Bobbles and Broomsticks Read online

  Contents

  Introduction

  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

  A Note from Nancy

  Popcorn and Poltergeists

  Also by Nancy Warren

  About the Author

  Introduction

  Who invited Death to the wedding?

  When an ancient beam falls on one of the guests at Charlie and Alice’s wedding, it looks like the work of the deathwatch beetle, an insect that eats old timbers. But fledgling witch Lucy and the vampire knitting club aren’t so sure. Could there be a murderer casting blame on the wood-chomping insects?

  Meanwhile, the old broom that’s always stood in the corner of Cardinal Woolsey’s knitting and yarn shop is getting called into service. And not for sweeping the floors!

  Between learning a new knitting stitch and flying lessons, Lucy hasn’t got time to solve a murder—until it turns out the next victim is someone she loves.

  Join Lucy and her eccentric band of amateur sleuths in Oxford as they attempt to unravel a twisted skein of clues and catch a killer without dropping a stitch.

  You can get Rafe’s origin story for free when you join Nancy’s no-spam newsletter at nancywarren.net.

  Praise for the Vampire Knitting Club series

  "THE VAMPIRE KNITTING CLUB is a delightful paranormal cozy mystery perfectly set in a knitting shop in Oxford, England. With intrepid, late blooming, amateur sleuth, Lucy Swift, and a cast of truly unforgettable characters, this mystery delivers all the goods. It's clever and funny, with plot twists galore and one very savvy cat! I highly recommend this sparkling addition to the cozy mystery genre."

  Jenn McKinlay, NYT Bestselling Author

  “I’m a total addict to this series.” *****

  “Fresh, smart and funny” *****

  Chapter 1

  Moreton-under-Wychwood wasn’t a famous town in England. You wouldn’t find it on any TripAdvisor top ten list or featured in newspapers, magazines or travel blogs, so it rarely enticed tourists. However, it was a very pretty little village in Oxfordshire with a beautiful and well-kept village green; picturesque stone cottages, some with thatched roofs; and overlooking all, like a tired old sentry, the church tower.

  St. John the Divine was originally Norman, built around 1200, according to local historians. Over time it had been patched up, propped up and bits of it rebuilt, but its heart was ancient. Walking in on a warm September day, I felt the sudden chill as the stone walls surrounded me. I thought of coffins and stone mausoleums, which made me shiver, thankful for the blue hand-knit cardigan my undead grandmother had made for me. I wore it over a blue and white linen dress and sandals.

  Soon my momentary chill was dispelled as three giggling women entered behind me. First came Alice Robinson, who worked at Frogg’s Books across the road from Cardinal Woolsey’s, my wool and knitting shop in Oxford. An excellent knitter, Alice sometimes taught knitting classes for me. Now she was marrying Charlie Wright, the owner of Frogg’s Books. I was to be a bridesmaid at their upcoming wedding. She and Charlie were getting married in this church, and we were here to plan the decorations. Flower arrangements for the front of the church and pew bows were both allowed.

  With Alice was my cousin, Violet, who was a witch like me as well as a bridesmaid, and Alice’s friend from school, Beatrice.

  As soon as we entered, there was a table display of information about the church, a brochure explaining its history and a stack of printed sheets that immediately caught my eye.

  Deathwatch Beetle

  You may have noticed the scaffolding in church. This is to allow us to make a thorough inspection of the roof. As is common in many old churches, St. John the Divine shows evidence of the deathwatch beetle, as discovered by a Timber Specialist. The deathwatch beetle can leave timbers hollow and much weakened. We are currently fundraising to pay for repairs to the roof.

  (Donations can be put in the box to the left of the door in the wall)

  I looked around and noticed an area on the right-hand side of the apse; I thought it was called—the front of the church. There was the pulpit and, behind it, beautiful woodwork, no doubt riddled with deathwatch beetles, and rising up, the pipes of the organ. At the right-hand side, draped in blue sheeting that barely hid it, was a section of scaffolding. It would be fairly close to where the bride and groom would stand to be married. Did Alice know about this? Would the scaffolding affect the visuals?

  I barely had time to wonder about these things when the bride came in behind me. She looked over my shoulder at what I was reading but didn’t seem very surprised. “It’s very sad, isn’t it?” She glanced straight over to the section of scaffolding. “Do you know how the beetle got its name?”

  “No.” And I was fascinated that she did. Alice not only spent a lot of time reading, but she seemed to collect the most extraordinary bits of trivia.

  “The adult males make a tapping or clicking sound to attract mates. The noise is said to foretell a death.”

  I glanced up at the wooden beams above us and felt my scalp itch at the thought of thousands of lovesick beetles burrowing holes in the ancient timbers above our heads. “So you don’t mind about the scaffolding?”

  She walked forward into the church. “Well, it’s off to the side, and we aren’t allowed to take photographs during the ceremony, so I don’t think it matters much. Do you?”

  I hastened to assure her that I thought the church was beautiful. I did, too. There was stained glass in the gothic, arched windows and medieval tiles on the floor in places, as well as stone memorial slabs. The dark timbers looked ancient and sturdy within the vaulted roof.

  “Wait until you see the flowers, Lucy. They’ll make all the difference. No one will notice a bit of scaffolding,” Beatrice assured me.

  Beatrice had an art degree and ideas about how the flowers should be arranged. Alice was happy to let her make the decorating decisions, which left me free to wander around the church. I slipped a ten-pound note into the donation box. It was my favorite banknote, as it featured Jane Austen. Then I walked about trying to make out the names of people memorialized in stone on the church floor. However, time and footsteps had all but obliterated their names. The pews were wooden and featured needlepointed cushions, faded with time, for the faithful to sit on.

  I wandered around, my sandals scraping on the flagstones, peering at the stone font, the tattered war banners, the memorials set into the wall that were easier to read, as no one had stepped on them.

  Here was one to Henry Herbert, landowner, and his wife, Ann, who both died in 1678. Next to that was a stone with a script that I couldn’t read.

  I moved on to the next one and felt the ground beneath me shift. Constance Crosyer, 1538 to 1608, beloved wife of Sir Rafe Crosyer, 1528 to 1610. My heart began to thump, and my breath came in quick gasps.

  I knew Rafe Crosyer, now, in present time, and even though he was undead and had been for half a millennium, it was still a shock to see his wife’s memorial. I knew, intellectually, that he’d been truly alive a very long time ago, but I’d become so used to having him in my life that I tended to ignore his history. It was just easier that way. Now? Seeing this evidence of a past love, carved in stone—well, it was a shock. A big one.


  I also tried to ignore my feelings for him, as they were so confused. I suspected he’d be the love of my life if he weren’t a vampire. But he was. And while I was a witch, I was still mortal. Every couple has problems, but those were a couple of stumpers.

  “Lucy?” It was Violet, and she sounded as though she were far away. “Lucy. Alice has been calling you.”

  I breathed deep and schooled my face to calmness before turning. Beloved wife of Rafe Crosyer. What was wrong with me? In all these centuries, of course Rafe had been married. Probably many times. Beloved. Would he one day use that word about me?

  I walked back to where the three women stood now in front of the altar. Violet stepped away from the others and intercepted me. “Lucy, what is it?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing.” And when she continued to bar my way, looking concerned, I added, “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Be sure you do.” Because she’d been a practicing witch for a lot longer than I had, she tended to be bossy, even about things that were nothing to do with witchcraft. However, she was the closest thing I had to a sister, and so I sort of liked her interfering concern. We turned together and joined the others up near the pulpit.

  “This is where we’ll stand,” Alice explained. Then she put a hand to her heart. Her cheeks were glowing with happiness. “I can’t believe I’m marrying Charlie. Finally.”

  We already knew the order of bridesmaids. First me, then Vi, and then Beatrice, who was maid of honor. Alice was normally a sensible, practical woman, but today she seemed filled with romance and whimsy. She glanced at us, her eyes dancing. “Shall we practice the walk up the aisle?”

  “But there’s a proper rehearsal tomorrow,” I reminded her. I wanted to get out of this place where Constance would always be beloved and where Rafe had once pretended to be dead.

  “Don’t be a killjoy, Lucy,” Violet chided me. I looked at the three happy faces, as eager as little girls to play brides and bridesmaids.

  “Fine, of course,” I said.

  “Thank you. I feel so sure I’ll trip over one of the flagstones,” Alice admitted. “I want to keep practicing.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Violet said. I saw her lips move and knew she was casting a spell, making sure Alice’s path was smooth as she walked up the aisle.

  We all walked down the aisle to where the old oak doors would let us in on the happy day. We took our places and Beatrice, who turned out to be a singer as well as an artist, began to sing, “Here comes the bride.”

  She had a beautiful voice, but we still giggled as we shuffled into position.

  “Lucy, go,” Violet ordered, “and remember to smile,” as though she were the wedding planner. Still, I did as I was told. I pictured all the people in the pews and walked slowly up the aisle in time to the singing. I held an imaginary bouquet in front of me. When I reached the altar, I stopped and turned. Violet was already on the move. She also held an imaginary bouquet, and she smiled as though a photographer was going to capture the moment for the front page of a bridal magazine.

  As she grew closer, I heard a sound above, like a creaking door. I looked up, but all I saw was thick wooden beams stretching across and above, supporting the stone roof. When she reached me, I said, “Did you hear that?”

  “What? Lucy, you’re as nervous as a mouse in a cattery.”

  “You didn’t hear a creaking noise?”

  “No. I heard Beatrice singing. You never should have read that information sheet. It’s made you imagine things. Pull yourself together.” But I hadn’t heard clicking or tapping. What I’d heard was more like a groan.

  Before Beatrice reached us, walking up the aisle while still singing, I whispered, “On the wall over there is a memorial stone to Rafe’s wife, Constance, and it mentioned Sir Rafe Crosyer’s date of death, 1610.”

  She nodded, not looking shocked or even surprised. “What choice did he have? He couldn’t stay here forever, not aging. Besides, he’d met Constance here, in Oxford. It was too full of memories so he left these parts. He was gone a very long time. Long enough that no one would ever connect this Rafe Crosyer with the one who lived here centuries ago.”

  “He must have loved her very much.”

  Vi leaned in closer. “She was one of us.”

  “You mean?”

  “Yes, Lucy. Rafe’s first wife, Constance Crosyer, was a witch.”

  Alice walked up the aisle, looking thrilled and embarrassed at the same time. Her dark hair was pulled back, but a few little curls had escaped and clung to her cheeks. Behind her glasses, her eyes glowed with happiness.

  Then they opened wide, and she stopped in the middle of the aisle as a man’s voice said, “I thought I heard singing. What a lovely voice you have.”

  Naturally, that immediately stifled Beatrice’s song. In the silence, we watched a man wearing a suit with a clerical collar walk forward. Alice unfroze and dropped her imaginary bouquet. “I hope you don’t mind. We wanted to get an idea of how many pew bows to order.” Then, obviously realizing that didn’t explain the singing and her walking up the aisle, confessed, “And I wanted to practice walking up the aisle.”

  “Of course, Alice. Take as long as you like, so long as you’re out before evensong.”

  He joined her, and they both walked the short distance to where we bridesmaids were standing. “Reverend Philip Wallington, these are my bridesmaids.” And she introduced all of us. The vicar shook our hands one by one and said, “Please, call me Philip. I’ll be marrying Alice and Charlie, so you’ll get to know me quite well at the rehearsal tomorrow.”

  Philip Wallington was younger than my idea of an English village vicar. I put him at mid-thirties, with a high forehead and brown hair that he’d combed back off his face. He had a pleasant smile, with slightly crooked teeth and a serene expression. I felt calmer just being around him.

  “Sorry about the scaffolding,” he said, motioning to the shrouded metal skeleton. “It will be even worse when we do the repairs, of course. But for now, at least, it’s not too unsightly.”

  “Are you sure it’s safe?” I had to ask.

  “Oh, yes. We’ve had a structural engineer look at it. Still, some of the beams will need to be replaced and the infestation treated.”

  As though belying his words, the beam above me made that noise again.

  I glanced up. Maybe Constance was the one groaning, warning me to stay away from her husband.

  Chapter 2

  “Lucy, Violet, you promise you’re not going to humiliate me?” Alice asked, a worried frown slightly marring her bridal happiness. “I never should have agreed to a hen party. The only ones I’ve ever been to have ended in vomiting and hangovers.” She looked queasy at the thought. “And somehow, I always ended up cleaning the mess.”

  We both reassured her that we had nothing dreadful in mind. Violet said, “But what kind of a wedding would it be if you had no hen party? I’m not sure the marriage would be legal.”

  The three of us had agreed to meet at my flat above Cardinal Woolsey’s wool and knitting shop an hour before the hen night dinner. We did each other’s hair and giggled and gossiped. Nyx, my black cat familiar, grew so fed up with us that she very ostentatiously went to the window and meowed to be let out.

  “Honestly, we want you to have a fun time and happy memories of your hen night,” I assured her. It was true, we did. On the wild and crazy scale, Alice would score about a .05, so we’d planned an evening that included dinner with a group of women who either lived locally or had come in early for the wedding. We’d also added a few visits to Oxford’s famous pubs, because even a woman whose idea of excitement was a brand new novel deserved a bit of fun with the girls before her wedding.

  Alice gave a grudging smile. “All right. I trust you.”

  In fact, there had been some argument among we three bridesmaids about how Alice’s hen party would work. Beatrice was all for hitting every pub in Oxford and having all the hens end up in a hotel suite for a massive drunken
sleepover. I knew that Alice would hate that, but on the other hand, if Beatrice and some of the other women wanted to carry on partying, who were we to stop them? We compromised by agreeing to start with a nice dinner and then we’d hit the pubs. Alice had to promise to go to the first one. After that, she was free to go home, and anyone who wanted to keep the party going could do so.

  Since Violet knew more about English bridal customs than I did, I left it to her to choose the restaurant. She said, “The biggest problem is everybody eats different things. You’ve got the girls who are on diets and will have a meltdown if you push so much as a lettuce leaf at them, and then the ones who are lactose intolerant, vegetarian, vegan, allergic to garlic, fish, cheese, meat, snails, you name it.” She sighed. “Then there are those of us who quite like to eat a proper dinner.”

  She was right. “What do you suggest?”

  “Tapas.”

  That sounded like a good idea. She managed to find a small tapas bar with a private room and an extensive menu. That would be our first port of call and where all the hens would meet up. There were fourteen of us, including the bride.

  Our next argument had been about what Alice would be forced to wear. Beatrice was all for a plastic ball and chain, a garish plastic tiara, a veil, and a large pink sash that said Bride, matching sashes for us that said Bridesmaid, and sashes that read Still on the Market for all the single girls. I shuddered at the very notion, and I knew Alice would.