Where else to bury some occultist gourmet and his weird cherished bibelots, but a graveyard? This was the denouement
Peggy Powler coldly smiled at as she peered at the vague mound beneath the large elm. Considering Willowsgate had
only become into being after Sir Whitby Kipper's passing, the little thaumaturge was able to appreciate how some objects
and some places will always be seen in a particular light, no matter what may come. This wee stretch of secluded pasture
must have always held an intimate magic of its own and for humans, had always been seen as a place to rest their dead.
The morning mist was confident no warm sun was to burn it away and at another time of the year, would make a grand
backdrop for preparing a Samhain or Beltaine celebration. The dull achromatic surroundings and the giant tree whispered
of the smoky bonfires, practicing mumming and the occasional cautious look towards shadows in the hedgerows where
Fae-folk were believed to be watching, all painted an image of spookiness not lost on the Last Witch of Underhill.
The route from Judge Stoddard's also tickled at Peggy's musings, Miles Cutler had died in the orchard behind this very
cemetery. Miles Brandreth's lavish estate where Agnes Campion met her death was close by and could be easily reached
through the back-wood trails. Farmer Pumice's place is... Peggy paused in her arithmetic of reasoning, it was further out
for the environs of Willowsgate and might be taken as an unlikely daring journey for the sake of displaying a poor act of
terrorism.
A pair of bovine might be seen as a mere attack from a winter predator... unless, unless the need to kill had been doused
by conscience and that implied the Wulpos' host was resisting the demon's demands of taking human life. The little Witch
was still in the dark regarding the removal of organs and the strange motif discovered at the death scenes, but she felt sure
her past readings of Myrddin's books would bring some ideas to the surface. Still, the recent feathery foray into the retired
magistrate's hen-house backed-up the notion that some form of defiance could be taking place between the Wulpos and
its vehicle.
Leaving her threadbare contemplations to one side for now, Peggy returned to examining the old grave of Whitby Kipper.
It had been disturbed, that was obvious and inspecting the faint signs of footprints around the pile of soil, she saw that
some attempt had been made to hide the tracks. At first, the nosy necromancer wondered if claw-marks were the reason
for the thin gouges in the earth, maybe talons of an assumed-Werewolf and her theory had always been in error? But the
width of the gashes were too accurate and they paralleled perfectly in their traverse over the damp soil.
Checking that the Judge or any of his servants had not made their way through the tangle of bramble vines, Peggy slowly
kneeled down and disregarded concerns about her unveiled posterior. The mound was faintly darker in some areas than
others and gingerly moving closer to the odd blemishes, the tentative spell-worker detected the putrid aroma of spoiled
meat. Quickly getting to her feet, she knew this was where the macabre trophies of the Willowsgate killings had been
stored and who-or-whatever had hoarded them here was not below ground.
Peering around in the damp morning fog, Peggy's eyes alighted on the ideal target of whom may be involved and yet she
promptly steeled herself to not fall for the obvious choice. Using the distraction of wiping crumbs of soil from her knees and
composing the setting of her wide-brimmed headwear, she eventually looked again at the nearest building in the graveyard.
The sombre foreboding outline of Father Theodore Martin's church floated in the grey brume and seemed to be mockingly
yearning to be blamed.
.................................................................
Was it some honourable spectre of the cemetery that moved the dirty-white plume from its custody where the vestry's
stone step met the cornerstone of the church's north transept or was it merely an unusual breeze sneaking about on a
late-winter morning? The feather tried its best to take to flight, but just as its now-slain owner, soaring the mist-heavy
thermals belonged to a more streamlined member of its avian kin. Whichever was the reason, Peggy's breath was cut
short as she watched the tell-tale of who had visited Judge Stoddard's poultry last night.
The barefooted Augurer's respiration took another blow as a faint voice from the chapel's gravel-strewn path suspended
her fowl-related observation, the legatee of the utterance was careful to not alarm, but failed in its mission. "Miss Powler,
is everything alright?" asked Arthur Thurgood and apart from a sudden alert from her bowels, the startled destination of
his query, felt relieved to hear the familiar tone. The figure in the mist was to Peggy as a seaweed-sheathed mooring
post is a to a fog-bound trawlerman who'd become directionless on the Great Sea, a thing to be relied upon and a
pillar of strength when needed.
After getting Arthur up to speed with what she believed had been happening in Willowsgate, a little Witch and a uneasy
resident of that village approached vestry door and found it unlocked.
Peggy Powler coldly smiled at as she peered at the vague mound beneath the large elm. Considering Willowsgate had
only become into being after Sir Whitby Kipper's passing, the little thaumaturge was able to appreciate how some objects
and some places will always be seen in a particular light, no matter what may come. This wee stretch of secluded pasture
must have always held an intimate magic of its own and for humans, had always been seen as a place to rest their dead.
The morning mist was confident no warm sun was to burn it away and at another time of the year, would make a grand
backdrop for preparing a Samhain or Beltaine celebration. The dull achromatic surroundings and the giant tree whispered
of the smoky bonfires, practicing mumming and the occasional cautious look towards shadows in the hedgerows where
Fae-folk were believed to be watching, all painted an image of spookiness not lost on the Last Witch of Underhill.
The route from Judge Stoddard's also tickled at Peggy's musings, Miles Cutler had died in the orchard behind this very
cemetery. Miles Brandreth's lavish estate where Agnes Campion met her death was close by and could be easily reached
through the back-wood trails. Farmer Pumice's place is... Peggy paused in her arithmetic of reasoning, it was further out
for the environs of Willowsgate and might be taken as an unlikely daring journey for the sake of displaying a poor act of
terrorism.
A pair of bovine might be seen as a mere attack from a winter predator... unless, unless the need to kill had been doused
by conscience and that implied the Wulpos' host was resisting the demon's demands of taking human life. The little Witch
was still in the dark regarding the removal of organs and the strange motif discovered at the death scenes, but she felt sure
her past readings of Myrddin's books would bring some ideas to the surface. Still, the recent feathery foray into the retired
magistrate's hen-house backed-up the notion that some form of defiance could be taking place between the Wulpos and
its vehicle.
Leaving her threadbare contemplations to one side for now, Peggy returned to examining the old grave of Whitby Kipper.
It had been disturbed, that was obvious and inspecting the faint signs of footprints around the pile of soil, she saw that
some attempt had been made to hide the tracks. At first, the nosy necromancer wondered if claw-marks were the reason
for the thin gouges in the earth, maybe talons of an assumed-Werewolf and her theory had always been in error? But the
width of the gashes were too accurate and they paralleled perfectly in their traverse over the damp soil.
Checking that the Judge or any of his servants had not made their way through the tangle of bramble vines, Peggy slowly
kneeled down and disregarded concerns about her unveiled posterior. The mound was faintly darker in some areas than
others and gingerly moving closer to the odd blemishes, the tentative spell-worker detected the putrid aroma of spoiled
meat. Quickly getting to her feet, she knew this was where the macabre trophies of the Willowsgate killings had been
stored and who-or-whatever had hoarded them here was not below ground.
Peering around in the damp morning fog, Peggy's eyes alighted on the ideal target of whom may be involved and yet she
promptly steeled herself to not fall for the obvious choice. Using the distraction of wiping crumbs of soil from her knees and
composing the setting of her wide-brimmed headwear, she eventually looked again at the nearest building in the graveyard.
The sombre foreboding outline of Father Theodore Martin's church floated in the grey brume and seemed to be mockingly
yearning to be blamed.
.................................................................
Was it some honourable spectre of the cemetery that moved the dirty-white plume from its custody where the vestry's
stone step met the cornerstone of the church's north transept or was it merely an unusual breeze sneaking about on a
late-winter morning? The feather tried its best to take to flight, but just as its now-slain owner, soaring the mist-heavy
thermals belonged to a more streamlined member of its avian kin. Whichever was the reason, Peggy's breath was cut
short as she watched the tell-tale of who had visited Judge Stoddard's poultry last night.
The barefooted Augurer's respiration took another blow as a faint voice from the chapel's gravel-strewn path suspended
her fowl-related observation, the legatee of the utterance was careful to not alarm, but failed in its mission. "Miss Powler,
is everything alright?" asked Arthur Thurgood and apart from a sudden alert from her bowels, the startled destination of
his query, felt relieved to hear the familiar tone. The figure in the mist was to Peggy as a seaweed-sheathed mooring
post is a to a fog-bound trawlerman who'd become directionless on the Great Sea, a thing to be relied upon and a
pillar of strength when needed.
After getting Arthur up to speed with what she believed had been happening in Willowsgate, a little Witch and a uneasy
resident of that village approached vestry door and found it unlocked.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.