of
the available space between the door and my desk in what was
already a ridiculously cluttered room. “You can’t put that in here.”
“Sorry, Miss Alf, there’s absolutely nowhere else for it to go,”
Zephaniah told me.
“Begging your pardon, Miss,” Ned butted in, in his quiet voice,
“but Mrs Daemonne suggested this was the best place for it.”
“She would!” I exploded. “It isn’t!”
“Of course it is!” Gwyn floated into the room. “There is nowhere
else, Alfhild. Besides, this will be Silvan’s space as much as yours. He
has a right to display his belongings if he chooses to.”
“But he’s not here to make that choice,” I argued.
Gwyn folded her arms. “We should honour his absence.”
Was she for real? Honour him? I had a suspicion she’d push him
down a well if she could get away with it. “This thing’s enormous,
Grandmama! It needs to be in a museum!”
“That’s as maybe, but it isn’t.”
“Although, it feels as though this place is one sometimes,” I
muttered.
“Are you sickening, Alfhild?” Gwyn asked. “Sore throat? You’ve
taken to mumbling a great deal.”
I raised my voice. “Have I?”
“I’m sure Florence can find you some cod liver oil.”
“There’s no need; I’m perfectly well.”
“If you’re sure.” Gwyn gestured at Zephaniah. “Move it there, in
front of the desk.”
“No,” I said. “Take it back downstairs.”
“Out of the question, my dear.”
“It’s not staying in here!”
 Ned and Zephaniah floated in place, increasingly agitated. Ned
hung his head; Zephaniah couldn’t decide where to look or who to
take orders from.
Gwyn unfolded her arms and produced her wand. I knew what
that meant. She was about to set the crate against the wall where
she wanted it to be. I, of course, didn’t have my wand on me—
hiding places are limited when you’re as naked as the day you were
born—but I shot my hand out instead … and unfortunately
misdirected some ill-judged push magick.
Gwyn’s spell clashed in mid-air with mine. The crate wobbled and
slipped sideways, as though Ned and Zephaniah had both let go of
one side at once.
“Careful!” I shrieked, as the crate’s lid crashed to the floor and
the sarcophagus slowly began to slide out.
“Let me handle the sarcophagus!” Gwyn cried. “You take the
crate.”
I did as she ordered, but without a wand to direct my magick, it
all went a little wonky. The crate rose a couple of feet into the air,
turned ninety degrees and tipped the sarcophagus free. Now empty,
I wasn’t expecting it to feel so light, and my spurt of energy was
more than a little heavy-handed. It flew backwards and smashed
into the wall, knocking the portrait of some long-dead and unknown
ancestor askew, then crashed to the floor and smashed into
smithereens.
“Oops,” I said.
Fortunately for me, Gwyn had a good handle on the
sarcophagus. It bobbed in the air between us, horizontal and now
completely unfettered by its crate.
“Good goddess, Alfhild. How poor are your magick skills?” Gwyn
asked, her eyes flashing fire.
“The wood was rotten.” I kicked at the pieces of old oak that now
littered the floor.
“Like your magick,” Gwyn huffed.
“Now wait a—”
She interrupted me. “Sorry, my dear, I’m going to have to put
this down. It’s heavy.” With a wiggle of a finger on her left hand and
a slight flick of her wand, she tilted the sarcophagus into vertical,
then guided it backwards. It slipped into place with only the faintest
of scraping sounds, exactly where she’d wanted it all along. Dead
opposite my desk.
Hmpf.
“It’s not staying there,” I told her.
“I think it looks rather marvellous.” She tilted her head. “James,
you know, your great-grandfather? He loved a bit of scrabbling
around in the dust in foreign climes.”
“Did he?” That would explain some of the chests in the attic, full
of bizarre curios made from pot and semi-precious metals.
“Oh yes.” Gwyn’s gaze retreated into the past. “He wasn’t much
good at it, but he liked a fiddle.”
“That’s men all over.” Standing beside her, I studied the
sarcophagus with renewed interest. “I wonder where Silvan found
this. And why he thought it would be better off here at the inn and
not in a museum or something, somewhere?”
Gwyn folded her arms across her chest. “It probably never
occurred to him that this would be the wrong place for it.”
“You’re right.” I sighed. “Anyway, I’ll be speaking to him later.”
“Good. You should get back to your bath before you catch your
death.”
I did as she suggested, but unfortunately the water was already
cold and the film of red mud on the surface was entirely off-putting.
Sulking, I towelled myself dry, rehearsing the conversation I
intended to have with my beloved in the not-too-distant future.

“Hey!” Silvan’s merry greeting boomed in my ear.

“Eurgh,” I mumbled and rolled onto my side. The room was in
darkness; the inn calm apart from the odd creak of a floorboard
somewhere above my head. Whittle Inn attracted the sort of guests
who favoured the night for the most part, not because they enjoyed
a party—although some of them did!—but because they liked to
practise their skills when the moon was high. But things were
relatively quiet at the inn at the moment anyway, with it being off
season. The guests we did have staying with us were behaving
themselves. Always a positive.
“Sorry. You were asleep?” he asked, when I answered the phone.
“Were being the operative word,” I grumbled. “What time is it?”
“Twelve minutes past three,” Silvan told me.
Three? I narrowed my eyes in suspicion. “Oh yes? What’ve you
been up to?”
“Nothing!” he protested. Too quickly for my liking.
“Where have you been?” I continued, like the shrewish nag I was
determined never to become. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you—”
“I met up with an old friend. Benedict. Have I told you about
Benedict?”
“The name rings a bell,” I replied, but vaguely, because the
ringing was more of a faint tinkle than a booming Big Ben bong.
“We’ve …” He hesitated. “Hmm … we’ve worked together in the
past.” Silvan’s tone suggested he wasn’t keen to discuss the exact
details.
“Ah.” Fair enough. “It’s nice that you’ve met up with a friend,” I
said, stifling a yawn. “Have you been out on the town?”
Tumble Town, that would be.
“We’ve had a few beers,” Silvan acknowledged. “Then we nipped
around to Marissa’s, so I’ve drunk all of her scotch.” He laughed, a
touch ruefully. “I’ll regret that in the morning.”
“If you even see the morning,” I said. Silvan had never been the
best at rising early. “Some of us have to be up at the crack of dawn.”
“Yes, you’re right. Sorry to have woken you.” At least he sounded
a little more contrite now. He might have been putting it on. “I had a
sudden urge to hear your sweet voice, but I should have let you
sleep.”
The charmer! I snuggled into the pillows. “Never mind. I’m
awake now.”
“Good day on the dig site? How’s the excavation going?” he
asked. I could hear the smile in his voice. He found my sudden
fascination with archaeology amusing, but Silvan being Silvan, he
would never have dreamed of not encouraging me to pursue my
interests.
“It’s fun.” A bit of a fib. It was kind of fun, but some of the
personalities involved made it a little less so. I decided not to bore
him with that. But his reference to the dig site reminded me.
“Speaking of digging—”
“Mmm?”
“Some of your belongings turned up here today. Yesterday.
Whatever day.” I’d lost all sense of time.
“Great!” Silvan sounded pleased.
“Great?” Was he sure? “Including some mahoosive sarcophagus
thingie?”
“Sarcophagus?” he repeated, sounding uncertain.
“Yes. Like from Egypt?”
“Oh!” A few seconds of silence, then, “Yes?” He still didn’t sound
altogether certain.
“You remember now?”
“Yes, yes. Er, okay.”
“It’s taking up a lot of room,” I told him.
“Oh dear. Sorry about that.” He paused. “You know, when you
said I could move my things into the inn—”
“Mmm?” I was all ears.
“I arranged for some odds and ends to be shifted out of storage.”
“Odds and ends?”
“It’ll save money in the long run,” Silvan told me as though that
were the main consideration here.
Was he for real? “Odds and ends, though! Have you seen the size
of this thing? It’s carved from stone. It’s gigantic!”
“I, hmmm, well … It’s been a while, to be fair.”
“It’s enormous!” I roared. The curtains fluttered and I sensed
that I’d disturbed Mr Hoo and Athene, who’d probably been swinging
on the open window, or canoodling or something, the way that
young owls do.
“Oh.” Now Silvan sounded disappointed. “Sorry. Did you want me
to try and get it sent back to storage?”
 “Is storage even the right place for it?” I asked him. “Shouldn’t it
be returned to where it came from originally?” Like some pharaoh’s
tomb in Egypt?
“I have no real idea where it came from originally,” Silvan told
me, smoothly. He was lying. I could tell. “Sam was a gift.”
“Sam?”
“Sammy the Sandman. I did someone a favour, out in the Sinai.
He paid me with Sam.”
“He paid you with a sarcophagus?” Honestly! What was wrong
with cold hard cash? Silvan and I would need to have words. I
couldn’t afford to keep the inn going and the whole of the Whittle
estate—the cottages and shops in Whittlecombe village that I was
responsible for—if we accepted goods in kind for services rendered.
But then a thought occurred to me. The way he was talking
about ‘Sam’ like a person suddenly gave me pause. “Wait … You’re
not telling me there is something inside the sarcophagus, are you?”
The others had been right. I hadn’t wanted to open it because I
wanted to deny the possibility …
“Inside?” Silvan asked. “You mean Sam’s not inside?”
I groaned inwardly. “Sam being—”
“The mummy?”
A whistling breath reverberated around the bedroom. It took a
few moments for me to realise that I was making the noise, not
some hissing kettle.
“Are you okay, Alfie?” Silvan asked.
I took a breath. “I can’t have a corpse in my study, Silvan.”
“It’s not a corpse,” he wheedled. “It’s a … ah … a … historical
artefact.”
“It’s a dead person wrapped in bandages,” I told him. “And I
want it gone.”
“But Alf—”
“G.O.N.E. Gone,” I told him, “ASAP.”
Before he could say another word, I hung up.
“I’ll give him Sam!” I hissed and slid back beneath the covers.
A tandthesniffed
bottom of the back stairs the following morning, I paused
the air. It was a semi-appreciative sniff. From the
direction of the kitchen, the preparation of the morning’s breakfast
was well underway. The soft sugary scent of baking croissants and
other fresh pastries mingled with the meatier fragrance of sausages
and bacon.
Yum!
But there was something else.
A familiar perfume. Something flowery. Like an iris? A freesia?
Something stirred deep within me and I frowned. Familiar and
yet almost forgotten. A frisson of complicated emotion pulsed
through me. I didn’t like it. I shook myself and slid towards the
kitchen. Always go where the food is—that’s my motto.
But I paused again when I smelt the faint tang of … chickens.
Not roasting chicken. Not on this occasion. It was a little early for
that, even here in Whittle Inn. No, this was the warm and slightly
musky aroma of dried corn.
Again, I dismissed that sensation and carried on.
“Morning!” I called as I stepped inside the kitchen. Florence was
tending her baked goodies while Charity filled up jugs of fruit juice.
Monsieur Emietter stood in his customary place by our impressive
Victorian range, expertly frying eggs and stirring baked beans in
tomato sauce at the same time. Several members of the Wonky Inn
Ghostly Clean-up Crew were also in attendance, acting as servers
and washer-upperers and anything else that was needed.
I grabbed a slice of toast as it popped out of the industrial-sized
toaster we reserved especially for morning use.
“Morning, Miss Alf.” Florence beamed back at me. With a twitch
of her tea towel, my toast flew towards her, and she buttered it and
sent it back in the shake of a lamb’s tail. “Did you sleep well?”
“Apart from Silvan calling at stupid o’clock,” I told her.
Charity raised her eyebrows. “Did you tell him about the delivery
we had yesterday?”
“Oh yeah.” I took a mouthful of toast. “I told him alright.”
“Who in their right mind would want to keep a thing that size?”
Charity asked.
“Hmpf.” Was Silvan in his right mind? A debatable point if ever
there was one. “That’s what I said.” I considered telling her that the
sarcophagus was currently occupied by none other than Sammy the
Sandman, but decided against it. I wasn’t sure that would go down
so well.
“So, what next?” Charity wanted to know.
“He promised he’d sort it out,” I told her, neglecting to mention
that I’d hung up on him before he could promise any such thing. I
felt certain that in the cold light of day this morning—or this
afternoon, depending on when he rose from his slumber—he would
recall our conversation and take immediate action.
Ha ha ha!
“In the meantime, it’s back to the dirt face for me!” I pinched a
croissant from a tray, instantly dropped it and blew on my fingers.
“Oooh! Hot! Hot! Hot!”
“Serves you right.” Charity smirked.
“Miss Alf!” Florence protested. “They’ve just this second come out
of the oven!”
I blew on my fingers. “I know that now, don’t I, Florence?”
“I’ve packed you a lunch, Miss,” Florence said, bustling around,
trays and platters and boxes floating in the air beside her. She
reminded me of one of those magicians who spin plates on top of
poles. Effortlessly multi-tasking. “And a box of apple and cinnamon
muffins with wood-smoked truffle oil cheese dressing for you to
share with your new friends.”
“Scrumptious,” I said, although I wasn’t sure I’d personally have
mixed smoked truffle with a sweet muffin. But what did I know?
Florence was the expert baker. She would never get her flavours
wrong.
“How many more days left on your holiday, Miss?” Florence
asked. “I could bake a cake for your last day, if you like?”
“That would be lovely!” I enthused. “I finish this Saturday. But
what I’m doing is not a holiday, per se—”
“It’s not real work, though, is it?” Charity chipped in, arranging
pretty bowls of freshly churned local butter on a tray.
“It wasn’t supposed to be work.” I patted the top of my croissant
with my index finger, investigating whether it had cooled down
enough to eat. “It’s supposed to … stretch my horizons.”
“Mmm. Bunk off work more like,” Charity said.
“I’m glad you’re missing me.” I tore off a chunk of croissant,
releasing a cloud of heavenly steam. I leaned forward and inhaled. I
reckoned if you could bathe your face in the enticing aroma of one
of Florence’s pastries, you would surely look young and beautiful
forever.
Charity laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Cheek.” I pretended to take offence.
“I would, Miss Alf.” Florence sprang to my defence. “You’re very
good at laying down the law when Mrs Daemonne isn’t around.”
“See?” I nodded at Charity. “We Daemonnes don’t take any
batpoop from anyone.”
“Wizard Lyreheart conjured a plague of locusts the other day,”
Florence continued. “Ned and I spent an hour trying to capture them
all until Mrs Daemonne arrived to magick them away.”
“And Goodwitch Silesia turned her entire bedroom beige.” Charity
shuddered. “Eww. It was hideous.”
“Beige?” I grimaced. None of the rooms in Whittle Inn were
beige! I would never allow it!
 “Don’t worry, Mrs Daemonne turned it back to purple,” Florence
reassured me.
Phew.
“But apart from that—” Charity started.
“Oh, and there was the delivery of straw—” Florence reminded
Charity.
“Straw?” I chewed on a wodge of warm croissant.
Charity frowned. “Half a dozen bales!”
“Not to mention the chicken feed—” Florence added.
“We haven’t got any chickens.” Not live ones. Presumably
Monsieur Emietter had some dead ones out in the cold store ready
to serve those guests who were carnivores. And there were some
ghost ones somewhere out the back that I tried to avoid knowing
too much about.
But apart from that …? Right.
“It was weird,” Charity admitted. “The delivery driver swore blind
he had the right address. I sent him away with a flea in his ear.”
“Bizarre,” I agreed.
“And there was the day that Finbarr’s pixies—” Florence started
up again.
“Sssh!” Charity hushed her, jerking her head in the direction of
Monsieur Emietter and widening her eyes.
“Oh yes.” Florence hushed. “Sorry.”
“I don’t want to know either,” I told them. Finbarr’s pixies were a
royal pain in the backside and no mistake. Especially that dastardly
little monster, Crookshank.
“But yes, apart from all that, it’s been quiet,” Charity said. “Pretty
boring by your standards.”
I tittered. “Boring sounds good to me.”
Charity gestured at her watch, then tipped her head at me.
“Time?”
Finishing off the croissant in two bites, I grabbed a glass of
home-pressed apple juice to wash it down. “Right! Yes! Better get
going!”
Florence directed a piece of kitchen towel at me; it made dabbing
motions at my chest where the juice had dripped. “Have a lovely
day, Miss Alf. Hope you find something valuable.”
“Thanks!” I smiled, reaching for my lunch and the box of muffins.
I paused and sniffed the air again. That familiar scent of flowers …
“Go!” ordered Charity.
Shaking myself, I made a dash for the back door. “I’ll see you
two later. Stay out of trouble!”
Before the door slammed closed behind me, I plainly heard
Charity’s remark to Florence. “How she has the brass neck to tell us
to stay out of trouble when it’s always her who’s causing mayhem …”
And then I was gone.
P rofessor Charwood was at his least charming best. Before my first
tea break of the morning, he’d managed to reduce a volunteer to
tears and send one of his doctoral students back to university to
‘reacquaint themselves with basic identification techniques for late
medieval and early modern pottery’, or so he’d said.
“What a thoroughly unpleasant man,” I whispered to Zara, and
she had nodded agreement, her tired face streaked with dirt. The
bags under her eyes gave me pause. This was supposed to be
enjoyable, but it hadn’t turned out that way. Of course, we were
expected to do as professional a job as we could manage, but at the
end of the day, we were volunteers and we weren’t being paid for
our time.
“Do you think you’ll see out the week?” I asked her. It was only
Tuesday. We both had four more days to complete.
“Oh yes.” She stood upright and stretched her back out. “Why do
you ask?”
Because you look done in, I wanted to say, but that would have
been rude. Instead, I shrugged vaguely and pointed up. “The
weather’s on the turn,” I said. Okay, a bit of a cop-out, but true
nonetheless. We stood together, taking a breather, studying the sky.
Dark clouds were gathering above our heads. To the west, above the
tors on Dartmoor, they sparkled in that glowering kind of way that
storm clouds have.
“A couple of hours,” she agreed.
I crouched down and picked up my mattock. “We’d better make
the most of the time we have.”
“If you’re suggesting that Professor Charwood won’t expect us to
work through a storm, you’re going to be sadly mistaken,” Zara told
me.
“You jest?” I held up my iron mattock. “Even in a thunderstorm?”
“That’s what June told me when I first started.”
“But we’re out in the open! If the lightning catches us while we’re
wielding these mammoth weapons of mass archaeological
destruction, we’ll fry!”
Zara laughed. “You are funny, Alfhild. But we’re not supposed to
be destroying artefacts—we’re supposed to be saving them.”
I grinned. “Oh yeah. I forgot for a minute.”
“You know, I wanted to study archaeology at university. If things
had gone well, I might have been here giving orders instead of
taking them. I’d have done a better job than June, that’s for sure.”
“Why didn’t you?” I asked, scratching at an itch on my nose,
knowing my face would be filthy.
“I didn’t get on my course. I had …” She hesitated. “Truth to tell,
I had a few mental health issues and erm … well, my studies
suffered.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “But you’ve done so well
academically in spite of that.”
“Well, yeah.” Zara shrugged. “I had to do something.” She
sounded dispirited.
I reached out and squeezed her arm. Such a shame. She seemed
so passionate about everything the team found on the dig site. She
clearly loved archaeology.
“But anyway”—Zara returned to scratching the earth—“June may
have been having me on about working through thunderstorms. She
might have been trying to put me off. She’s not keen on us
amateurs.”
 “That’s true.” I scraped at the soil in front of me. “The goddess
only knows why. I think we’re amazing.”
“Amazingly bad archaeologists—”
We giggled together until June popped her head over the top of
our trench.
“How’s it going, kids?” she asked.
Kids? I peered quizzically up at her. I must have been a good six
or seven years older than she was, but discretion being the better
part of valour, I held my tongue.
“Fine,” Zara told her.
“You haven’t found anything so far this morning?”
“No,” Zara and I chirped in unison.
“Broken anything?”
“No,” Zara replied, dropping down beside me but studiously
avoiding my eye. “Not so far.”
June hung about for a while, but neither Zara nor I had anything
else to share with her. Eventually, huffing, she went away.
“Do you think she wants to be Professor Charwood when she
grows up?” I whispered.
“I’d say that’s a given,” Zara whispered back, stabbing viciously
at a patch of sand.
Smiling, I turned my attention to the tiny section of trench I’d
been working on. There was some discolouration of the earth in
places here. During my induction I’d been warned to look out for
such an occurrence, as it could indicate the presence of something—
valuable or otherwise. I stroked at the very edge of the darker earth,
allowing the lighter sand layer beside it to crumble. Was it my
imagination, or was there something here?
My heart beat a little faster as I leaned in to take a closer look.
Yes, there! The faint outline of an object lying at a slight diagonal. I
picked up my specimen brush and stroked the soil carefully, easing
grains of sand and particles of earth away from the site. I kept doing
this until I’d isolated an area measuring approximately thirteen
inches across and maybe an inch wide.
Not significant by any means.
But not insignificant either.
 “Zara,” I whispered. “Look here.”
Zara stopped what she was doing and scuffled closer to me,
peering around the side of my head. “Ooh! What’s that?”
“I have no idea, but it might be something, don’t you think?”
“Definitely!” Her breath was warm in my ear.
“Do you think I should call June over?” I asked.
“We’ll probably regret doing so, but it must be worth her having
a look.” Zara stood, all the better to peer over the top of the trench
to catch June’s attention. “June? June?” she called.
I probed a smidgen deeper with the edge of my trowel, scraping
out a little more soil. The object, whatever it was, definitely
appeared solid. It wasn’t likely that it would crumble to dust if I
scraped too hard.
“Oh, not you two again.” June climbed down into the trench and
huddled close to me. “What’ve we got?” she asked.
“I don’t know, but—”
“Let me see.” She nudged me sideways. I steadied myself as she
took my place. “Hmm. Is it some sort of metal, do we think?” She
ran the edge of her finger down the length of it. “It feels … warm.”
I reached out to do the same, and for a fraction of time
experienced a frisson of energy before June knocked my hand away.
“Don’t touch,” she snapped.
Charming.
“Anything interesting?” Professor Charwood—nowhere to be seen
most of the morning—must have been prescient. He suddenly
appeared from nowhere and slid into the trench. In order to
accommodate him, June pushed me even further into the muddy
bank.
“Possibly,” June told him, indicating my find.
Professor Charwood popped a pair of spectacles over his nose
and squinted in the direction of her finger. “Hmmm,” he said.
“Mmm.” He prodded the area underneath the object with his finger.
No mattock or specimen brush for him. A mix of sand and soil
slipped away, revealing a little more of the shape. He rubbed at the
surface. There was no mistaking that texture, the knots and fine
lines.
 And some scratches, or symbols, or something …
“Who found this?” he asked, in a quiet and most terrible voice.
June swallowed audibly. “Daemonne, Professor.”
I frowned. “Yes, it was me.”
“Are you a fool?” he asked without even bothering to look at me.
Was that a serious question? “A little wonky, maybe,” I answered,
keeping my tone perfectly polite.
He sighed, a deep sigh of such exasperation that any onlooker
might only imagine that I must be the stupidest witch ever to inhabit
the planet. “Wonky?” he repeated. “That’s far too benign an
expression to explain your complete ineptitude as an archaeologist.”
Wow. “In my defence, I’m not an archaeologist; I’m an innkeeper
on holiday.”
Now he did turn to regard me, and with such a sneer of dislike
that my courage shrivelled up like a dried-out peach. “You should
stick to pulling pints and making beds in future.”
The cheek! I opened my mouth to issue a sharp retort, thought
better of it, and closed it again.
“This is a brrrrranch.” He rolled the r for emphasis. “A piece of
wood, in other words. You see?” He dug his nails into the earth
surrounding the object and yanked it out.
It was indeed a piece of an old branch from a tree.
“If I may—” I tried to interrupt him.
“No, you may not.” He glared at June. “If you can’t train these
volunteers any better, I suggest you head back to the university and
pack your bags. What use are you to me?”
“My apologies, Professor.” June hung her head as Charwood
turned for the ladder. I noticed he was still holding onto my find.
“But Professor Charwood?” I called after him.
“Don’t make things worse,” June hissed at me.
“But I don’t think it’s just a piece of wood!” I protested.
Professor Charwood paused mid-step, turning his head to glare
at me. “Why would I pay any attention at all to what an innkeeper
thinks?”
I dug around in my pocket until I located my own piece of wood,
twisted and curled, its familiar gnarliness and weight in my hand
always a comfort. I brandished it triumphantly. “I think what I’ve
found there is a wand!”
“A wand? You think this slither of crumbling old wood is a wand?
You honestly are a dullard, Daemonne. How boring.” With that, he
clambered up the final couple of rungs of the ladder and rushed
away.
I blushed bright red, partly with embarrassment and partly
because all of a sudden, my blood pressure appeared to have
soared. To add insult to injury—or insult to insult in this case—June
scowled at me. “You—you—blithering idiot!” she hissed. “For the
sake of us all, will you please just keep any more of your crappy little
finds to yourself?”
“Sure thing,” I said, wincing at her ferocity. I couldn’t blame her
for being cross with me. Of course I didn’t want her to lose her
position in Charwood’s team, certainly not on account of me.
I’d made a mistake.
I was genuinely sorry.

We stopped for a lunch break just before one. As I climbed out of

the trench, a fresh wind slapped at my face. I could smell the rain
heading straight for us; it wouldn’t be long until we were hit by a
deluge. I took the opportunity to visit the bathroom—a rather grim
portaloo that stank of chemicals—then washed the worst of the red
soil off my hands in the nearby trough. On my way back to the social
area, where the diggers liked to hang out when they weren’t
digging, sifting, sieving or scrutinising, I took a look at the finds
table. No sign of my interesting stick, but the new additions included
shards of plain pottery that might have originated in any era, some
coloured stones that might have been crystals, ragged strips of filthy
cloth, a battered brooch and several ornate brass buckles.
Nice.
Needless to say, neither Zara nor I had contributed anything to
this horde. Our trench was barren—that was the only possible
reason for it. They might as well have had us digging out ye olde
latrine for all the good we were doing.
“You’d be amazed at what has been found in poop pits!” an older
woman told me when I met up with the others and voiced my
thoughts. Her name was Lindsay, and she worked in the finds tent.
“My friend Sal found a wonderful emerald brooch on a dig in
Yorkshire. One of the highest-value items I’ve ever seen.”
“That someone had flushed down the loo?” I asked.
June gave me a withering look. “They didn’t have flushable loos
in those days.”
Oops. “No, of course.”
Lindsay nodded. “But yeah, in the toilet pit. Some unlucky
person, man or woman, probably dropped it down there while they
were attending to the necessary, but were so wealthy, they decided
not to dive in after it.”
“Wow,” Zara murmured, unwrapping the cling film around her
plain cheese sandwich.
“I’m not sure I’d have been in a rush to rescue it either,” I said,
peering into the lunch box Florence had prepared for me, catching
the envious glances of some of my colleagues. Florence never let me
down.
“Gosh!” Zara widened her eyes. “Are you that rich?”
I considered this, wrinkling my nose as I did so. Objectively,
given that I owned—or if you paid close attention to what Gwyn was
forever trying to hammer home, had ‘custodial oversight’ of—both
Whittle Inn and the freeholds of a good many cottages and shops in
Whittlecombe village, I probably did seem well off. Of course, there
are many responsibilities involved in the Whittle estate enterprises
that are often overlooked. The properties’ upkeep was an expensive
business, but one that I had taken seriously, given that they had
been allowed to fall into disrepair for many years.
Then there were the taxes.
Oh, the taxes.
But no. On the whole, I couldn’t complain. The inn was holding
its own.
“I’m solvent,” I said. That seemed easiest.
 Zara took an unenthusiastic bite of her sandwich. “What have
you got for your lunch today?” she asked, her mouth full.
I peeled back the top piece of bread. Not just any bread, you
understand. This was Florence’s finest multiseed rye bread, glazed
with red pepper and honey. “Mmm …” I examined what was revealed
beneath, the way an archaeologist might scrutinise a layer of clay for
relics, or a palaeontologist might hope to uncover fossils. “Looks like
cheese …”
“That does not look like cheese.” Zara peered over my shoulder.
“Not cheese as the rest of us would understand it.”
I caved. “Crumbly Wensleydale on a bed of rocket and tomato
salad, topped with apricot and raisin chutney and a smudge of
coleslaw.” Florence didn’t like to drown her creations in too much
moisture.
“And?” One of the male archaeologists—the one who rather
fancied himself as Indiana Jones, judging by the battered lookalikey
Fedora hat he always wore—waited expectantly.
I shook a paper bag. It rattled, a satisfying dry scratching sound.
“Home fried potato crisps.”
“And?” Lindsay asked.
I pushed the box of cakes Florence had provided for me this
morning towards the centre of the picnic table. “Help yourself,” I
said. The words were no sooner out of my mouth than the others
fell on them like a pack of rabid hyenas. In no time at all, I was left
with the most squashed and battered muffin of all, but I didn’t mind.
There were plenty more where they came from.
Indiana Jones licked his lips, patted his belly and sat back on his
bench. “Too good,” he muttered. “I suppose I ought to get back to
work before the rain comes.” He didn’t move, however.
“When do you go to Egypt, Ralph?” June asked him.
I pricked up my ears.
“Five weeks, three days and”—he studied his watch—“six hours
and thirty-seven minutes.”
“So precise,” said June.
Indiana Ralph belched. “Not that I’m counting or anything.”
 “Are you participating in a dig over there?” Zara asked, hardly
able to contain her excitement.
“I’ve been accepted on a placement at The Museum of Egyptian
Antiquities,” Indiana Ralph replied, almost grandly, I thought.
“The Cairo Museum?” Zara’s mouth was a perfect ‘O’ shape.
“For eight weeks over the summer.”
“Ohhhhhhhhhh!” Zara breathed out. “I would love to do that.”
“Would you?” Indiana Ralph curled his lip. I had the sense he
was assuming there was no way that Zara would ever climb to such
an esteemed position.
“I had a delivery of an ancient Egyptian sarcophagus yesterday.”
I don’t know why, but the words just tumbled out of me. I found
myself empathising with Zara and wanted to prove that we
volunteers were archaeologically worthy after all.
June darted a sharp glance my way. “You didn’t.”
Taken aback, I pouted. “I did.”
“Why?” Indiana Ralph asked. “I mean, how come? Not that it’s
any of our business.”
“Erm …” Oh, crikey. I shouldn’t have said anything, after all. “It
belongs to my fiancé.”
“How did he come by it?” June pressed me.
Trying to hide behind my sandwich, I grimaced and muttered, “I
don’t know that much about the history behind it.”
There was a confused silence while the others waited for a little
more explanation.
“He’s moving in,” I explained. “The sarcophagus turned up with
some of his other bits and bobs.”
“Archaeological bits and bobs?” June asked, her tone sharp.
“I … er … pfft!” I blew my lips out. “I didn’t look any closer.”
“How strange,” June remarked.
“I’d have been in there like a shot,” Indiana Ralph agreed.
“They’re his private possessions,” I protested.
“You’re getting married, aren’t you?” June asked. “What’s his is
yours.”
“Ha!” Indiana Ralph snorted. “That old chestnut. What’s his is
yours and what’s yours is yours—”
 “But—” I tried to explain myself.
“Where did he get the sarcophagus from?” Indiana Ralph asked,
his voice turning accusatory. “I mean, these days people don’t like
ancient relics being removed from their homelands.”
“No, I understand that—”
“What does he do?” June wanted to know. “Is he an
archaeologist? Is that why you’re interested in volunteering here?”
I could feel myself collapsing under the barrage of questions.
“No. I … he …”
“What’s in the sarcophagus?” Zara asked.
Everyone else fell silent, waiting for me to answer.
Argh! What to say? If I told them the truth, I’d spend the next
four days having to face their fierce disapproval.
But I was a rubbish liar.
“Sam,” I said.
“Sam being—?” June cocked her head.
“A mummy?” I waited for the inevitable onslaught of disapproval.
There were tuts and huffs, but for the most part, my colleagues
seemed interested—until I admitted I hadn’t even looked inside the
sarcophagus and had no idea what state he was in.
“What sort of an archaeologist are you?” Indiana Ralph asked
me, hardly able to hide his disbelief.
“A bad one,” growled June.
“You have to take a close look! This is a golden opportunity!”
Indiana Ralph continued.
“You should probably hand it over to the National Museum of
Witchcraft and Paranormal Antiquities or something,” Lindsay told
me. “They can repatriate it back to Egypt or wherever it originally
came from.”
Suitably chastised, I nodded and reached for the last muffin. If
nothing else, I could fortify my misery with cake.
“W hat’s up?” Charity asked me the following morning. “You’ve got
a face like a slapped backside.”
“Have I?” I asked, removing my chin from my palm and reaching
for my toast. It had gone cold while I’d been sitting at the kitchen
table, lost in thought.
“Have I?” Charity repeated, in a voice that Eeyore would have
been proud of, hanging her head before throwing back her head and
guffawing.
I didn’t share her mirth. I’d enjoyed a night of tossing and
turning. Sam the Mummy still inhabited my office, and the thought
of the dusty old bandage-wrapped and desiccated corpse in there
had completely ruined any chance I’d had of enjoying sweet dreams.
Having gone to bed at a reasonable hour, I’d been dashed awake
several times by strange rustling noises and things going bump
when they possibly shouldn’t have done. But in an old inn like mine,
with the kind of guests that we attracted and the sheer number of
spirits who enjoyed flitting around the place, how could I reasonably
tell one misplaced bump from another?
Even Mr Hoo had vacated my bedstead in disgust, and I hadn’t
seen hide nor feather of him since the sarcophagus had been moved
upstairs.
 “Are you down in the dumps, Miss Alf?” Florence asked,
appearing at the table with a teapot. “Let me freshen your brew.”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
Charity gave me a knowing look and slid onto the bench opposite
me. “What’s the matter? It’s not like you to be all maudlin and
miserable.”
“Aren’t they the same thing?” I asked.
“Are they?” Charity shrugged. “What can I tell you? English was
never my subject at school. If it had been, I wouldn’t have ended up
waiting tables at The Hay Loft, would I?”
“Now, now,” I said, and wagged a finger at her. “Don’t put
yourself down. You’re the manager of a far superior inn nowadays.”
Florence jigged with approval. “So true, Miss Charity! Look how
far you’ve come!”
“Or fallen?” Charity quipped. Seeing my face, she giggled. “I’m
joking, boss. You know that.” She leaned over and patted my arm.
“So come on, out with it. What’s eating you?”
I sighed. “I’m not cut out to be an archaeologist.”
Charity narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Seriously? That’s it?”
“Yesterday I thought I’d found something amazing, and it turned
out to be a bit of wood.”
Charity valiantly fought to hold back another guffaw. She failed.
Her bellow of laughter filled the kitchen, sending several of the
Wonky Inn Ghostly Clean-up Crew running through the walls.
Florence peered at me, then Charity, then back to me again. “It’s
a good job you’re not an archaeologist then, Miss,” she soothed.
“But I wanted to do well!” I wailed. “I wanted to be good at it!”
Charity, still struggling to contain her amusement, shook her
head. “Don’t put yourself down,” she mocked. “You’re the owner of a
most superior inn.”
“Oh, ha bloomin’ ha!” I grumbled, but I must admit I did feel
comforted. My friends had my back.
My mobile, lying face down on the table in front of me to avoid
being smeared in marmalade, began to ring. I flipped it over.
George.
 I hurriedly took a mouthful of tea, then answered. “Morning!” I
greeted him. “You’re early.” I couldn’t imagine what he wanted. He
and I had once been an item, but that had been over for a few
years. We had remained friends, but we didn’t generally contact
each other simply for a chit-chat, which meant that this call was
probably work related.
And by that I mean his work, not mine. George Gilchrist was a
Detective Sergeant with the Devon and Cornwall Police. A homicide
detective, in fact.
“Early?” he retorted. I could hear the wind whistling over his
handset. He was outside. “I wish. I’m on nights this week and I
haven’t been to bed yet.”
Ah. A familiar refrain. “What can I do for you? I was just heading
out myself—”
“I don’t know how you do it, Alf.”
“Do what?” I asked. I had the disadvantage here because I had
no idea why he’d called me.
“Your name has come up in my current investigation—”
“It wasn’t me,” I said automatically. “I haven’t been anywhere. I
haven’t seen anyone. I haven’t said anything to anyone, and I most
certainly haven’t sold anything I shouldn’t.”
“You what?” George sounded puzzled.
Had I protested too much? “Sorry. As you were.”
“Are you on this archaeological dig at Gallows Meadow?”
“Oh, that. Yes, I am.” I frowned. “No need to sound so
incredulous.”
“I didn’t know you were an archaeologist, that’s all.”
I let that slip past. “Why are you asking?” Oh my goodness!
Suddenly I knew what he was going to say. “Have they found a
body? Darn it! I can’t believe I missed all the excitement! It wasn’t
in my trench, was it? Please don’t say it was.”
“Sometimes you can be very strange, do you know that, Alf?”
“Don’t worry,” I said, relieved for him. “It’s not a murder. Well, it
might be, I don’t know. But not a recent one. We’re looking for
sixteenth- and seventeenth-century relics. Some witches—”
George interrupted me. “I know all that.”
 “You do? Oh.” That shut me up. Temporarily.
“We have found a body, yes—”
There you are! I thought. “It must be old? The corpse? Not much
left of it, I imagine.”
“He’s old-ish, yes. But there’s plenty of him left.”
“There is? That surprises me because the soil doesn’t have a
great deal of clay content, so things aren’t so well preserved.”
Across the table from me, Charity raised her eyebrows.
Florence nodded in approval, gentle clouds of soot puffing into
the air around us. “I thought she said she wasn’t a very good
archaeologist! It sounds to me like she knows what she’s talking
about.”
“It does,” Charity agreed.
I wafted a hand at them both. The wind was distorting George’s
voice and I was having trouble hearing him. “What are you talking
about, Alf?” he asked. “The body we found wasn’t buried—”
“It wasn’t?” My stomach sank.
“No. And he wasn’t one of your old relics either.”
“Okay.”
“I assume you were acquainted with Professor Charwood?”
I grimaced. “Were?”
“Professor Charwood was found on-site this morning around
dawn. He was deceased.”
“Oh.”
I couldn’t think of what else to say. I sat where I was, stunned.
Charity, reading my sudden silence correctly, reached out her hand
to take mine.
What’s the matter? she mouthed. What’s happened?
“Are you still there, Alf?” George asked.
I pulled myself together. “Yes. Yes. Sorry. Just a bit shaken.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I only saw him yesterday.” I chuckled, but without humour. “I
was expecting to see him this morning.”
“Well, that won’t be possible,” George replied wryly. “At least I
wouldn’t recommend it.”
 “How did he die?” I asked, my mind conjuring up endless painful
ways in which the professor might have met his end.
“He was strangled by the look of it. A particularly vicious attack.”
“Oooh.” My stomach rolled. “Not nice.”
“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?”
George asked.
Could I? “Only … everyone,” I blurted out.
It took George a second to process what I’d said. “Everyone?” he
repeated after a pause.
“Pretty much.” I took a breath. “I don’t like to speak ill of the
dead”—particularly because at Whittle Inn I’m constantly surrounded
by them—“but he was a mean-spirited little man!”
“I see.” George sounded amused by the level of vitriol in my
voice. “Interesting. I think you and I need to have a little chat. Did
you say you were heading over to the dig site?”
“I did say that. Shall I meet you there?”
“Please.”
Another random document with
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contentedly in the thought that Heaven had given me, if only for one
little hour, a lover so loyal, true and brave. Ludovic, my love, my poor
starved heart thanks God for you.”
For an instant the word was at his lips which would have told her his
secret, for, surely, the opportunity was apt. Perhaps it was a feeling
that, in a higher sense, in that atmosphere so fully charged with
tenderness and love, the cold shock of the announcement would be
unfitting; perhaps, too, his sensitive, innate chivalry made him shrink
from taking advantage of that supreme moment. The very certainty
that the stroke must win held him back from making it. Anyhow it
passed, and when rapture allowed him speech it was of a still more
urgent matter, their escape. She told him it was for that she had
risked the message.
“The Baron does not say so, but I know I am destined for Krell. And
once there,” she shuddered, “I may say farewell to my hopes and to
my liberty, except on terms which are now forever impossible.”
He understood, and signified it by a kiss.
“There is no reason, I hope,” he said, “why we should not push on
again for Beroldstein. The longest and worst part of the way has
been travelled, and the end of our journey is now not so far off. With
a couple of hours’ start we could laugh at pursuit, and need not fear
the high roads to-night.”
“Then let us go, dearest,” she urged.
He smiled at the eagerness he loved. “Everything is arranged,” he
replied. “Ompertz is waiting with horses, and will ride with us. I fear,
though, we must leave Countess Minna behind this time. But she is
now safe from this fellow.”
A look of disappointment clouded Ruperta’s face. “Rollmar will visit
my sins on poor Minna’s head.”
“Her penance shall be of short duration, I promise you that,” Ludovic
assured her confidently. “She shall join you in a very few days.
Rollmar is too sensible to take a foolish and futile revenge. Indeed, it
is best; more, it is necessary. We have no horse for her.”
“And Minna hates riding, if you had. Well then, we must leave her. It
is easier now,” she added, with a loving look of confidence.
In a very few minutes preparations for the escape and the journey
were made. Ludovic extinguished the light, and, cautiously opening
the door, crept out, leading the way along the narrow passage, and
down the winding stairs, descending to the outer door by which his
guide had admitted him to the castle. No one was to be seen; the
door was unlocked; they passed out, and crossed an angular court-
yard to a massive stone door set in the outer wall. This, as Ludovic’s
conductor had shown him, was left merely bolted on the inside; at a
strong pull it swung slowly open, and they found themselves in a
passage cut through the rock and leading out into the wood.
Ludovic put his arm round Ruperta to help her along the rough path.
“Now for our faithful Ompertz and the horses,” he said
encouragingly. “He is near at hand. Another hour, dearest, will see
us miles away from this hateful place.”
They were now at the end of the cutting. It was with a delicious
sense of freshness and liberty that Ruperta felt the wind through the
trees blowing on her face. Her lover’s strong arm was round her—in
a few minutes the enemies of her happiness were to be given the
slip. There was just light enough to see the path; a stronger blast of
wind came through the wood, deadening the sound of another rush.
More quickly than they could realize it, they were surrounded by half
a dozen men who had suddenly sprung from their ambush. Before
Ludovic could put his hand to a weapon, he was seized by four
strong fellows, who held his arms firmly, and began to drag him back
to the castle. Ruperta, with all her spirit, was powerless to render him
any help. She herself had been captured by two men who, with less
violence, but equally insistent force, kept her from following.
But the dashing of her hopes, the sickening sense of the Count’s
treachery, made her desperate and reckless. She struggled furiously
with her captors, two tall, evil-looking ruffians who had, however,
evidently had orders to treat her with as much respect as their object
permitted. This was to take her back to the castle by another
entrance; but they found it not so easy. Ruperta resisted vigorously,
then, remembering that Ompertz might be near, she began calling
for help. It was but a faint hope, but, to her joy, she heard an
answering call which was followed by the welcome appearance of
the great dashing swashbuckler, who came through the wood with a
leap and uplifted sword, a very fury to the rescue.
Evidently the men thought so, for it was with no very confident air
that one of them released his hold on Ruperta, and, drawing his
sword, stood before her to keep Ompertz off. A dog might as well
have tried the repel the spring of an attacking lion. With a mighty
sweep his sword was sent flying among the trees, and it was only by
a smart backward spring that he cheated the soldier’s blade of its
second blow.
At the same moment Ruperta found herself free, her other captor
thinking less of his charge than of his skin, which was, indeed, just
then in jeopardy of damage. She quickly told her rescuer what had
happened. He just checked an oath of angry disappointment.
“I told him what to expect,” he said, savagely rueful. “But we both
hoped I might prove a false prophet. Oh,”—he set his teeth
ominously—“oh, for five minutes alone with this precious Count! He
should never tell another lie while I lived, or he.”
Ruperta entreated him to follow her lover and free him. He felt the
urgency of the move, yet hesitated.
“I dare not leave you, Princess, and if we go together”—he gave a
shrug—“I am only one to defend you against this gang of bandits. It
were better to see you into safety first.”
But she would not hear of abandoning Ludovic while there was a
chance of rescue. She too would go back; she had no fear.
Ompertz saw the true courage in her eyes, and no longer opposed
her wish. The two men had skulked away; they were scarcely worth
consideration now. The soldier gave his hand to Ruperta, and, sword
in the other, led her quickly along the passage to the stone door. It
was closed and fast bolted; the men had clearly taken their prisoner
through, and now had him safely lodged. Ompertz gave a kick at the
unyielding barrier.
“No hope of opening that fellow from outside,” he remarked, with a
baffled shake of the head. “And, Highness, let me tell you the sooner
for your sake we get out of this ugly trap the better. We should not
have a chance if these rascals took it into their heads to drop a few
lumps of rock down on ours.”
Although Ruperta had little fear of that awkward contingency, she
recognized the futility of staying there. Her heart was full of
indignation and a terrible anxiety for her lover. But hers was a nature
which rage and fear simply stirred into action; she would never bow
to the inevitable or confess herself beaten.
“Yes. Come back with me quickly,” she said, with sudden resolution.
Ompertz glanced at her and knew that the move was not prompted
by fear, at least for herself. They hurried back along the passage of
rock and into the wood.
“The horses are close by,” Ompertz said, in a tone of doubtful
suggestion.
“That is well; we may want them,” Ruperta replied, and he saw that
she had in her mind a plan of action.
“The Chancellor brought men—soldiers—with him? How many?”
“About eighty.”
“They are near?”
“Hard by, in the forest beyond the valley.”
“That is well,” she said. “I can trust myself to them. I am their
Princess. It is only their leaders who are so vilely treacherous.”
Ompertz looked a little dubious. “If they were all like me, Princess,
you might trust them to the death.”
“And you think I cannot rely upon them to protect me against the
false hearts and lying tongues of the cowards who threaten us? At
least I will try them.”
There was a rustling in the wood, and Count Irromar stood before
them.
 CHAPTER XXVII
AN UNWISE MERCY

“YOU have taken an unfair advantage, Princess, of my willingness to

serve you,” he said, with a dark smile.
“I am again, as I might have expected, the victim of your treachery,”
Ruperta retorted, full of scornful anger.
He made a deprecating gesture. “You must blame me no more now.
The business is out of my hands. The treatment of which you may
complain is not mine. I am no longer a free agent.”
His meaning was as obvious as was its falsehood. Ompertz took a
step forward.
“Free agent or not, Count,” he said bluffly, “I shall make bold to hold
you responsible for the outrage suffered by Lieutenant von Bertheim
at the hands of your men. I was just wishing for an interview with
you.”
The Count was eyeing him full of stern malignity. “And having
chanced upon it, what do you want to say, my fine fellow?” he asked
contemptuously.
The ugly look on the soldier’s face deepened. “Only this,” he
answered threateningly. “That unless you give an instant order for
our friend’s release, this fine fellow will take upon himself to run you
through, and that without delay.”
A streak of moonlight falling through the trees showed a smile of
ineffable scorn on the Count’s strong face. It also glinted on the
barrel of a pistol which he suddenly presented full at the soldier’s
breast.
“Silence, you dog!” he commanded. “You need a lesson in the
manners befitting a lady’s presence. If you speak another word it will
be your last.”
Ruperta sprang between them. “Count, if you harm this man your life
shall pay for it. I swear. I have power that may astonish you before
long. Yes; I will have you hanged if you do not instantly release the
Lieutenant.”
“You are quite mistaken, Princess,” he replied seriously. “The
Lieutenant is not my prisoner.”
“You liar,” she cried, beside herself with indignation at the way he
was playing with her. “You will tell me next he is not in your house, in
your keeping.”
“It is true enough,” he replied coolly. “But I have no power to release
him. Perhaps you have, Highness.”
The sneer was worthy of him; he had come to hate this woman
whom he might not love.
“We shall see,” she returned. “You refuse?”
“I fear I must—even at the risk of the penalty which your Highness
has foreshadowed.”
“Very well, then,” she said. “You shall see how I will keep my word.
Come, Captain.”
She turned to Ompertz and prepared to move away.
“Permit me to escort you back to his Excellency,” Irromar said. “He
charged me to look after you, and my responsibility is strict.”
“Your responsibility!” she echoed scornfully. “Surely, Count, you have
forfeited any claim to that I will never enter your abominable den
again.”
“It is most unfortunate,” he replied, with a somewhat mocking show
of apology, “that I should have to bear the brunt and odium of your
Chancellor’s actions. Surely, Princess,” he continued, as though
urged merely by his innate love of setting his actions in a false light,
“you must be aware that it was a risky thing to attempt to continue
your elopement under the Baron’s very eye; an eye which looks not
too favourably on the Lieutenant’s pretensions. I should certainly
have warned you against any such mad attempt, had I not thought
that your good sense made it unnecessary.”
Ruperta turned from him, disdainfully impatient. “I cannot discuss the
matter with you, Count, especially as I have good reasons for
believing no word you say.”
He gave a shrug. “It is most unfortunate, I must repeat, this
persistence in imagining my ill-will. As for your interest in the
Lieutenant’s welfare, I can only refer you to Baron Rollmar, to whom
it is now my duty to conduct you.”
He advanced to her with outstretched hand. She shrank from him.
Ompertz whispered a word to her as he fell back a pace. These
movements altered the relative positions of the three. Ruperta had
scarcely caught the soldier’s whisper, but she was quick-witted
enough to divine his intention. She suffered Irromar to lay his hand
on her arm. It gave her an excuse for struggling—to make a sudden
clutch at the hand which held the pistol. Simultaneously Ompertz
gave a swift spring, and, as Ruperta’s hold hampered the Count from
turning to meet his attack, seized him from behind and got his arm
tightly round his neck.
Irromar was a very Hercules, but now he was taken at a
disadvantage, and Ompertz was of strength far above the average. It
was a fierce joy to him to find his muscles round that lying throat,
and in a very few seconds he had the Count half-throttled on the
ground. Then the pistol was wrested away, and their enemy lay at
their mercy.
“Now let me put an end to the villain,” Ompertz gasped, as with
fingers gripping the Count’s throat and knee pressing on his chest he
held out his hand for the pistol.
 “Ruperta’s hold hampered the Count from turning to meet
his attack.”
Page 276.
But Ruperta refused. Perhaps the livid, distorted face showed her
too vividly the horror of such a midnight deed, and obscured the
sense of expediency.
“No,” she objected. “We cannot. He must not die here—like this.”
“Then you give Lieutenant von Bertheim’s life for his,” Ompertz
urged, bitterly baulked. “In Heaven’s name, let me put a bullet
through his lying brain, and do a good deed for once.”
But she would not consent. “If he swears on his honour that he will
release the Lieutenant, his life shall be spared,” she said.
Ompertz groaned at the throwing away of this chance. “His honour!
You will repent it if you trust to that,” he said, as he tightened his grip
on the Count’s throat, since he might not shoot him.
But Ruperta saw his intention, and insisted that he should relax his
hold. “You hear, Count?” she said.
“I swear,” he gasped.
“Of course he swears,” growled Ompertz.
For some moments Irromar lay panting; the soldier looking down on
him with a grim hankering that was almost comic. Suddenly, from a
position in which most men would have been helpless, the Count,
who seemed one compact mass of muscle, contrived by a
convulsive effort to throw himself on his side, and a desperate
struggle began. The suddenness of the effort had taken Ompertz by
surprise, and so at some disadvantage. Still, he welcomed the
renewed struggle, since it gave him an excuse for shooting. But
once, when he might have fired with deadly effect, he hesitated
through fear of hitting Ruperta who had seized one of the Count’s
arms, and then, when he did fire, the bullet seemed to take no effect
at all. With an exclamation of disappointment, he dropped the pistol,
and set himself to grapple in deadly earnest with his formidable
adversary. But great as was his strength, it was pitted now against
one of the strongest sets of muscles in Europe. Little by little the
Count got the advantage, he was a skilful wrestler and knew all the
tricks of that art, so that not even Ruperta’s weight hanging on to his
arm made the struggle evenly balanced. Before long he was able to
force Ompertz backwards and, by a dexterous twist, to spring clear
of him. It was only just in time, for Ruperta had taken Ompertz’
sword, and was only hesitating to use it from fear of striking the
wrong man as they swayed and turned in their desperate encounter.
Now the Count was free. “Quick! the sword!” Ompertz cried, as he
recovered his balance and sprang to her for the weapon. There was
a loud laugh of mockery, and, almost before Ompertz had turned to
rush after him, the Count had disappeared in the darkness. Sword in
hand, the soldier followed as best he could, only to be brought up
very soon by the manifest hopelessness of the pursuit and the fear
of missing the Princess. To her he returned, baffled and fuming.
“I said you would regret it, Highness,” was his reproachful greeting.
She was pale and trembling slightly from the excitement. “It cannot
be helped,” she replied, with a touch of authority. “I am sorry for your
sake, but I could not have the man, whatever his crimes, done to
death like that.”
“He has the devil in him,” Ompertz exclaimed wrathfully. “Now
between him and the Chancellor, who has the infernal touch too, I
fear, you may say good-bye to the chance of getting the Lieutenant
free. And I had my prayer answered and my fingers round that
villain’s throat. It was wicked to fling away the chance.”
“Yes, I am sorry now,” Ruperta agreed, showing not half the intense
regret she felt. “But I am not going to submit myself tamely as a
victim to these outrages and false dealings. I am going to
Beroldstein.”
“You, Princess? To Beroldstein?”
“Alone,” she answered resolutely. “I will appeal to the King of Drax-
Beroldstein, since the Duke of Waldavia, my own father, cannot help
me.”
“But the King of Drax-Beroldstein,” Ompertz objected, “is not
Ludovic, but Ferdinand.”
“So much the better,” she returned. “It makes my task less
disagreeable and scarcely more doubtful.”
He recognized the hideous complications which made her plan so
hopeless, yet he saw no sufficient reason for breaking his pledge of
secrecy. After all, Ludovic’s release was the great thing to try for; in
the interests of that, the less known of his identity the better.
“I may go with you, Princess? The horses——”
“No,” she replied. “I should like your escort, but cannot take you
hence. It will be something for me to know that one trusty heart is left
near Ludovic. But I fear. What can you do for my Ludovic against
those cruel villains, the Count and Rollmar?” She turned away in an
access of heart-chilling despair, then next moment had recovered
herself.
“Come, let us not lose another instant,” she said resolutely. “You
must find me an escort among the soldiers. Surely there are some
who will run this risk for their Princess, for any woman, indeed, who
is in such a dire strait as I.”
He told her of certain good fellows there whose acquaintance he had
made in the guard-room, and who, he was sure, would be ready to
risk their lives in this service for her.
“If all goes well, they shall not be losers for standing by me in my
extremity. At least they are human; Rollmar is a fiend.”
They came to the three horses—bitter suggestion of their failure—
mounted, and made their way towards the spot where the men were
encamped. Ompertz’s thoughts were divided between admiration for
this courageous girl and sadness at the thought of how small was
her chance of success.
But the affair, he told himself, was too difficult for his poor brain; he
could see no light through the darkness; only hope that chance, after
leaving them so terribly in the lurch, might once again stand their
friend and accomplish what seemed beyond the scope of every
imaginable plan.
By a difficult path they arrived presently, after many a hindrance from
wood and rock, within a stone’s throw of where the troops lay
encamped. Leaving Ruperta in a place of safety, or, at least, in
concealment, Ompertz went forward to find his men for the purpose.
Half an hour later he, with many misgivings, had taken leave of the
Princess who, with an escort of three stout fellows, started off
through the forest to strike the nearest point of the main road to
Beroldstein. Ruperta had supplemented Ompertz’s explanation by
an appeal to the men to stand by her in her distress. She knew, she
said, the risk her escort would be running; how those who guarded
her flight would do so at the peril of their lives, and she would accept
no service that, with this knowledge, was not freely given. But
Ompertz, a shrewd judge of, at any rate, certain characters, had
made no mistake in choosing the men. Their records were not,
perhaps, of the best repute, but they were three staunch dare-devils,
who would think no more of giving up their prospects and lives at a
word from the Princess than of passing their mug of beer to a thirsty
comrade. They had instantly and heartily sworn to see her through
her long ride, or give their lives in her service, and she felt she need
have no fear of their failing her. So they set off.
The first part of the journey was slow and difficult enough; however,
one of the men knew the country and was confident that they could
not lose their way. Nevertheless, the darkness of the forest
hampered their progress, but, with the dawn, the track, too, grew
lighter as the party emerged upon a hilly stretch of heath.
“We are now but a mile from the great road,” said the man who knew
the way.
They could push on now at a smart pace; time, Ruperta felt, was
everything, and all through the long hours of darkness her
impatience had been torture. It was not many minutes before the
broad coach-road came in sight beyond a belt of woodland which
fringed it. Just before they reached it, hastening over the grassy
road, one of the men, who was riding a few paces ahead, held up a
warning hand.
As they reined up, the ring of horses’ hoofs fell upon their ears. The
man quickly threw himself from the saddle and crept forward to the
corner whence he could get a view of the road. Next instant he came
rushing back, motioning them to turn aside among the trees.
“Horsemen coming fast! Quick! They may be after Her Highness.
Quick, under the trees!”
They had scarcely taken cover, when the other party rode by at a
quick pace. Four men, with a fifth at their head, riding in haste and
looking neither to the right nor left. The figure of the leader was
unmistakable.
“It is Count Irromar,” Ruperta exclaimed under her breath. “In pursuit
of me.”
She was wrong. It was the Count, but he was not in search of her.
He was riding post-haste to Beroldstein on business of his own.
 CHAPTER XXVIII
AT THE USURPER’S COURT

IT was with considerable surprise that King Ferdinand of Drax-

Beroldstein, as yet scarcely settled comfortably into his snatched
dignity, heard that the notorious law-defier and outlaw, Count
Irromar, was at the palace, asking for a private audience on business
of the utmost importance. Had the King been a strong man, or one
who felt his position unassailable, he would probably have handed
the noble brigand over to his officers of justice, congratulating
himself on getting the most troublesome and dangerous of his
subjects so cheaply in his power. But Ferdinand was neither. He was
a weak man who had been unable to resist the chance, urged upon
him by designing favourites, to seize a crown which for the moment
seemed to be left without a wearer, and, having put it on his head,
was now trembling inwardly at his own temerity. He could afford to
despise no man, and his only strength came not from within, but was
forced on him by circumstances from without. It was almost a weak
man’s strength of desperation; no one can be so strong by fits and
starts as your thoroughly feeble character who dare not show his
weakness.
Then there was the haunting mystery of Ludwig’s disappearance. At
every waking moment, Ferdinand told himself that his cousin was
surely dead, but in his dreams, he was alive and seeking retribution.
In spite of the assurances of all his friends and flatterers, Ferdinand
found himself doubting every one, from his ministers to the soldiery.
He dreaded to read in every new-comer’s face the solution of the
mystery, the end of his day. Still, he had cast his die, the boats were
burned behind him—foolishly, he told himself, since he might, by
constituting himself regent, have grasped the power clean-handed—
and now, as it was, there seemed nothing for it but to assume a
resolution which he had not, and to keep by force what treachery
had won. It had all seemed so easy and desirable, this pursuit of
power, this scheming for a throne, in the days of preparation; when
suddenly the coup had to be made, and responsibility to be
assumed, it was not so pleasant.
Doubtless it was a shrewd knowledge of the usurper’s character that
gave Irromar confidence to put his head into the lion’s mouth. At the
same time, he was well armed, both for attack and defence, with the
knowledge he held.
On receiving the somewhat astounding message, Ferdinand
hesitated. His first impulse was that of the bully; to order the arrest of
this formidable outlaw. Then his chronic feeling of insecurity
prompted him to hear what the visitor had to communicate. Such a
man had not come boldly there without good reason, and he could
easily be arrested after the interview. Accordingly, he gave orders for
a guard to be in readiness and for the Count to be admitted to an
audience.
With an affectation of homage which scarcely concealed his bold
confidence, Irromar entered the royal presence, and, having bowed
low, stood before the Usurper in the easy fearlessness of conscious
power. Ferdinand had a set frown on his sharp, gambler’s face; he
might as well have thought to melt a rock by frowning at it, as
thereby to intimidate the strong, reckless nature confronting him.
Perhaps he felt this, as, with an effort at self-assertion, he bid the
Count say what had brought him thither.
“I have come on a matter which is for your Majesty’s ear alone,” was
the sturdy reply.
Ferdinand affected to hesitate, then motioned his curious circle to a
distance. “Now speak out, Count, and briefly.”
But Irromar dropped his strong vibrating voice almost to a whisper,
as he bent forward to the King. “It is of your Majesty’s cousin, Prince
Ludwig, that I have come here to speak!”
He watched closely the effect of his words, and saw nothing but a
curious, indefinable expression flash across his hearer’s face. But it
was enough. And although Ferdinand’s next remark was made in a
tone of studied indifference, Count Irromar knew that the hit was
more than a touch.
“Well? You know, perhaps, what has become of him? His fate?”
Irromar bowed assent. “He is at this moment in my power: a prisoner
in my castle in the Teufelswald.”
If the news gave Ferdinand an uncomfortable thrill, he did not show
it. The pale face, with its stiff yellow moustache and beard, remained
impassive. Only, in the eyes there was a light of fierce concern.
Perhaps, after all, the knowledge that one phase of his uncertainty
was at an end came as a relief to him.
“Well?” Ferdinand had now to use his cunning; he would let
suggestions come from the other side.
“I thought,” the Count answered readily, “that the information might
be of vital interest to your Majesty.”
“In what way, Count?”
“It is not for me to dictate the use your Majesty should make of it.”
His guard was good; it would have to be drawn out and weakened.
“And yet I dare be sworn,” Ferdinand returned, with his cunning
smile, “that you had a use for it in your mind, or you would hardly
have ventured hither.”
Irromar understood the invitation. “Perhaps, sire, a use which may
be to the advantage of both of us,” he replied coolly.
Ferdinand was leaning sideways in his chair, with his hand playing at
his sparse beard; it was a demeanour of sly reserve. “We should like
to have your views, Count, as to this double advantage,” he said.
“Certainly, sire,” Irromar replied, playing his part with every outward
sign of deference. “You will, perhaps, graciously pardon me if I
express them too bluntly; but the position and opportunity are critical,
and plain speaking fits them best.”
Ferdinand gave a quick, impatient nod of authority, and the Count
proceeded.
“The Prince, is, as I have said, my prisoner, secretly hidden away
where no man, unless I choose, can ever find him. He fell into my
hands by an accident, and the fact is practically a secret which need
never be known, save to those whose interest would be to ignore it.
To all intents, he is dead and buried. It is for your Majesty to say
whether he shall ever come to life again.”
He paused. “Go on,” Ferdinand said curtly.
“As to your Majesty’s interest and wishes in the matter,” Irromar
continued, in the same tone of guarded deference, which yet
seemed to mock as it flattered, “I do not presume to make a
suggestion, or anticipate what may be in your Majesty’s mind. All
that I wish to put forward is my hearty willingness to serve you, sire,
in this matter. And, that you may trust me.”
Ferdinand, revolving keenly the crisis, smiled with a purposeful scorn
which hid the inner working of his mind. “Confidence in Count
Irromar is a somewhat unreasonable demand, methinks,” he
observed.
“Without a guarantee, yes?” was the ready rejoinder. “It suggests the
second and minor advantage of the situation; that which affects my
poor self.”
“Ah?” Ferdinand was indifferently curious. Perhaps he felt he could,
if expedient, secure that guarantee without the Count’s active co-
operation.
“The very disrepute of my antecedents,” Irromar went on, with the
confidence arising from a strong position, “is, although it naturally
appears to the contrary, the very guarantee for my liberty. Your
Majesty is justly incredulous; but let me explain away the apparent
absurdity. In a word, I am sick of my present outlawry, legal and
moral. My one great desire is to rehabilitate myself, to take up once
more the position to which I was born, and which, in my hot-headed
madness, I chose to throw away. There is but one hand from which I
can hope to receive back what I have squandered, the good name,
the noble position; but one countenance to which I can look for
pardon and favour. If once that hand is held out, that countenance
turned favourably towards me, am I likely to reject that royal
generosity and return to my dog’s life? Now, sire, have I made my
meaning plain?”
“You have—quite plain,” Ferdinand answered. Then he paused, his
manner seeming to command silence on the other’s part as well.
Once or twice he glanced sharply at the Count’s face, that strong,
keenly determined face. He was scheming rapidly, vaguely,
uncomfortably. The crisis for which he had been preparing himself
was, now that it had suddenly arisen, rather more than he could
confidently meet. And his discomposure was due less to the urgency
of the situation than to the manner of its announcement, and, above
all, to the man who set it so boldly before him. For during the whole
interview he had been oppressed and irritated by the sense of his
inferiority to the Count, an inferiority none the less galling in that it
was of evil; such better qualities as they may have possessed did
not enter into the question. This man’s personality and character
were dominant; their owner looked down from a higher plane of evil
upon the weak tool of political intriguers, seated uneasily on his
stolen throne.
But, apart from purely personal considerations, the manifest
superiority forced this question upon Ferdinand. Would it be wise for
him to put himself in the power of this resolute, cunning spirit? The
Count’s argument was plausible enough, but what deep scheme
might not lurk behind it? Had Irromar shown himself a weaker man,
Ferdinand would probably have employed him to put his awkward
cousin out of the way, and then taken the obvious means of securing
his ever-lasting silence. But, somehow, as he looked at his visitor
and mentally gauged him, he could not see in him an easy victim.
Still, for the moment, power was on the King’s side, only he must,
indeed, be careful how he let it slip away. At any rate, the matter was
too difficult for an off-hand decision; he would take counsel with a
more astute mind than his own; as it was, he and this master-spirit
were unevenly matched. And in the meantime he would gratify and
avenge his wounded vanity by showing his power.
So, with a deepening frown, he at length broke the tense pause.
“You are a bold man, Count, to come here and make this proposition
to us. For what may have prompted you to this temerity, the wild life
you have led may, perhaps, be responsible.”
Both men gave a smile, and the Count’s produced the effect which
the King’s vainly intended.
“Nobody,” Ferdinand continued, “but yourself would have conceived
so bold a step. No one in any but our position would have seemed to
invite it.”
“Your Majesty will hardly blame me for seizing a chance so
momentous to both,” Irromar returned, bluffly.
“At least,” Ferdinand replied, guardedly, “we cannot blame you for
hastening to impart to us news so important. That may weigh with us
in the view we shall take in our judgment of you.”
The Count was quick enough to see the line Ferdinand was taking,
and, with the impetuosity of a strong, impatient nature, he set about
brushing aside the barrier of shuffling behind which the King was
entrenching himself.
“There is scarcely time or room for the question of judgment to come
in, sire,” he said, emphatically. “I am a man of action, accustomed to
go straightway to the point at issue. This matter clearly admits of no
temporizing. Your Majesty’s judgment of me is at the moment of little
consequence. My all-important quality is that I am the jailer of the
one person in the world whose condition must supremely affect your
Majesty’s welfare.”
“That,” replied Ferdinand, with a purposeful show of scorn, “is a
matter upon which we do not invite your opinion. The King of Drax-
Beroldstein must not be dictated to by the outlaw of the Teufelswald.”
The Count flushed purple. “The King——,” he began hotly, then
checked the words at his lips. Doubtless he saw Ferdinand’s object
in provoking him, and resolved to meet him at his own game. “I
should be the last man to presume to usurp the functions of your
Majesty’s advisers,” he said, with a significant smile, “or interfere,
unbidden, with aught that concerns you. I fear that already, in my
zeal, I may have been guilty of officiousness. Is it, then, your
pleasure, sire, that I set Prince Ludwig free?”
Ferdinand had settled his course, and, that once accomplished,
could keep to it firmly enough. “That,” he answered, with an
assumption of dignity, “is a question for our advisers. It is not to be
determined in a moment, certainly not at the suggestion of Count
Irromar. We are not unmindful of your zeal, Count, and shall take it
into consideration in dealing with you. But for the moment we must,
as you will understand, at least make a show of doing our duty. You
have set our laws at defiance, you have been the very scourge of a
wide district of our kingdom. You”—and here a peculiar sneering
smile spread over his face—“you, who have taken upon yourself so
boldly to advise us, will recognize that we cannot afford to reward
your long list of black deeds with immediate tokens of our favour. It
would raise an easy and hideous suspicion. It would at once brand
us as our cousin’s murderer. No! Policy of State must stand before
all things, and that policy demands your arrest.”
All through the speech Irromar’s face had been growing darker, and
at the last word he made a swift gesture of rage.
“Arrest? Your Majesty is joking!”
It was all he could say, but there was clearly no jest in Ferdinand’s
crafty face as he signed to the group that, in scarcely veiled curiosity,
stood apart. He had given his orders, and the men were ready. At a
word from an alert official, Count Irromar, inwardly raging, and
frowning threats, found himself surrounded and a prisoner.
“Your Majesty,” he cried darkly, “will do well to consider this step you
are taking.”
Ferdinand waved his hand with a gesture of dismissal. “We will see
you again, Count; you understand?” he said significantly, as he rose
and walked away.