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The Curious Incident at The Pig and Pepper: A Paranormal Cozy Witch Mystery (Wonderland Detective Agency Book 4) Jeannie Wycherley
The Curious Incident at The Pig and Pepper: A Paranormal Cozy Witch Mystery (Wonderland Detective Agency Book 4) Jeannie Wycherley
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THE CURIOUS INCIDENT AT THE PIG
AND PEPPER
WONDERLAND DETECTIVE AGENCY BOOK 4
JEANNIE WYCHERLEY
The Curious Incident at the Pig and Pepper
Wonderland Detective Agency Book 4
By
JEANNIE WYCHERLEY
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.
The Curious Incident at The Pig and Pepper was edited by Christine L Baker
Cover design by Ravenborn Covers
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
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Coming Soon
Also by Jeannie Wycherley
CHAPTER ONE
M onkton had been wrong about people not being at the theatre
this early in the morning. By the time Ezra and I arrived at
The Petit Bijou, a cleaner was in the foyer polishing the floor with a
large machine that created a spine-shattering high-pitched whine. I
strolled in through the only open door and shifted sideways into her
peripheral vision until she noticed me.
When she eventually did, she ignored me for as long as possible
before finally switching off her machine. We waited for it to wind
down until we were sure we would hear each other. “Box office
opens at midday,” she told me before I could say a word.
“I’m not here for tickets,” I said, fishing out my ID. “Police. I’d like
to speak to the theatre manager.”
“Oh.” The woman grimaced. “I don’t think he’s in yet. Is this about
Madame Majestique?”
Of course she knew about the murder. The whole of Tumble
Town would know about it, if not the rest of the world. It had already
made the papers, for Pete’s sake. “I can’t comment,” I replied,
keeping my voice calm and smooth. Just like the old days. “I need to
gain access to the theatre. Can you let me in?”
“Ooh, no!” The woman reared back. “They’d have me guts for
garters. Besides, it’s all locked up from the other side. If you want to
get in, you’ll have to go in from the backstage.”
Of course. The stage door. Why hadn’t I thought of that? “Will
there be someone down there now?”
“There’s always someone down there, my love. Twenty-four
seven. High days and holidays.”
“Thanks for your help,” I said.
She offered a curt nod in return and switched her floor polisher
back on. I threw myself out through the door before I could be
deafened by the row.
“I’m surprised she doesn’t have to wear ear defenders,” I told
Ezra as I joined him on the steps. “What a racket. I’ve gone deaf.” I
slapped my ears, as though doing so would somehow improve my
ability to hear.
“Pardon?” Ezra deadpanned.
The annoying thing about him being a ghost was that I couldn’t
slap his arm when he made bad dad jokes.
“Stage door,” I said. “Let’s go.”
I knew where to find the stage door, given that I’d seen Madame
Majestique escorted through it the previous evening. Located to the
side of the theatre, partially hidden behind the steps that led up to
the glass front doors, I quickly led Ezra there. An engraved sign on
the door announced that this was indeed The Petit Bijou Stage Door.
I tried the handle, but the door, sensibly, was locked. You didn’t want
any old Tom, Dick and Harriet walking in after all.
“Try knocking,” said Ezra, as though that wasn’t exactly what I
was about to do.
My knock elicited an almost immediate response. The door
buzzed. I turned the handle and ventured inside into a corridor. The
lighting was muted, but I could see, behind a counter immediately to
the left of me, a rotund man with long shaggy hair and a straggly
beard that had been knotted and beaded in several sections. He’d
been rocking backwards on his ancient office chair, reading—from
what I could see—a magazine about motorcycles. Behind him was a
wall of keys, each neatly labelled. In front of him he’d arranged
several screens, one of which was divided into squares showing
CCTV images from a variety of angles, while the other was showing
a morning chat show.
“Help ya?” he asked, leaning forward to get a better look at me.
I opened my identity card once more. “MOWPD,” I lied. “I’m DI
Elise Liddell and this is my partner DS Ezra Izax.”
The bearded man gave Ezra a hard look. “Ghost, ain’t ya?”
Ezra patted himself down. “Good grief. So I am.”
“Hadn’t heard the Old Bill were employing dead coppers now.”
“They’re short-staffed,” I told him. “And desperate.”
“Oh yeah?” Mr Scraggly Beard hesitated.
I waited, pretending to be entirely unconcerned. Under Ezra’s
tutelage, I’d learned to have the patience of a proverbial saint. Never
show your hand. Never pretend to be anything except supremely
confident.
Mr Scraggly Beard caved. “Here about Madame Majestique, are
ya?”
“That’s right.”
“Thought you lot would be banging on my door soon enough.
Surprised you didn’t get ’ere sooner, if I’m honest. Having a lie-in,
were ya?”
“Something like that,” I said. Cheeky tyke. “We’d like to take a
look at her dressing room.”
“Thought so. Right you are.” He pointed down the dimly lit
corridor. “Follow this round and down the stairs. Hers is the one with
the enormous gold star on the door. You can’t miss it. It’s even got
her name on.”
“Has anybody else been in there?” I asked. “Since Madame
Majestique left the theatre last night?”
Mr Scraggly Beard shrugged. “Wardrobe maybe. Make-up. I don’t
know. She travels with her own team, so our stage crew don’t have
that much to do with her.”
“Our?” What did he mean?
“The Bijou’s own production team. We have a skeleton team here
to help incoming touring companies. If we need extra bodies, we hire
casuals.”
“Right.” That made sense to me.
“How many people in Madame Majestique’s team?” Ezra asked.
“Not many. A manager. One chap who looked after her clothes. A
young woman who does, sorry did, her make-up. Although she
wasn’t here yesterday,” he remembered.
I made a mental note of that.
“And a personal assistant. That poor bleedin’ woman’s run
ragged, she is. Wouldn’t want her job for all the tea in China, quite
honestly.”
“Was Madame Majestique difficult?” I asked. Until now I hadn’t
heard a bad word against her, but this guy, sitting as he must do day
in and day out, had no doubt been privy to a fair amount of gossip.
Mr Scraggly Beard snorted. “You could say that. She was ice
cold. Liked everything done a certain way. Once the theatre had
booked her, her personal assistant sent us a document that
contained five pages of riders.”
“Riders?” I pulled out my notebook. This was already starting to
get interesting.
“Yes. They’re like little demands that these stars make in addition
to their contracts, y’know? You get all sorts. Some people want a
crate of champagne in their dressing room. Others want an endless
supply of ale. One rock group who performed here demanded a fruit
bowl full of jelly babies but with all the green ones taken out.”
“I like the lime ones,” I said. “And you pander to this nonsense,
do you?”
“It’s not me. It’s the theatre. Everyone does it. It’s expected.”
Ezra grunted.
“Would it be possible to get a copy of Madame Majestique’s
riders?” I asked.
“I expect so. You’d have to take that up with Mr Timbee, though.”
“Timbee?” Ezra asked. His chewed pencil with the rubber band
on the head hovered in front of him.
“The theatre manager.”
“Is he in?” Ezra asked.
“He doesn’t get in till after two most days.”
Ezra nodded knowingly.
“I could try and get hold of him if you like?” Mr Scraggly Beard
offered.
“I think that would be a good idea,” I said. “Let him know we’re
here and we’d like a word.” I probably should be leaving that
particular interview to Wyld’s team, but ha! Never look a gift horse in
the mouth.
“Okay.”
“Thanks.” I nodded. “You’ve been very helpful, Mr—?”
“Dr Knox.”
“Doctor?” Ezra asked. “Is that like a DJ name or something? DJ
Bark Tonsils? Mavis Getter? That kind of thing? Dr Fox?”
“No,” Mr Scraggly Beard said. “I’m a genuine doctor.”
“Medical doctor?” I asked. The mind boggled. What was he doing
here? Had he been struck off?
“Doctor of Philosophy.”
“Philosophy,” I repeated. An academic. “Impressive.”
“That’s just the name of the qualification,” Dr Knox said. “My PhD
is in history.”
“Just as impressive!” I said, although I didn’t know whether there
was some sort of hierarchy for PhDs. Presumably not. That still
didn’t answer the question of what he was doing working backstage
in a theatre though.
Never mind. That wasn’t the task in hand. “Thanks again, Dr
Knox.”
“You can call me Knox,” he said. “And don’t worry, officer. I won’t
leave the country. Nowhere else would have me.”