Goodly and Grave in a Deadly Case of Murder

THE COACHMAN AND THE STINKING BISHOP (#ulink_272e4e9f-eb2c-55ba-a410-968650d7f45d)

As Lucy and Smell entered the kitchen, Smell grew silent. This was because Violet Worthington the scullery maid was there. Both Violet and Becky were completely unaware that Lord Grave, his friends and some of his servants were magicians and so any hint of magic had to be carefully hidden from them, especially something as remarkable as a talking cat.

Lucy’s own (non-magical) pet cat Phoebe was curled up under the kitchen table. Smell was terribly taken with her and as soon as he glimpsed her, he scooted over and attempted to touch noses, as cats sometimes do when they meet each other. Sadly, Phoebe was as unimpressed as ever with Smell’s advances and very nearly took his one remaining eye out with her claws.

“Lucy, you’re just in time for a pot of tea!” boomed Mrs Crawley, who was wearing her best flowery apron. Lucy had been rather confused by Mrs Crawley the first time she had met her as the bearded cook-cum-housekeeper was actually a man. But Lucy soon became used to the fact that Lord Grave insisted on the Grave Hall cook being addressed as Mrs regardless of gender or marital status – it was simply the done thing. Lucy was also used to Mrs Crawley’s preference for frocks (They keep the nether regions cool in a hot kitchen! she often said). Lucy herself was unconventional in her clothing choices. Most girls wore dresses and curled their long hair. Lucy preferred to wear a jacket and breeches and wore her hair in a shining black bob.

“Take a seat, Lucy. You too, Violet, you deserve a break,” Mrs Crawley said.

“Thanks, Mrs Crawley.” Violet put down the huge copper pot she was scouring. Caruthers, Violet’s small stuffed woollen frog, peeped out from her apron pocket. Wherever Violet went, Caruthers went too, which was something Becky Bone teased her mercilessly about. Thankfully, Becky was running some errands in Grave Village, which meant everyone could enjoy their cups of tea without having to look at her scowling face.

There was a third person in the kitchen, sitting at the table, a young man Lucy had never seen before. He gave her a friendly wink.

“Hello,” she said uncertainly.

The man pushed his floppy black hair back from his forehead, and gazed at her very intently. Lucy felt herself blushing. The man smiled. “You’re Miss Goodly, I take it? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“This is Mr Stephen Rivers,” Mrs Crawley said.

“Oh, please, everyone just calls me Rivers!”

“He’s Lady Sibyl’s coachman,” Mrs Crawley continued, bringing over the teapot while Violet set out the cups. Thankfully, the tea seemed to be the normal everyday variety. Mrs Crawley was prone to bouts of experimental cooking and had once served Lucy fried-egg-flavour tea.

“Under-coachman, actually,” Rivers corrected. “But the head coachman has come down with a very nasty case of measles along with the rest of Lady Sibyl’s household except for me, so I’m the main man for the moment. I must say I’m rather enjoying being in charge. And I only started working for her Ladyship a couple of months ago!”

As Lady Sibyl’s coach was not an ordinary sort of coach (Lucy had seen it in action once; it was pulled by flying horses), Lucy guessed Rivers must be a magician. But of course she couldn’t mention anything about this in front of Violet.

“Rivers is going to be with us for a few days, Lucy. Poor Lady Sibyl is very worried about catching measles herself so Lord Grave has invited her to stay until the danger is past. Would you like another slice of cake, Rivers?”

“No, thank you, Mrs Crawley. I must get on; the horses need grooming,” Rivers said, getting to his feet. “I’ll see you all later.”

“He’s a lovely man, isn’t he?” Mrs Crawley said when Rivers had left. She stroked her beard thoughtfully. “I was thinking about making him a special welcome dinner. Edible dormouse with fried potatoes and sprouts stuffed with Stinking Bishop.”

“Stuffed with a stinking bishop?” Lucy said in horror, imagining that Mrs Crawley had decided to widen her repertoire to include cannibalistic cookery.

“It’s a type of cheese.” Mrs Crawley chuckled, smoothing her apron. “And I thought I’d follow it with cockroach and cherry stargazey pie for dessert. What do you think?”

“It sounds delicious, but I won’t be here I’m afraid,” Lucy said, trying her best to sound disappointed. “I have to go out with Lord Grave and we might not be back until late.”

“Oh, not to worry. I’ll save you some!” Mrs Crawley beamed.

“I’ll look forward to it,” Lucy said, hoping that she and Lord Grave would be back far too late to eat dinner. And, as it turned out, they very nearly didn’t make it back at all.

At half past six that evening, as arranged, Lucy met Lord Grave out in the grounds of Grave Hall. Because St Olaf’s was a few villages away from Grave Hall, Lucy had expected that they would go in the carriage. However, Lord Grave ushered her to a quiet part of the pristine gardens, Bathsheba loping along by his side. As they picked their way across the grass, a splashing and trumpeting came from the direction of his Lordship’s wildlife park. Lucy had been at the Hall long enough to know that this was the sound of the elephants taking their evening bath in the lake.

“Hold this for a moment please,” Lord Grave said, handing the as yet unlit lantern he was carrying to Lucy. He dug around in his pocket and pulled out a small illustrated pamphlet that he passed to Lucy, taking the lantern back off her. The pamphlet was for St Olaf’s Church fete and had a drawing of the church on the front.

“This is St Olaf’s, Lucy. Do you think you can manage it?”

“Manage what?”

“A shortcut, of course.”

As part of her magical training with Lord Grave, Lucy had been practising shortcuts, a method of travelling that very few magicians were able to perform. Lucy had found out by accident that this was something she could do when she’d had to escape from a wicked magician called Amethyst Shade. Now Lord Grave was helping her learn to control this power.

“I think I’ll be able to. Is Bathsheba coming too? Won’t she be in the way a bit?”

“I’d prefer she came with us.” Something in Lord Grave’s tone suggested that he was secretly a little worried about what they might find at St Olaf’s. This made Lucy a little worried too, but she tried not to let nerves ruin her concentration as she thoroughly studied the picture of the church. Then she closed her eyes, fixed the image firmly in her mind and imagined herself there as strongly as she could.

“Excellent,” Lord Grave said softly after a few moments.

Lucy opened her eyes. Sparks fizzled in the crisp evening air, signalling that magic was afoot. They began to join together, forming a slash, which widened into a hole. Lucy gave a quiet whoop of victory. She’d done it! St Olaf’s Church and graveyard lay on the other side of the opening. Her very first official investigation of magical crime was about to begin.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_a2f6849d-4e34-5ed6-836f-3b179dc504c3)

ANGEL EYES (#ulink_a2f6849d-4e34-5ed6-836f-3b179dc504c3)

Lord Grave and Bathsheba climbed through the opening, followed by Lucy. She always found it a strange sensation to grab the rubbery edges of a shortcut as she stepped through to the other side. When the three of them were standing safely in St Olaf’s graveyard, Lucy reversed the shortcut by closing her eyes and this time imagining the opening growing smaller and smaller. Sure enough, when she reopened her eyes, the hole she’d made was shrinking rapidly to a pinpoint. There was a gust of wind, which ruffled Lucy’s hair, followed by a loud sucking noise as the hole sealed itself shut.

“So what do we do next?”

“We need to speak to that gentleman over there,” Lord Grave said. The gentleman in question was trimming the grass round the edges of the graveyard. Lord Grave strode over to him.

“Good evening, my man, are you Mr Brakespear?”

Mr Brakespear didn’t reply. He was too busy staring goggle-eyed at Bathsheba.

“That’s a … a …” he gibbered.

“Panther. Yes. Perfectly tame, I assure you. Could I ask a few questions about what happened here yesterday evening?”

“But I’ve already spoken to the parish constable!”

“Yes, of course. But we’re detectives. Different area of expertise. Would you mind explaining again what happened?”

“C-certainly,” Mr Brakespear replied, continuing to eye Bathsheba warily. “I had a busy day yesterday. I’d buried Mr Shannon and Mrs Munt in the afternoon. So I was down at the Bird in Hand having a quiet pint before going home to bed. Then one of the other regulars came in, said they’d seen light in the graveyard. So I thought I’d better have a look.”

“Do go on,” said Lord Grave.

“Someone was standing on Mr Shannon’s grave over there, digging away.” Mr Brakespear pointed to a fresh grave on the other side of the graveyard. “Couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman; they were too far away. I called out to warn ’em off. Soon as they heard my voice whoever it was scarpered. When I went to check I found that Mr Shannon’s grave had a big hole in the soil. But the coffin hadn’t been touched. Reckon I disturbed the thief before they could get to it. It’s quite shook us all up. The vicar’s going to get some more mortsafes in, like that one on Mrs Munt’s grave. There’s a good offer in the Penny—”

“Most disturbing,” Lord Grave said. “Do you have any thoughts on what might be happening?”

“Well, have you read the Penny? Sir Absalom—”

“Ah yes, I’m well versed in Sir Absalom’s crackpot theories. Well, thank you for your help; we won’t keep you any longer. Oh, just a second, there’s a fly on your forehead.” Lord Grave reached out and placed the tip of his right index finger between the gravedigger’s eyebrows. Sparks crackled up the middle of his forehead, over his cap and down to the back of his head. Mr Brakespear’s eyes grew wide and unfocused. After a few seconds, Lord Grave removed his finger. The gravedigger silently turned on his heel and walked off.

“Why did you do that?” Lucy asked. “And what was it?”