Hi all,

Here’s another chapter draft from my developing novel about Greatish Bruton and the unlikely protagonist Caspar Quince. In this chapter Quince begins to investigate the death of the previous Preest on the island, and visits Dewlit, the witch to try and get some answers.

As before, if you like what you read, drop me a comment to tell me what you enjoy, what works for you and what doesn’t and whether the writing keeps your attention.

Thanks all and happy reading!

CHAPTER – QUINCE AND THE WITCH

A brook gurgled and choked in the weeds below the mangled bridge. Quince had stood for several minutes contemplating whether he felt the dilapidated wooden contraption would likely take his weight, and whether he risked getting another soaking by falling into the water below. He did not recall another time in his life where he had experienced near drowning on so frequent an occasion as he did since setting foot on St Judes. On the other side of the bridge lay a small but respectable cottage, its slated walls leaned inwards slightly and small puffs of smoke rose huffily from the chimney. Several chickens meandered round the yard, clucking gently.  He took a couple of steps forward and thought the footway creaked enough to scare the birds away, it held fast. This was the first challenge, now he had to find the young lady who had appeared at the back of the kirk some days ago.

He rapped on the door, after a few moments the curtain covering the small window twitched and eventually after much unlocking the door was cautiously opened.

‘Good morning, are you the witch?’ 

The young lady put her hands on her hips

‘Is that any way to greet someone you have never met? How bouts I start with Good morning, are you that walloping fool from the kirk?’

Quince, slightly embarrassed, offered his apologies ‘Sorry I don’t know your name and Elias said you were the witch, he didn’t offer any more than that.

‘Elias’, she smiled slightly, ‘A king amongst men’

‘Yes, indeed he is’, Quince replied.

‘My real name is Bonnie’, she replied, ‘though some folk round here call me Dewlit, and yes my parents did have a sense of humour. Your name is Caspar, but you don’t tell many folk that do you?’

‘How did you know that?’

‘Knows a lot of things don’t I? It just comes to me, on the air or through the earth. I feel it’.

‘I don’t really believe in all that stuff’

‘I expect you don’t. Expect you never looked much further than those sticky fingers of yours did you, till recently at least’.

Quince was getting unnerved by this woman already, he felt she was skirting round the edge of his secrets, but could already read him like a book. He didn’t like it.

‘I was surprised when Elias said you were a, well, a witch. I thought all witches were old women with warts’.

‘Not much of a witch if I can’t make myself presentable can I?’

‘But you are still young’

‘Older than you’

‘Really?’

‘I am 106 years old Mr Quince, been here a long long time’

‘That can’t be true, I mean you don’t look…’

‘I’m a witch, Mr Quince, learned a few beauty tricks along the way’.

Quince glanced over the figure in front of him. She was slender and pretty, although slightly gaunt around her face, and her eyes, her eyes looked like they had seen so much.

‘Really, so you are actually?’ 

‘Maybe I am Mr Quince. Look, I’m a very busy woman, I don’t have time to discuss my warts with you. What is it you want?’ she said putting her hands on her hips. ‘Got a sick man in there, he’s dying right enough, don’t have time for all your nattering’.

‘Who is dying?’

‘Old Bentley’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘I just told you, he’s old, his body is knackered, comes to all of us eventually’.

‘I feel as preest here perhaps I should do something in the circumstances’’

‘Nope, he don’t want no opes  or prayers. Words won’t help him get younger will they?’

Quince, sensing a level of hostility that was growing by the second, decided to move to the point of his visit.

‘Look, the last preest who was here, he died and…’

‘Killed’

‘What?’

‘He was killed Mr Quince, he didn’t die, like Old Bentley will, someone killed him, it’s different’

‘Can’t he hear you?’ Quince said, leaning in a little.

‘Yes,’ said Old Bentley from the other room.

‘People don’t like talking about death, it happens and it’s sad when we lose people, usually, we should be more sympathetic’ the witch said. ‘Sometimes people want sympathy, sometimes they want help. I can’t do both’

‘Is there any porridge?’ Old Bentley shouted from the other room

‘Will you stop whinging you cantankerous old duffer!’ the witch shouted back.

‘Anyway’, Quince continued, ‘that was what I was trying to get to. It looks like someone killed him and I was wondering if you knew anything about it or could help in some way?’

Despite her youthful appearance Quince could actually see that beyond her looks lay a woman of considerable confidence, world weary almost.

‘You come to my cottage, ask me about the dead preest and want to know if I stabbed him in the eye with a dagger?’

‘How did you know,…?’

‘Everyone on the island knows that Mr Quince its not a secret’

‘Well did you?’

The witch threw the ladle down into an empty pot with a clang.

‘Now that’s insulting. You think if I wanted to kill him I would have done it like that, stupid, clumsy, so everyone could know it was a murder?. If I wanted him dead Mr Quince I could easily have done that in such a way as they would think he had simply died in his sleep. But I didn’t. So there we are’.

Quince was suddenly feeling less safe than when he arrived. The appearance of this ancient but youthful woman was deceptive. This was someone who could probably rip him to bits with a look.

‘Anyway’ she continued, ‘I expect I am forgetting my manners and island hospitality with all this talk of murder and death. Would you like some tea Mr Quince?

‘Ah no’, he said, thinking better of it. Please wish Mr Bentley a speedy recovery or something and thank you for your time’.

‘Old Bentley’ she yelled into the back room ‘you dead yet or would you like a brew?’

‘I’ll have a brew Miss if you don’t mind’

The Witch rolled her eyes as she put the kettle back on the fire.’ Sure you won’t have a drink? It’s a fair walk back to The Nook ain’t it?’.

‘No, I am fine honestly’, said Quince, backing towards the door. ‘And good day to you, oh just one thing, why did you come to the kirk the other day, if you don’t believe in all that sort of thing?’.

‘Curious I suppose’

‘About?’

‘Now you’re asking. Curious about what a rascally little sneak thief is doing masquerading as a preest, what sort of a man he might be’.

‘That was a bit rude’. Quince was shocked that she knew so much.

‘You asked the question Mr Quince’

‘And what did you decide?’

‘Decided its none of my business, as long as he doesn’t make it my business’

‘Fair enough’ said Quince, ‘Good day to you Bonnie’

‘Where’s my brew?’ yelled Bentley from the other room.

‘It’s coming you grumpy old fart!’ she yelled back.

‘I must go, Mr Quince, Good day’ she said and shut the door on him.

He could hear the banging of pots and pans from the other side of the door, and Old Bentley remonstrating loudly on his lack of porridge. He wandered back over to the Nook, not quite as inconspicuous on this small island as he thought he was.