Double, Double, Toil and Truffle (Bewitch by Chocolate ~ Book 6) Page 22

  “Oh no. Witch hunters never disappeared, though we had to go underground and do our work in secret,” said Gerald bitterly. “And now we are needed more than ever. There is evil in the world, boy; the forces of Dark Magic are rising once more. You cannot turn your back on your duty!”

  “I... This is crazy! You’re mad! I’m not listening to this anymore.” James shook the old man’s hand off his arm, then turned his back to him and stooped to help Caitlyn to her feet. “Do you think you can walk?” he asked solicitously. “I’ll take you out, then I’ll come back for Hattie—”

  There was a snarl of anger behind them. Caitlyn whirled around to see Gerald Hopkins snatching something up from the ground. Her heart lurched as the weak torch light caught the dull gleam of metal and she realised that he was holding a rusty, curved rod that ended in a sharp point. It was the ancient tool she had noticed the first time she’d wandered into the icehouse, and she realised now that it was an ice pick—probably a relic from the time when the icehouse had been used for its original purpose.

  “NO! I will not let you betray your duty to your family—to your country!” Gerald Hopkins shouted, lunging towards James.

  Caitlyn gasped as the old man raised the ice pick and brought it down with sickening force. But James was faster. He shoved Caitlyn out of the way, then ducked aside himself just as the ice pick slashed past his head and the vicious end embedded itself in the brick wall behind him.

  Gerald Hopkins roared with fury and wrenched the ice pick out of the wall, but as he did so, the old stones crumbled and fell apart, leaving a gap in the wall. The section above his head caved in suddenly and collapsed in a shower of bricks and mortar. The old witch hunter reeled back as one of the bricks struck his head. He staggered a few steps, then toppled over and lay still.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “I’M FINE, AUNT BERTHA, honestly! I don’t need another hot water bottle,” Caitlyn protested.

  Her aunt ignored her and tucked another pouch filled with hot water under the blankets around Caitlyn’s legs. Then she crossed to the small wood-fire burner in the corner of the room and added more logs to the flames.

  “You’re not building the fire up even more? It’s boiling already!” Caitlyn complained, trying to sit up on the sofa and push the heavy blanket off her body.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” said Bertha, coming over and firmly tucking the blanket around Caitlyn again. “The doctor said it’s important to keep you warm and that’s what I’m going to do.”

  Caitlyn grumbled good-naturedly, but secretly she had to admit that there was something lovely about Bertha’s attentions. She had never been treated to this sort of motherly fussing before—her late adoptive mother, Barbara Le Fey, had been kind and generous, but had never been a “mother” in the real sense of the word. She had lavished expensive toys, clothes, and gifts on Caitlyn, and provided her with the best nanny and tutor for home-schooling, but she had never sat at Caitlyn’s bedside during an illness or consoled her after a fall from her bike...

  Caitlyn had come to England searching for the truth about her past, and while most of her questions were still unanswered and the truth still eluded her, she had found something equally precious: the joy of being part of a warm, close-knit family (yes, even with its downsides, from Bertha’s maternal scolding to Evie’s magical predicaments, from the Widow Mags’s tart tongue to Viktor’s exasperating escapades)... Caitlyn realised now that so much of her hollow yearning had stemmed not only from wanting to know where she belonged but also from wanting to feel like she belonged.

  She came out of her thoughts to realise that Bertha was saying: “Now, you lie here and rest, and I’ll go and get you a nice bowl of hot soup.”

  “Hot soup!” Caitlyn groaned. “Nooo! Please, Aunt Bertha... can’t I have a popsicle instead?”

  “A what?”

  “Oh... er... um, I think you call them ‘ice lollies’ in England,” said Caitlyn, belatedly remembering what her British nanny had taught her. She thought that after several months in England (and a childhood educated by a British nanny), she had finally adapted to the local vernacular, but it seemed that the occasional Americanism still slipped through.

  “Ice lolly?” said Aunt Bertha in scandalised tones. “What on earth are you thinking of? You are recovering from hypothermia, young lady!”

  “Mild hypothermia,” Caitlyn said quickly. “And they’ve discharged me from the hospital, which means I’m fine.”

  “It means you’re lucky,” said Bertha with a dark look. “And you should be grateful and remember that there are others who weren’t so lucky.”

  Caitlyn sobered. Her aunt was right. She might have been discharged from hospital, but Hattie was still there, under observation for her head injury, whilst Gerald Hopkins was in a critical condition, unable to be awakened from a deep coma. With his advanced age, the doctors had not been optimistic. Still, Caitlyn found it hard to feel too much sympathy or remorse for the old witch hunter—his cruel apathy and hate-filled words were still too fresh in her memory. If anything, her heart went out to Hattie, in spite of what the girl had done.

  “Do you know what’s going to happen to Hattie?” she asked.

  Bertha sighed. “Well, as soon as she’s released from hospital, she will be taken into police custody.”

  “I hope some allowances might be made for her,” said Caitlyn.

  “My dear, she committed murder!”

  “Yes, but... but if you’d seen her face last night and heard how anguished she sounded... and when you think about what Minerva had done to her father... and countless other poor, innocent people... I know it’s still wrong, but I can understand why Hattie wanted revenge.” Caitlyn raised her chin. “I would have wanted revenge too.”

  Bertha was silent for a moment, then she said, “Revenge is one of the most powerful—and deadly—of human desires. It can drive you to achieve things you’d never thought possible, all while it slowly poisons you, clogging your heart and infecting your mind.”

  “You’re making it sound like a disease,” said Caitlyn with an uneasy laugh.

  “It is,” said Bertha seriously. “It is a tumour that grows and feeds on itself, until it consumes you from within.”

  “But it doesn’t have to take over,” Caitlyn argued. “You could use that energy, that force within you to seek justice for wrongs, while still keeping it under control.”

  Bertha gave a sad smile. “But how can you ever be sure that you’re in control, and it’s not the other way around? Anger, bitterness, resentment... those are emotions which drain you of awareness and reason. You could become a slave to the forces of Dark Magic before you realise.” She looked Caitlyn straight in the eyes. “The darkness is there in all of us, you know, and it takes great strength of character to make the right choice—the difficult choice. To choose understanding over judgement, forgiveness over revenge.”

  Caitlyn stared at her aunt, her thoughts whirling. Then the silence was suddenly broken by a little black kitten jumping up on the sofa and uttering a mischievous “Mew!” as he attempted to burrow under the blanket with Caitlyn.

  “Oh, Nibs!” cried Caitlyn, laughing.

  She picked him up and cuddled him close, smiling as she heard the rumbling purrs coming from his tiny chest. When she had been discharged from the hospital, James had thoughtfully brought the kitten over from Huntingdon Manor to keep her company. It had been decided that it would be easier for her to stay with Bertha during her convalescence, rather than in her attic bedroom at the chocolate shop, and Nibs had been delighted at the chance to explore a new place. Within minutes, he was happily scampering about her aunt’s cottage, getting under customers’ feet in the herbal shop and winning a legion of new fans as tourists and villagers alike cooed over the adorable baby cat.

  “Have you heard back from the vet about Nibs’s tests?” asked Bertha, watching the kitten scrabble about the blanket, chasing his own tail.

  Caitlyn shook her head. “Not
yet. I have to say, Aunt Bertha, a part of me wouldn’t be sorry if he did remain a kitten forever,” she said, smiling at the little cat’s antics. “But it would just be nice to know why... and if it’s something that might be harmful to him.”

  They were interrupted by the ringing of the house telephone, and when Bertha returned a few minutes later and handed Caitlyn the cordless handset, she smiled and said: “Speak of the devil... it’s Dr Liddell the vet.”

  Caitlyn hurriedly put the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

  “Hullo, Caitlyn—I do hope you’re recovering well?”

  “Oh yes, I’m as good as new,” Caitlyn assured him, adding eagerly: “Have you had Nibs’s test results back yet?”

  “Yes, that’s why I was ringing. Well, the good news is that all the tests came back negative so there’s nothing ominous to worry about. There’s no portosystemic shunt, no genetic abnormalities, no hormone imbalances... The bad news is, we still have no answers, and I’m afraid I’ve run out of theories at the moment. But don’t worry,” Liddell added heartily. “I’ll be going to a conference in Geneva next week where I’ll be able to pick the brains of some of the top experts in veterinary medicine, so I’m sure I’ll find an explanation. I’m sure it’s just something obscure that may not have been thought of—such as the case with Jeremy Bottom’s cows.”

  “Oh? Have you figured out what’s wrong with them?”

  “Yes, it sounds crazy but they were suffering from a milk allergy.”

  “Milk allergy?” Caitlyn was dumbfounded. “But... they’re dairy cows. They make milk. How can they be allergic to it?”

  “It does sound illogical but it has been known to happen, although only very rarely. Essentially, it’s an auto-allergic reaction in cattle that are sensitized to their own casein. The inflammatory chemicals released in their bodies cause their eyelids, lips, and skin to swell, and in severe cases—such as with Jeremy’s cows—oedema in the lungs and larynx. That’s fluid build-up, which can lead to breathing problems and can be fatal.”

  “And you’re sure it’s definitely that? There isn’t any other possibility, like... like—”

  “Like magic?” the vet laughed. “Certainly not! As I told Vera Bottom when I was at the farm this morning, there is always a scientific explanation for everything. One just has to be persistent in searching for it. For example, remember that dog in the village which was supposed to have grown an extra tooth? It was simply a retained puppy tooth that the owner had never noticed previously. And the lame gelding in the Fitzroy stables? He had an abscess in his fetlock—probably as a result of rearing in fright during the thunderstorm while still in the stable and striking his leg against the sides of his stall. There was no sinister supernatural cause... and I’m confident that it will be the same for Nibs. There’s a perfectly logical reason why he’s not growing, that has nothing to do with magic and witchcraft!”

  Caitlyn hung up a few minutes later and looked down at the little kitten, who had lost interest in his tail and seemed to be settling down to sleep in her lap. Despite the vet’s words, she didn’t feel convinced. She wondered if there was such a thing as a “witch vet”—someone who specialised in magical maladies of animal familiars.

  I must ask Bertha or the Widow Mags, she thought. But in the meantime—she glanced down once more at the sleeping kitten—Nibs was happy, healthy, playing and eating well, so it seemed silly to worry about it.

  She was just snuggling down against Nibs and thinking that she might join him for a nap when she heard a familiar voice in the herbal shop outside. Her heart gave a leap and she felt her pulse quicken in anticipation. Caitlyn craned her head to see her reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece, and hastily tried to smooth down her hair, realising with dismay that she was wearing her favourite (comfortable but faded) pyjamas. She wondered wildly if she had time to sneak to the bathroom to wash and dress, maybe even put on some make-up, but even as she had the thought, the door to the living room opened and James Fitzroy stepped in.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “JAMES!” CAITLYN SAT up, self-consciously pulling the blanket up to her chin.

  She hadn’t been alone with him since the night before, when he had rushed to her rescue in the icehouse. Although he had accompanied her in the ambulance to the hospital, once he had seen her safely into the hands of the doctors, he had returned to Huntingdon Manor to deal with the aftermath and answer police questions. He had come to visit her that afternoon and had insisted on personally driving her back when she had been discharged, but they had been accompanied by Bertha, Evie, and Pomona, and there hadn’t been a quiet moment together.

  Now James crossed the room to her side and handed her a beautiful posy of autumn blooms, saying with a faint smile, “I thought of bringing chocolates but... the best ones would have been from your own grandmother’s shop.”

  “These are beautiful. Thank you,” said Caitlyn, burying her nose in the fragrant bouquet.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Oh... oh, fine... absolutely fine... Honestly, I would be up, except that Bertha wouldn’t hear of it and insists that I lie here like an invalid.” Caitlyn made a face. “I’m going to be up and about tomorrow, though, no matter what she says!” She paused, then glanced sideways at him and said shyly, “I... um... I haven’t thanked you properly yet for saving my life.”

  “It was nothing,” said James gruffly. “I’m just sorry I didn’t listen to your suspicions earlier.”

  “Well, I was wrong about Gerald Hopkins being the murderer,” Caitlyn admitted. “You were right—I was biased, and always saw him in a negative light. Like the conversation I’d overheard between him and Vera Bottom... now that I think about it, he never came out and said that he killed Minerva or that he was conducting his own witch trials in the icehouse. I just jumped to conclusions based on a few ambiguous things I overheard, like Vera saying to him: ‘Minerva Chattox was a good start’—that sounded like she was complimenting him... but actually, Vera herself was just making assumptions. She was so in awe of Gerald Hopkins—the great ‘witch hunter’—that she must have automatically assumed he was responsible for Minerva’s murder, and he never bothered to correct her. He had nothing to do with Minerva’s death at all.”

  “Perhaps he would have, if Hattie hadn’t got there first,” said James. “It would certainly have fitted in with his crazy ideas and mad crusade to bring witch hunting back—”

  “No,” said Caitlyn thoughtfully. “Actually, I don’t think Gerald was ever interested in Minerva.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Minerva was a fraud. She wasn’t a real witch.”

  James gave a humourless laugh. “Do you think Gerald made the distinction? It pains me to admit this, but really, for all his education and scholarship, my father’s friend is no better than the superstitious residents of the village with their illogical fears and silly panic over hexes and curses—”

  “No, I think you’re wrong. Gerald Hopkins didn’t hate witches the way Vera Bottom and the other villagers did. Their hatred stemmed from fear and ignorance, but Gerald... his hostility seemed to come from knowledge.”

  “From knowledge?”

  Caitlyn thought back to the unnerving way the old witch hunter had looked at her, as if seeing something deep inside her. “I can’t really explain but... I think Gerald was no stranger to magic. Real magic.” She hesitated, then added, “James... what he said... you know, about being part of a secret order of witch hunters—”

  “For goodness’ sake, you don’t believe all that nonsense, do you? They’re nothing but the ramblings of a delusional old man!”

  “But what if they aren’t? What if Gerald was telling the truth?”

  James looked at her sarcastically. “Are you telling me that you really think there might be a secret society sanctioned by a covert branch of the British government, which has existed since the seventeenth century, and whose members have pledged their lives to hunting down an
d destroying witches?”

  “Well, maybe not just witches, but anything connected to the paranormal.” Caitlyn frowned. “Gerald always talked as if magic was a dangerous weapon—something that would always corrupt anyone who could summon it—and therefore needs to be destroyed. What if that’s the mantra of this... this secret society that he belongs to? It would make sense: any government would want to monitor and contain this kind of destructive power—”

  “That’s assuming that the government in question would actually believe in magic in the first place!” said James impatiently. “Besides, secret societies might have been all the rage in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, but in modern times—”

  “Even modern governments have black ops divisions within their secret service, which most people don’t know about,” Caitlyn pointed out. “And Pomona told me that during the seventeenth century, there were mixed feelings in Parliament about King James’s obsession with witch hunting. Perhaps some of the ministers agreed with his views on the threat of witchcraft and magic but they couldn’t publicly support his crusade. So they formed a secret society and recruited commoners like Matthew Hopkins and noblemen like your ancestors to help them—”

  “This sounds like something straight out of a novel or a Hollywood movie!” said James with a scornful laugh. Then he sighed. “Fine. Even supposing that you are right and a secret society was formed back in the seventeenth century... there is no reason to suppose that it would still exist today.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because people don’t believe in witchcraft and magic anymore!”

  Caitlyn raised her eyebrows and James flushed in annoyance.

  “Well, all right, some people still do, but you’re talking about people in the countryside where the old folk superstitions and customs may still be strong... not people in government, with science and education and technology on their side.”

  “But you believe in witches and magic, don’t you?” Caitlyn asked softly.