The ward witch, p.1
The Ward Witch, page 1
The Ward Witch
Unholy Island Book One
Sarah Painter
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.
* * *
Copyright © 2023 by Sarah Painter
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published by Siskin Press Limited
Cover Design by Stuart Bache
Also by Sarah Painter
The Language of Spells
The Secrets of Ghosts
The Garden of Magic
* * *
In The Light of What We See
Beneath The Water
* * *
The Lost Girls
* * *
The Crow Investigations Series
The Night Raven
The Silver Mark
The Fox’s Curse
The Pearl King
The Copper Heart
The Shadow Wing
The Broken Cage
The Magpie Key
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Thank you for reading!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Crow Investigations Series
For Mum. I wish you were here.
Chapter One
Esme Gray was up before dawn, as was her custom when she had paying guests. She liked to have everything ready before even the earliest riser was likely to poke their head from one of the two guest rooms. If the island was very busy, something that had happened only a couple of times in Esme’s memory, she moved into her painting studio and let out her own bedroom as a third.
Now, she laid out cutlery and condiments on the nicest table in the small dining room. It nestled in the front window and, today, had a view of a choppy grey sea. Esme pulled back the blue curtains and hooked them behind the pewter-toned tiebacks with the sculpted metal shells. The elderly woman she had inherited the house from had had a real thing for seaside decoration. Esme had stripped out the sandcastle wallpaper border and taken several boxes of beach-themed knick-knacks to the charity shop on the mainland, but she hadn’t managed to eradicate everything.
She turned on the oil-heater in the corner to take the chill off the air in the room, and made sure that her pictures were all hanging straight and that none had lost their discreet, but very clear, price tags. In Esme’s experience, if guests had to wonder how much a painting cost, they assumed they couldn’t afford it and didn’t even ask.
It was the end of the season and she wasn’t likely to sell much more to visitors. She had an online store, which always had a welcome bump in the run-up to Christmas, but she wasn’t a skilled digital marketer. She found it easier to chat to the people who stayed in the village and, somehow, they always seemed to leave with a brown-paper wrapped rectangle under one arm. One of the seascapes she couldn’t seem to stop painting.
At seven-thirty, the couple staying in the sandpiper room emerged in fleeces and walking trousers. Esme had pegged them as early risers, although it hadn’t taken much detective work. Most people who stayed at her establishment were the adventurous, seize-the-day types. Hikers and birdwatchers, kayak-enthusiasts, and obsessive beachcombers. The village was a well-kept secret and would have topped the dictionary definition for ‘off the beaten track’. Plus, its location, jutting out into the North Sea just on the border between Scotland and northern England, and nestled on a tidal island that was routinely cut off from the mainland, didn’t exactly lend itself to luxury mini-breaks.
Mr and Mrs Allingham, a pleasant couple from York, settled at their table and Esme took their breakfast order. Outside, the day had arrived. The sun pierced the clouds and added a little glitter to the waves. A figure was walking along the beach, too far away for Esme to identify. Which was unusual. It wasn’t a large community and she was pretty sure she could pick out the residents blindfolded in the dark.
In the kitchen, she dished out porridge, filled a toast rack, and laid a tray with small dishes of butter and honey.
The husband was vigorously stirring sugar into his tea. ‘Are there boat trips from the village?’
Esme shook her head. ‘Sorry. No.’ Some of the residents had boats, of course, but not even Hammer offered to take tourists onto the sea.
Mr Allingham’s face scrunched in disappointment. ‘We were hoping to visit that island.’
‘Island?’
‘The one to the west. Àite Marbh.’
He butchered the pronunciation, which was for the best. It wasn’t a phrase that anybody local said out loud. Esme shook her head again. ‘Sorry. Nobody goes there. It’s not safe.’
‘Is that Gaelic?’ Mrs Allingham asked. ‘Unusual to find on the east coast this low down.’
‘Things are a little different here,’ Esme said mildly. She tucked a lock of her brown curly hair, an escapee from her ponytail, behind her ear. ‘Now, would you like your eggs boiled, poached, scrambled or fried?’
In the kitchen, Esme fried eggs and tattie scones in a skillet, and tried not to trip as her cat wound his way around her legs in a repeated figure of eight. ‘Jet, for goodness’ sake.’ He looked up at her with wide green eyes and let out a piercing wail. The kind that a desperate animal might make before it finally succumbed to starvation. ‘Your food is in your bowl,’ Esme reminded him and ignored his indignantly arched tail as she took the plates out to the dining room.
Later, after waving off the Allinghams, asking them to please not leave a review for Strand House anywhere online, Esme relented, as Jet had known she would. Sitting on the cold tile of the kitchen floor, Jet on her lap and facing her with a regal tilt to his finely shaped head, she fed him individual pellets of his scientifically engineered, nutritionally balanced, extremely expensive cat food. Every few mouthfuls he would stop accepting the pellets and regard her with an implacable stare until she gave him a small piece of ham.
‘That’s probably the last lot of the season,’ Esme said to the cat conversationally.
Jet blinked at her.
‘Let’s hope for a long, quiet winter.’
Jet didn’t reply, but he accepted his next pellet of food with good grace.
* * *
Luke woke before dawn. His hike-camping tent was thoroughly waterproof and he had an insulated all-season sleeping bag, but his brain always knew when it was sleeping outdoors and roused him early. There was a sharp coldness in the air and he knew the autumn would be short – winter was already snapping at its heels. He dressed quickly and brushed his teeth standing outside the tent and watching the choppy black waves in the grey pre-dawn light. The horizon was glowing with the promise of the coming day, and Luke ignored the inner voice that told him that nothing would have changed. He would try again. It wasn’t unusual for small communities to be a little closed, a little wary. He would persevere.
He looked at his temporary accommodation. He wanted to strike camp, to perform the calming ritual of erasing his presence, but there was the niggling thought that he may well need to spend another night on the beach. Deciding to put his faith in the people of the island – surely somebody would rent him a room today – he took down his tent and rolled everything carefully away into his rucksack. He scuffed over the sand and scanned the area for any stray pieces of litter. His family had camped lots when he was growing up, and the importance of treating the countryside with respect had been instilled at a young age. You stepped lightly, you didn’t make too much noise and you always, always, left the land as you found it.
The main street of the village on Unholy Island barely qualified for the title. White-washed houses, some with fishing floats outside their brightly painted front doors, were punctuated by the occasional signs of business. One cottage had a red mailbox set into its front wall and a rectangular post-office sticker in the window with a list of opening hours. The door was closed and Luke presumed you had to ring the bell to gain entrance.
About halfway along, there was a small pub called The Rising Moon, and at the far end, just before the village gave way to scrubby land which sloped down to the rocks and the sea, a large, detached house that was a different style to the others. Grander. On one side of the main street were narrow lanes which also led down to the sea, giving views of the watery expanse. Down one of these, he discovered a general store that hadn�
A bell sounded as he entered, and he found himself hemmed in by teetering shelves of long-life food. Cans, packets and boxes, along with essentials like candles, torches, matches, firelighters, string, sewing needles, toilet roll, bleach, and painkillers. A giant reel of blue nylon rope barked his shins as he turned a corner in the shelving and he almost toppled a stack of paint tins.
The man behind the counter was watching Luke with interest.
‘Morning,’ Luke said, shooting for friendly and unthreatening. He knew his size meant that he needed to add extra wattage to his smile, especially when he was in an enclosed space that highlighted his height and breadth.
The man inclined his head, but didn’t reply. He must have been at least middle age, there were lines around his eyes and a few streaks of silver at his temples, but he had thick black hair that was swept back from a lightly tanned face.
‘Nice day.’ This was stretching the truth as the wind was still brisk, but Luke was channelling charm as hard as he could.
The man remained immune, the slightest lift of his chin the only acknowledgement that Luke had spoken.
Luke’s next words surprised them both. ‘I’m looking for a place to stay, don’t suppose you know of anywhere to rent?’
The man’s eyes widened in shock. He shook his head emphatically, his eyebrows drawn into a frown that seemed disproportionate to the question. Not one to give up easily, Luke tried again. ‘A room would do and I’m not fussy. I can pay cash.’ He didn’t understand his own actions. The slim hope that he might find his brother on Unholy Island had dwindled, and the place was so small, he would have questioned every resident by the afternoon. There was no reason to change his plans and stay longer. But it was undeniable, the forward momentum that had kept him moving from place to place for the last year and a half seemed to have abruptly disappeared. He wanted to stop here. For a while, at least. At least a week.
The man had retreated from the counter, as if frightened by Luke’s questions.
‘Right. Well, thanks, anyway.’ Luke picked up a bar of chocolate and a packet of flavoured noodles. On one end of the counter, there was a box of paper bags with a hand-written sign. Home-made tablet. He added a bag of the sugary confectionery and asked where he might be able to get lunch later.
The man slid a laminated map of the village across the counter and tapped the main street. His blue eyes bored into Luke as if trying to say all kinds of things and Luke realised something. The man wasn’t being deliberately rude, he just wasn’t speaking. Maybe he couldn’t speak.
Luke turned up the wattage on his smile. ‘Thank you,’ he said warmly. ‘Appreciate it.’
* * *
Esme cleared up from breakfast, changed the bedding and put the sheets in the wash, and spent a little time in the back garden harvesting the blackberries and weeding the raised beds. By twelve her stomach was rumbling and her muscles were telling her that she had done enough exercise for the morning. She decided to treat herself to lunch at the pub, even though there was a chance she would bump into the Allinghams.
The Rising Moon wasn’t a large pub. The main bar had four stools, which hardly anybody ever used, and six tables of various sizes seating between two and six. The local residents could all eat at the same time, and often did, which meant that tourists were often seated on the small terrace outside. Seren had installed a heater and canopy, which made it a more enjoyable experience, but she sometimes moved the locals onto the dreaded stools or told them to ‘hurry up and finish’ in peak season when there could be as many as three sets of visitors looking for a hot meal on a blustery summer’s day.
Seren was wiping down the bar when Esme walked in. Seren was in her forties or possibly older, Esme had never been very good at judging age. She had smooth, olive skin, hooded eyes that always looked languid, and when she wore red lipstick she looked like a screen idol. Today, she was make-up free and was wearing her usual work uniform of jeans and a checked cotton shirt, the sleeves rolled back to expose the tanned skin of her arms. Matteo, who ran the village shop, was already at one of the small tables, reading a paperback book and shovelling casserole into his mouth at an impressive rate.
‘Have your lot gone?’ Seren said.
‘Don’t know,’ Esme replied. ‘They were talking about birdwatching today, walking down to Seal Point. They’ll be away by three, though.’ The tides meant that the island linked to the mainland via the causeway at specific times. For the Allinghams to make it safely back, they had to cross between two thirty and four and they had received the stern safety talk both before travelling to Unholy Island and from Esme herself. They had stayed two nights, though, so she knew they wouldn’t miss the window. They didn’t have many visitors to the island and those who did stay, never stayed more than two nights. It was the rule. An immutable law that was rarely stated out loud, because it was implicitly understood and obeyed without exception. The wards that shielded the island from general knowledge on the mainland and discouraged visitors, also ensured that even the keenest holidaymaker found themself desperate to leave after two nights on the island.
Fiona and her son Euan walked in. She dispatched Euan with a stack of old ten pence pieces to the small back room with its ancient Space Invaders machine.
Euan was almost sixteen, but he looked much younger. He always seemed serious, but that might have been because he was so quiet. He certainly seemed more childlike than his age suggested, but Esme had never asked Fiona about it. One of the best ways to maintain civility in a community as small and closed as the island was to always respect people’s privacy. Boundaries were even more important than usual when a winter storm could keep the islanders locked together in the same one and a half square miles for weeks at a time.
Fiona ordered food and then sat at Esme’s table. She had taken one of the larger tables, an unspoken invitation for any locals to join her. Unlike Matteo’s decision to take a small table, reinforced by the presence of his book. It didn’t mean he wasn’t going to listen in to everything they said, however, and relay it all to his drinking pals later. For a mute, the man was an incorrigible gossip.
Seren put cutlery wrapped in paper napkins onto their table, along with a condiment set. The scarred wooden table was immaculately clean and Esme rested her elbows on it as she listened to Fiona talk about her morning.
‘Did you have a visitor earlier?’ Seren asked.
Esme shook her head as Fiona nodded.
‘Aye,’ Fiona volunteered. ‘A man looking for a place to stay a while. Very easy on the eye, but in need of a good wash.’
Seren frowned. ‘He’s already been here two nights. Camping down on the beach.’
‘Does that count? Camping, I mean?’
‘Yes,’ Esme said. ‘Of course.’
‘He told me he wasn’t looking for a night,’ Fiona said. ‘He wants a place to stay for a week. Maybe more. He didn’t seem to have any pressing plans.’
‘You think he is looking to stay long-term? Like to move here?’ Seren had turned away and had been on her way back to the kitchen. She stopped and turned back, re-joining the conversation. ‘Well, that’s not going to happen. Unless one of you is feeling unwell.’
