Way of the Witch

  Way of the Witch

  Maggie Mulgrew Mysteries Book 5

  Cate Dean

  Copyright, 2017

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except for use in any review. This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, locales, and events are either pure invention or used fictitiously, and all incidents come from the author’s imagination alone.

  Sign up for Cate’s list: http://catedeanwrites.com/join-my-list/ to learn about new releases.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  List of British Slang

  Way of the Witch

  About The Author

  One

  Maggie Mulgrew wandered around her antique shop, The Ash Leaf, enjoying the silence. She still had a few minutes before opening, and the tour group that had just arrived milled around outside. Some of them peered in through the window, and she smiled at the eagerness on their faces.

  She loved her life.

  At two minutes before ten, she moved to the front door and unlocked it, pulling it open.

  “Welcome to The Ash Leaf.” People swarmed past her, heading to every part of the shop. She smiled at Grace Nightingale, Spencer’s girlfriend and the group’s tour guide. “A big crowd today.”

  “We’re running an antique lovers tour.” Grace adjusted the gorgeous blue and green silk scarf at her throat, then leaned down to listen to a tiny, older woman, and pointed at Maggie. “She is the expert here.”

  The woman converged on Maggie, her grip surprisingly strong as she grabbed Maggie’s hand. “Have you any mourning jewelry, young lady?”

  Maggie blinked. She didn’t get many requests for the morbid jewelry, made with the hair of a deceased loved one. But she had acquired some from Aunt Irene, and in a couple of the boxes she’d bought at boot sales.

  “Actually, I do have some pieces. Let me show you—”

  “Just point the way, and I will find them.” The woman winked at her, a mischievous smile on her wrinkled face. “Eventually.”

  Maggie steered her in the right direction, then watched her wander through the shop. The woman was so much like Aunt Irene, who had been as feisty and wickedly funny.

  Tears stung Maggie’s eyes, and she moved to the front window, her back to the chatting tourists. They were still in exploration and discovery mode, and her assistant, Ashton Stewart, would be down any time to help out.

  “I miss you, Aunt Irene, so much,” she whispered. Maybe when Ashton appeared, she’d take a few minutes—

  Movement caught her attention, and she took a deep breath, composing herself. Pembroke Martin, the love of her life, was on his way in—and he could read her like a book.

  She met him at the door, a smile on her face. Frowning, he cradled her cheek. “What is it, love?”

  With a sigh, she gave up the pretense. “Just missing Aunt Irene.” And she realized why. “Her birthday is coming up, in June.”

  “We will celebrate, then.”

  “You wonderful man.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him, not caring if every person in the shop was looking. “Have I told you that I love you?”

  “Let me think.” He pushed his wire rimmed glasses up, and tapped his chin. “When we woke, check. After brushing your teeth—thank you, by the way, for the minty fresh kiss—check. Over tea and toast, check. Yes, I believe you have.”

  She patted his cheek. “Smarty pants.”

  “Why, yes, I am. So happy that you happened to notice.”

  Laughter burst out of her, drawing the attention of several tourists. Ashton had come downstairs at some point, and waved at them over the group clustered around him. All of them women, and all of them hanging on every word.

  It was going to be a profitable day.

  Martin’s voice pulled her attention back. “I actually came here to give you some news.”

  Excitement shot through her. “The documentary on the Yorkshire site?”

  “Not exactly.” He smiled when she frowned at him. “That is still on, but it has been moved to accommodate Geoff’s schedule.”

  Maggie smiled. Geoffrey Drummond-Doddington, the archaeologist in charge of the dig, had an ego as wide as Yorkshire. “I’m sure he just shuddered, wherever he is, at you using a short version of his name.”

  “Doubtless.” He took her hand. “I have been working on another documentary, and with recent events, it has been given the green light by investors. We are going to document the history of Cragmoor Manor, the restoration, and the official change to Blakeney Manor.”

  “Martin.” She stared up at him. “How—when—”

  “I’ve been working on a script to share Anthea’s story. I didn’t want to say anything, not until I was certain—”

  “So I wouldn’t be disappointed. Or Anthea.” Her resident ghost had disappeared after they buried her remains three months ago. Maggie missed her, but she was also happy to know Anthea’s spirit was finally at peace.

  “It’s long past time to tell her story. They want you to chronicle the restoration, Maggie.”

  “They—what?” Her voice sounded faint, and Martin wrapped his arm around her waist. “I don’t know if I can—”

  “You will be brilliant, love. All you need is to be the vibrant, intelligent woman I love, and everyone who watches the documentary will love you as well. Tell Anthea and Jeremy’s story.” He tucked a wild red curl that had worked its way out of her bun behind her ear, then cradled her cheek. “I have the utmost faith in you, Maggie Martin.”

  She never got tired of hearing her married name. “I’m slightly terrified at the thought, but I would love to have Anthea’s story told. Okay,” she took a deep breath. “I’m in.”

  Martin smiled. “Slightly terrified. You are catching on to our way of understating things, love.” He kissed her cheek. “I am going to ring the producer, let her know that we can move forward.”

  “Her?” Maggie wasn’t jealous, but she knew how closely Martin worked with his documentary producer. No, she wasn’t jealous.

  “Heather Kent. Don’t let her name fool you, Maggie; she is the least girly woman I know. I will arrange a meeting, so you can talk before pre-production begins.”

  “I’d like that. How long have you been working together?”

  “Since she showed up in my office at Oxford, telling me that I would be a fool to turn down her brilliant idea. I almost did, but she talked me around to it. Bullied would be a better word, actually.”

  Laughing, Maggie patted his cheek. “I can’t wait to meet her. If she could intimidate the great Professor Martin, she’s a woman I want to know better.”

  With a sigh, he shook his head. “I am about to be outnumbered, aren’t I?”

  “Absolutely.” Loud voices from outside turned her around. She recognized one of them. “Spencer.”

  “And our new local spiritual advisor.” Martin took her hand and headed for the door, “We’d best stop them before the argument escalates.”

  He didn’t say again, but Maggie agreed. Regina Draper, the woman who had bought Green Goddess, was unpleasant to everyone but her customers. But she had hated Spencer Knight, Maggie’s oldest and best friend, on sight. Maggie still couldn’t figure out why.

  She saw them as soon as she stepped outside. They stood in the
middle of the cobbled pedestrian street, in front of The Tea Caddy, almost nose to nose as they shouted at each other.

  “I will not consult with an amateur.” Spencer had his hands clenched into fists, those fists shaking with the force of his temper. He would never hit a woman, but Regina had pushed him closer to violence than Maggie had seen before now. “I don’t bloody care who you claim to be related to.”

  “She is my ancestor, and I will be part of telling her true story!”

  “Funny, that—I haven’t found a single mention of you in the family tree.”

  Regina raised her arm. “How dare you—ˮ

  Martin moved, fast, and caught her wrist before she could land her blow. She turned, her mouth open to shout, and stopped when she looked at him. She may not like Martin any more than the other villagers, but she did respect his reputation.

  “I sincerely doubt, Ms. Draper, that you wish to chase away your potential customers by creating a scene in the middle of the high street.”

  “He started it!” She jerked free and pointed at Spencer. “I am descended from Anya Trimble, no matter what lies he spouts.”

  “I would be happy to hear you out.” Martin led her back down to her shop/café, Lady Regina’s Spiritual Eats, his deep, quiet voice calming her.

  Maggie turned to Spencer, closing her hand over his fist. “What was that about?”

  He took a deep, unsteady breath, his fist relaxing. “Remember the cup we found, in your aunt’s carriage house?”

  “My sophomore year, when I came over for Halloween. You kept it?”

  “Of course I did.” He managed a smile, but she could tell he was still upset by his confrontation. “I am about to loan it to the museum, as part of an exhibit. That wand I showed you in January? I traced it, and it leads right back to Anya Trimble. The symbols match those on the cup—a detail I didn’t notice until I took the cup out a week ago.”

  Anya Trimble—the witch who had been condemned by her own village. Maggie had nearly forgotten about their adventure that fall, and discovering the truth about Anya, and the abandoned village of Dell.

  “So, what does Regina have to do with any of this?” The woman’s accusations gave Maggie a good idea, but she wanted to hear what Spencer had to say.

  “She heard about the exhibit, and cornered me at the museum, demanding that she be part of it. That she was a direct descendant of Anya, and she wanted to tell the real truth—not some claptrap I made up to draw in the tourists. Her words, not mine.” He let out a sigh, and ran one hand through his sun streaked blonde hair. “I just finished with a genealogist in London, who did a thorough family tree on Anya. Regina is nowhere on it.”

  “She has to have a reason for claiming something that can be easily checked. Maybe she’s not directly connected. Or she’s descended from one of the villagers.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I was told not to consult with an ignorant civilian. Dr. Givens’ words, not mine.” He flashed a pale imitation of his smile. “I will do my best to avoid her in the future. If luck is with me, her shop will be a magnificent failure and she will head back to London.”

  “Spencer.”

  “Sorry.” She knew he wasn’t, but she gave him some leeway.

  “Why don’t you come inside? I have leftover scones.”

  He perked up. “Blueberry?”

  “Would I mention them if they weren’t?”

  Laughing, he took her hand. “I love you, Mags.”

  She smiled up at him. “I know.”

  This time, his laughter was genuine. “You slay me, Maggie.”

  ***

  Once she had Spencer settled in the back room, happily working his way through the scones, Maggie went out to check on Ashton.

  She felt bad for leaving him on his own, with a tour group, but he was in his element. Not only had he sold something to every person in the shop, but when she moved behind the counter, she spotted several delivery receipts.

  Grace waved at them before herding the group toward the door. “Come on, now. We don’t want to miss all our stops today. And if you hurry, I can make a detour, show you the local mystery; a village that was abandoned, all its residents there one day, and gone the next.” She winked. “I also understand there was a witch, who might have had something to do with the sudden disappearance.”

  There were oohs and aahs from the group, and they rushed the door. Nothing pulled people in like a good mystery.

  “If they only knew,” Spencer said. He leaned against the doorframe, watching Grace leave. She lifted her head, smiling at him before she left. “I feel like I knew Grace, Mags, before we met her. I feel like I’ve met her before...” He shook his head and straightened. “She’s moving back to London.”

  “What? I thought you two were doing so well.”

  “I love her—I think.” Shrugging, he moved to the counter. “She wants more, and I’m afraid I am far from ready. We decided to take a bit of a break, see what happens.”

  “I’m so sorry, Spence.”

  With a sigh, he set down the thermos he carried, and propped his elbows on the counter. “I should be sad, right? Why do I feel more relieved than anything?”

  She rubbed his back. “My guess? You already know. You weren’t ready for the level of serious she wants. It’s hard when a relationship becomes lopsided. Will you miss her?”

  “Yeah. She plans to leave at the end of the month. Giving me time, in case I change my mind.”

  “And?”

  “I won’t. I have too much I want to accomplish, Mags, before I even start to think about marriage, or family. My mum pegged it the moment she met Grace. She told me afterwards that I wasn’t ready for someone like her. She had marriage in her eyes, Mum said, and I didn’t.”

  “Your mum is a wise woman.”

  “If I’d listened to her, I wouldn’t be in the spot I am now.”

  “If you need to talk, just let me know.”

  “Thanks.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I do have some good news.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  His smile eased the shadows in his blue eyes. “Remember the scrolls we found in Dell?” She nodded. “I finally finished with them, and they are going to be published, just after the exhibit opens.”

  “That’s fantastic, Spencer.” She wrapped her arm around his waist and hugged him. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “I’m pretty chuffed, myself.” He straightened, grabbing the thermos. “Don’t want to forget this. It’s Grace’s strong coffee.” He smiled. “I’m kind of addicted to it.”

  “You better get the recipe, while she’s still feeling generous.”

  “Yeah.” He sighed, and Maggie saw a glimpse of the regret she knew he felt. “I should get back to the museum. I was headed there when Regina ambushed me.”

  Maggie shook her head. “I hope Martin can talk some sense into her. She seems to actually listen to him.”

  “Are you talking about Regina Draper?” Ashton stopped in front of the counter, balancing an armful of tchotchkes. “We were nearly cleaned out by that group.”

  “You did brilliantly, Ashton.” Maggie held up the pile of delivery receipts. “I’m going to have to hire Henry Manning to help deliver all of these.”

  He bit his lip. “I hope that was all right. I checked their address before I offered delivery.”

  “You bet it’s all right. And Henry enjoys it. Don’t second guess yourself, Ashton, you’re a natural.”

  A blush spread across his cheeks. “Thank you, Maggie. I will unload these, and check the rest of the stock. It was Regina Draper you were speaking of?”

  Maggie did a quick recap of what happened. “Why do you ask?”

  “I heard comments, from several members of the tour group. They were at her shop, before they came here. She opens an hour earlier than everyone else on the high street, except The Tea Caddy.”

  “I did notice that.” Maggie had tried opening at nine instead of ten, several times. All she did was sit
and wait for customers. The tour groups didn’t arrive until ten, or later, depending on their home base. “What were they saying?”

  “I don’t like to spread gossip, but they were appalled by her prices—London high, several of them said—and her, as they put it, holier than thou manner. It was off-putting, and not one of them purchased from her. If she keeps alienating one of our biggest revenue sources, she’s not long for this village.”

  Maggie shook her head. She hated watching someone sabotage themselves like Regina seemed to be doing. But the woman wouldn’t listen, even if Maggie was brave enough to approach her with advice.

  “I can’t believe she would deliberately be rude—stop smiling, Spencer. I know you don’t like her, but even you can’t wish bankruptcy on her.”

  “No. If she decides to run back to London, I do think I could talk Dad into buying the café.” He smiled. “As an investment.”

  And Maggie knew that John Spencer would offer a fair price. “I guess we’ll have to wait, and see if she tries to fit in. Just avoid her as much as you can, Spencer.” She glanced out the window. “If we’re lucky, Martin has talked some sense into her.”

  Two

  Martin was ready to tear his hair out.

  Regina Draper had to be the most stubborn person he had ever come across. She made Geoffrey look like an agreeable man—a title Martin would never have given the archaeologist.

  Until now.

  “I understand your need to be involved, Ms. Draper.” He had already said the same thing, in several different ways. “But Spencer was correct; the museum can’t take consultation from the general public, in the event they provide incorrect facts.”

  “But I know the truth!” She paced the shop—not an easy task, since she had crammed shelves into every available inch of space. It felt claustrophobic, jumbled, and not the least bit welcoming. “I want the rest of the world to know it.”

  “They will. Spencer Knight is a thorough researcher, and he will—ˮ

  “Knight is a self-involved twit.”

  Martin raised his eyebrows. “I don’t believe you have known him long enough to make such an assessment.” His voice was mild, but under it, he knew she heard the edge. “You are new to Holmestead, so I am going to give you a bit of advice, as a recent newcomer myself. Do not alienate the very people who would be willing to stand for you if trouble found its way to your door.”