Witch in the Dell--And 2 New Mini Mysteries Page 9

  Before she could stop him, Spencer turned the latch and pushed the door open.

  “Bloody hell.” He stepped over the high threshold and walked in, taking her with him. “This is incredible.”

  Unreal was the word she’d use. Everywhere she looked as he pulled her farther inside revealed smooth dirt floors, dust-free furniture, and the most unbelievable—fresh flowers.

  “Spence.” She tugged at his hand. “We need to go. This is wrong—” She whirled, seeing a shadow move out in her peripheral vision. That was enough for her. “Now, Spencer.”

  “There’s nothing here, Maggie.”

  “You call all of this nothing?” She waved at the furnished main living area. “None of this should be here. The furniture should be aged, not look like it was just put here. We need to—”

  Spencer’s triumphant shout cut her off.

  He let go of her hand and strode forward. “Come and see this.”

  She gave up and joined him, in time to see his fingers slide along a crack between the wall and the fireplace. “What is it?”

  “The book mentioned a secret room, where Anya Trimble performed her dark rituals. I think—” He ran his fingers along the fireplace mantle. “Ah, there it is.” He pushed what looked like a decorative vine on the side of the mantle, and they both heard a loud click. The wall moved, creating a narrow opening. “All those mysteries you forced on me are finally paying off.”

  “We’ll talk about that later.” She pulled a small torch out of her coat pocket and handed it to him. “I’ll trade.”

  “Right.” He took the torch, giving her the cup. “Stay behind me—there’s no telling what might be in here.”

  “Like a six-hundred-year old witch?”

  He glanced at her. “It would make sense, with her disappearing.”

  “She was comatose when she disappeared, Spence.”

  “Maybe she was faking, then went to hide, and trapped herself in her secret room, unable to get out.”

  Maggie seriously doubted that. No one would have a secret room without a way to open the door from the other side. Unless­—it wasn’t meant to open from the other side. Like a prison.

  “Spencer, I don’t think—ˮ

  “Don’t think.” He flashed her a grin and turned back to the opening. “Let’s find the truth.”

  She swallowed, watching him slowly force the door open. She wasn’t all that sure she wanted to see what—or who—might be on the other side. Solving mysteries on paper was so much less dangerous.

  When there was enough room to squeeze through, Spencer turned on the torch and pointed it into the darkness.

  “Maggie—come and see this.” He sounded awed.

  She braced herself and joined him.

  ***

  Instead of the corpse she expected, his torchlight played over what looked like an elaborate altar, in the middle of a large room. Spencer stopped when the light caught a small pile of scrolls.

  “What do you think?” he whispered.

  “Let’s go in. I’ll keep the cup close.” She slipped it in her coat pocket, wanting both hands free. She had a feeling the cup was protecting them from the spells that had kept this house untouched for centuries. “Move slowly, Spence. You don’t know what kind of animals might be making a home in there.”

  “I seriously doubt any animal with sense would come near this place.”

  He had a point. Which meant the local animals were smarter than they were.

  She followed him inside, letting her eyes adjust to the dim interior. To her surprise, it wasn’t completely dark; a huge quartz crystal sat in the middle of the altar, glowing like a low wattage bulb.

  “Spence,” she whispered, tugging at his coat. “That crystal wasn’t glowing before. It was pitch dark when you opened the door.”

  “Take out the cup.”

  She did, not surprised to see the symbols around the rim glowing. The closer they inched to the crystal, the brighter both the crystal and the symbols got. Spencer took the cup, and before she could stop him, he stepped up to the altar and set it next to the crystal.

  “Spencer.” She grabbed the back of his coat and jerked, catching his arm when he stumbled.

  They both froze at the voice that filled the room.

  “Stand and explain yourself, foul intruder.”

  Spencer shoved Maggie behind him, keeping himself between her and the altar.

  “We came­—ˮ He cleared his throat, and straightened his shoulders. It was for show; she could feel him shaking against her. “We came to find out what happened to you.”

  The glow brightened, and Maggie stared as a shimmering image appeared in front of the altar. She looked like the photos in the book, photos of the painting that hung in the room behind them, over the fireplace. Anya Trimble.

  “If you are here, then you are in possession of my cup. It was taken from me before I could hide it. Those who have tried to enter my home have run in terror, or gone mad from the touch of my glamour.”

  Spencer moved forward, pulling out of Maggie’s grip. “We did bring your cup.” His voice sounded different—closer to his confident, cocky self. “Would you like to see it?”

  Anya started speaking before he finished. “I was accused, falsely so, of the attempted murder of my beloved Richard. Instead of the torture and death the self-righteous had planned for me, I transferred my power, my soul, to the crystal, trapping myself here.” She gestured to the altar. “As for my frail, mortal body—ˮ

  “We want to help.”

  She talked over Spencer, and Maggie knew that the image had to be some kind of spell, activated when they set the cup on the altar.

  “I gathered enough power in a year’s time to bring it here, and have consigned it to the earth. I would rather live for eternity trapped in this room, than face the grief of watching my Richard suffer as I burn.”

  “It’s like Princess Leia, in Star Wars.” He waved his arm, and she gasped when it swept through the image. “That is beyond cool.”

  “Spencer Knight. Get away from the witch, before you trigger something nasty.”

  He seemed to realize just who they were dealing with. “Oh. Right.”

  Anya had been speaking the whole time, but what she was saying now caught Maggie’s attention. “If you are of noble heart, I ask only one thing from you.” She gestured to the crystal on the altar. “Please bury my heart among the standing stones, where my power was born. There may I find release, and send my soul to where the good Lord intends.”

  “Star Wars,” he whispered, poking her arm.

  Maggie regretted ever introducing him to the franchise.

  “As your reward,” Anya said. “The cup is yours. Tell my story, allow the truth to be revealed. I know the lies spread by those who hate and fear will live on, long after we are all dust. In the scrolls you will find the real story, written down by my Richard, before his death. I beg you to do this for me.” She held out her hands, and the grief in her dark blue eyes tore at Maggie. “Please, give me the peace I never had in life.”

  Her image shimmered again, then faded, leaving them alone.

  “Wow.” Spencer moved to the spot where she’d stood, and crouched down to touch the dirt floor. “It’s warm, like someone was actually standing here. We have to do it, Mags.” He stood and moved to her, taking her hand. “We have to set her free.”

  “You’re right.” She looked at the crystal, which pulsed now, like a beating heart. “It’s past time for her to be at peace.”

  ***

  They took the scrolls, the crystal, and the cup, stashing the scrolls in Spencer’s van. He grabbed the small folding shovel he kept in the back, and stuck it in his coat pocket before they headed to the field behind the manor house. In the distance, Maggie could see the standing stones, on a small rise.

  Spencer handed her the cup, holding the crystal in his left hand. Light pulsed between his fingers, reminding her that a woman’s soul was inside, had been trapped for centuries
. She swallowed, took Spencer’s free hand, and let him lead the way. As they approached the standing stones, the clouds overhead darkened, creating an artificial twilight.

  With every step, the crystal brightened, until it shed a circle of clear white light, like it was showing them the way. Maggie could barely look at it by the time they stepped in the circle created by the stones.

  Spencer set the crystal on the waving grass, and let out a relieved sigh.

  “It kept getting heavier,” he said, shaking out his hand. “And warmer.”

  “Spencer.” Maggie stared at the standing stones in front of her. “Look.”

  A rich blue glow outlined each stone, lighting the circle.

  “That will make things easier.”

  Maggie laughed at his comment. “When did this become less—ˮ

  “Weird? For me, it was the moment I started talking to a Star Wars hologram.” He smiled at her snort, pulled out the shovel and snapped it open. “Let’s do some digging.”

  They took turns, not sure how deep the hole needed to be. Six feet sounded like a nice, round number. Even with the cold fall wind sweeping across the rise, Maggie took her coat off halfway through, regretting the fact that she wore a sweater.

  Spencer was in shirtsleeves, his sleeves rolled past his elbow. Sweat still rolled down his face, darkening the hair stuck to his forehead.

  “I think we’re there.” He smiled up at her from the hole. Since he had just reached six feet this past summer, they were using him as a measure. The edge of the hole topped him by a couple of inches. “Hand me the crystal.”

  She did, using her scarf to pick it up. The crystal was white-hot now, and Maggie could feel the heat through the layers of wool. Spencer carefully took the bundle and lowered it to the bottom of the hole, handing Maggie the scarf and the shovel before he climbed out.

  “Should we say something?” She looked down at the crystal. It pulsed faster, like the soul trapped inside knew that it was close to freedom.

  “I will, if you’d like.”

  She nodded, taking his hand.

  He cleared his throat, and pushed damp hair off his forehead. “Be at peace, Anya. We will tell your story. I promise you, the truth will be heard.”

  The crystal pulsed, faster and faster. Maggie screamed when it burst apart, light streaming out of the hole.

  Spencer grabbed her and hit the ground, covering her with his body.

  She smacked his arm. “Spence—can’t breathe.”

  “Sorry,” He pulled her up until they sat, his arms around her, like a human shield. “Trying to play hero.”

  Her sarcastic reply lodged in her throat.

  The light swirled above the hole, forming the shape of a woman. Her waist length black hair flew around her, dark blue eyes kind as she studied Maggie and Spencer. Beyond the shock, Maggie felt kindness and gratitude radiate from the witch. Both helped calm her.

  “Your courage and compassion has freed me. In return, as my image promised, the cup is yours.”

  “What happened to the rest of the villagers?” Spencer’s question startled Maggie. She clapped her hand over his mouth before he could keep talking.

  Instead of retaliating, Anya smiled. “In their fear and superstitious ignorance, they fled after my disappearance, taking only what they could carry. Richard stayed, knowing the truth, and that I would feel his presence.” She bowed her head to each of them, and Maggie noticed the birthmark on the left side of her throat. A small, pale red heart. “For what you have done, I am forever in your debt...” Her voice faded, tears filling her eyes as she stared past them. “Richard?”

  Maggie looked behind her, half afraid she might actually see this Richard. Only the gloomy, windswept field greeted her, framed by the glowing standing stones. She glanced up at Spencer—and gripped his arm. He looked white, his blue eyes wide.

  “Spence—ˮ

  “I see him, Mags.”

  She would have given her usual smart remark, but he looked so—spooked, she just turned until she could wrap her arms around him, let him know he wasn’t alone.

  Anya glided past them, holding her arms out. “I am here, my beloved. I have missed you so.”

  She embraced the air and disappeared. A warm wind brushed Maggie’s cheek, followed by the cold slap of rain drops.

  “Spence.”

  He shook himself, the color coming back to his cheeks. “We have to fill in the hole—bloody hell...”

  Maggie turned her head, and understood his surprised curse.

  The long grass waved in the rising wind; any sign that they had dug a hole at all was gone.

  “How—ˮ

  “Never mind,” He hauled Maggie to her feet. “We have to run.”

  He picked up his shovel, which was dirt-free, and grabbed her hand. They sprinted across the field, Maggie tripping to keep up with his longer stride. The sky opened up as they reached his van. He yanked open the driver’s door, pushed Maggie inside, and climbed in after her.

  She crawled over the clutch and collapsed in the passenger seat, fighting to catch her breath. Wet hair stuck to her cheeks; she tucked the dripping strands behind her ears, aware that she had lost her ponytail holder sometime during their mad dash across the field.

  “All right, sweetheart?”

  She looked over at Spencer. His hair was plastered to his head, his coat soaked on the right side. “You need to get out of your coat—Aunt Irene,” she whispered. “How am I ever going to get past her?”

  “You aren’t. Tell her the truth, Mags.” He reached over and brushed a stray curl off her cheek. “You might be surprised.” He struggled out of his coat and threw it in the back. “Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  He started the van, and drove slowly up the high street. The storm had blotted out any light, leaving the abandoned village dark and forbidding. Maggie would be happy never to see it again.

  Once Spencer was on the road back to Holmestead, the clouds started to break up. “Odd,” he muttered. “The sky is clear ahead.”

  After what they had just witnessed, Maggie wouldn’t be surprised by much at the moment.

  “You can just drop me off,” she said. “No need for both of us to face Aunt Irene’s wrath.”

  “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.” He pulled into the long driveway and parked. “Where’s the cup?”

  She pulled it out of her coat pocket. Now that they were away from the village, it looked ordinary­—and different.

  “The tarnish is gone.” She ran her fingers over the silver. It looked freshly polished, catching the sunlight as she turned it in her hand. “Spence—Aunt Irene is going to ground me for life. She’s never going to believe us.”

  He winked at her. “Give her a try, Mags. You might be surprised.”

  ***

  Aunt Irene tsked over Spencer before pulling out some dry secondhand clothes for him to change into, and ordered Maggie upstairs to change. Maggie tore her damp sweater off before she reached her bedroom, and changed as fast as she could.

  The cup waited for her on the dresser, as bright as the day it was made. She finished wrangling her hair into a bun, then picked it up, touching the symbols under the rim.

  “Time to face the consequences,” she whispered.

  With a sigh, she headed downstairs.

  Spencer sat in the front parlour, sipping tea and devouring the scones Aunt Irene made almost every morning.

  “Come and sit, dear, have some tea.”

  Maggie obeyed, setting the cup on the side table before she picked up the mug. The hot tea soothed her, and gave her a reason to stall.

  That tactic didn’t last long.

  “Now,” Aunt Irene said, crossing her arms. “I will have the story Spencer has been teasing me with since you arrived.” She looked at the cup, then at Maggie.

  Taking a deep breath, Maggie told her.

  Spencer cut in with his observations, and between them, they managed to spill every detail. The silence after they
finished had Maggie itching to hide in her bedroom.

  “Well.” Aunt Irene sat back, and sipped her tea. “That is some story. May I see the cup, dear?” Maggie handed it over, watched her aunt study the cup, the maker’s mark, then the symbols. Endless minutes later, Aunt Irene looked up. “You seem to have solved a mystery that has been unsolvable—even by local historians.”

  “None of them woke the witch,” Spencer said.

  Maggie smacked his arm, and he grinned at her.

  “True, young man.” Aunt Irene rubbed her thumb over the symbols. “I found this cup, tarnished and covered in dirt, at an estate sale near Dell. The owner seemed eager to rid himself of it, because when I offered three pounds for it, he snatched my coins and practically threw the cup at me. You know him, Spencer; he is a curator at the museum. Dr. Elgin Givens.”

  “Givens?” Maggie leaned forward. “That name was mentioned in the book I read. Simon Givens was one of Anya’s accusers. I wonder how he ended up with it.”

  “A trophy, most likely, handed down through the family.” Aunt Irene curled her lip. “I never did like the man, and had I known the estate sale was for one of his relatives, I wouldn’t have attended. The man is too pompous to live in a village this size.”

  Spencer burst out laughing­—and choked on his scone. Maggie pounded on his back, looking at her aunt.

  “You believe us?”

  “My dear girl.” Aunt Irene leaned over and took Maggie’s hand. “I may never have seen her, and I would deny it to anyone who dared ask, but I have lived my life sharing this house with a ghost. Of course I believe you.”

  Maggie stood and hugged her aunt, so grateful that she had someone like Aunt Irene in her life. Her parents would have stared her down if she even dared to tell them such a story. Her next stop would have been a psychiatrist—at the very least.

  “Told you,” Spencer said. He winked at her, and devoured another scone.

  “All right, young man. You have depleted my scones, and your story is done. Time for you to be off home.”

  He stood, used to Aunt Irene’s usually abrupt and less than polite goodbyes. “Thank you for the food, and the dry clothes. I’ll return them.”

  She waved her hand as she stood. “Keep them.” She surprised Spencer and Maggie by kissing Spencer’s forehead. “Thank you for keeping my Maggie safe.”