Page 31 of Dead Serious Case 5 Madame Vivienne

“Well, fuck,” I blink. “I thought it was just the leftover hangover from the Magical Mystery Tour last night.”

“We need something to put this in, something large and metal,” Harrison says.

I round the cash desk and nip into the back room where Viv more or less lived. Glancing down at the unmade camper bed and the opened half-eaten packet of biscuits on the side, along with a dog-eared paperback, I feel another wave of guilt.

We assumed that, when Viv came back home after that whole chaos incident, things would go back to normal and she’d be sleeping in her own bedroom upstairs, but it seems like she just moved back into her little bolt-hole. The only place she felt safe, and it still hadn’t been safe enough.

“Tris, have you found anything?” Harrison calls out.

Shaking my head and tearing my gaze away from the cramped bed, I grab the metal bin and pull out the bag, setting it by the doorway so I can take it out later.

“Will this do?” I approach Harrison with the bin.

“Set it on the desk will you.”

I do as I’m told and watch as he carefully scoops up the open bag and lays it in the bin. “We need to find the others, so start looking. They could be tucked anywhere. Although if it were me, I’d have used six bags—one as central as I could manage, the others on the periphery of the space and laid out at intervals, like the points of a pentagram.”

“So we start at the edges of the room first?” I clarify. He nods in agreement.

We begin searching the room in silence. After about ten minutes, I’ve found one tucked into a dried-out potted plant and Harrison has found another squeezed down the side of one of the bookcases. We add both of them to the metal bin without opening them.

“Tris,” Harrison says as he adds another bag, one he found pressed between two books on another bookcase, to the growing pile.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think Danny can get copies of the crime scene or autopsy photos?” he asks.

“What?” I stop searching abruptly. “Why?”

“Two reasons.” He resumes his search. “I saw Vivienne at the funeral standing opposite the coffin. It was the first time I’d gotten a good look at her and the knife…” He pauses and draws in a breath. “The knife that was used on her looked like an athame.”

“A what?”

“It’s a knife used in the craft, traditionally for cutting herbs and branches or harvesting wood for wands. It’s also used extensively in casting and spellwork.”

I frown. “I’m guessing not for murder.”

“No,” he says softly. “I’m not sure it actually is an athame, not without getting a closer, more detailed look at it, but it’s definitely a ritualistic knife of some sort. That’s why I thought the autopsy and crime scene photos might help. I need to be able to see the detail in the handle, at least.”

“You said there were two reasons? Aha! Found another one!” I pinch the gross little bag between my thumb and forefinger, holding it like it’s a soiled nappy. “So gross.” I cross the room and drop it onto the pile. “Anyway… two reasons?”

“The markings on her body,” he says hesitantly. “I need to get a good look at those. Everything—the ritual knife, thehex bags, the symbols on her body—they all point to a witch being responsible, someone powerful. Possibly older, definitely someone with a lot of talent and experience in the craft.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Those hex bags certainly weren’t beginner level, but it’s the symbols on Vivienne’s body that have me stumped. I’ve never seen anything like them. They have the feel of runes but also resemble Latin. It’s… it’s hard to explain, but I have a feeling that whatever language it is, it’s very old. I don’t recognise them, but I thought my dads might.”

“Your dads?”

Harrison nods. “One of my dads is a second-generation witch, but my other dad is seventh generation. It’s possible he may know what it is and if he doesn’t, maybe my grandad might.”

“Your whole family are witches?” I can feel my eyes widen in surprise. I don’t know why I haven’t given much thought to it before, but Harrison never talks about his family.

“Yes, my dads are the ones who taught me, but as talented as I am, I’m still an amateur compared to them.”

“My dads are witches,” I snort. “Sounds like a bad sitcom. What are they like? Your dads.”

“They’re great,” he smiles softly and I can see the love and affection in his eyes. “They live in Devon, one of my dads is a GP and my other dad runs a pub.”