The village itself is very small and consists of a pub called The Highwayman, a butcher’s, apothecary, bakery and church. We agree our first call should be to see Mr Wormhole, the vicar.
The church is small and medieval with a tiny graveyard filled with dandelions. We find Mr Wormhole kicking a crumbling gravestone with his foot, shouting, “Bloody thing!”
“Hello,” I say.
“Oh, I do apologise.” He looks up at us. “I keep tripping over this thing. I nearly twisted my ankle.”
“We are living with our Uncle Grubweed. My name is Pedrock and this is my sister Boo Boo.”
He casts a beady eye over us. “I hope I shall be seeing you both every Sunday. We could do with some new blood in this community. People keep going missing,” and he looked suspiciously over his shoulder. He has the most shocking messy red hair and great bushy red eyebrows.
“We were previously staying in a convent near Charing Cross.”
“An excellent beginning to life.” He waggles a finger at the dandelions. “I, too, was raised by nuns. My mother left me in a bucket outside St Ursula’s Convent.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“Oh no, young Pedrock. It was a gift. I was educated, well fed and loved. Nothing more a child requires.” He walked with us down the path towards the church. “If it had not been for those nuns, I would not have found the joy of God.” He slips on a ropey-looking weed and falls face forward into an open grave. After helping pulling him out, we say our farewells.
Our next stop is Mrs Charm’s cottage, which is on the edge of the village, near the bakery. The cottage is lemon yellow and her garden is covered in lavender. I knock furtively on the door and a very short lady with a mane of grey curly hair which falls down to her waist greets us. She has lavender entwined in her braids and her eyes are sparkling, grey and mischievous.
“Good morning,” she says.
I introduce us.
“Ahhhh... three scallywags. Do come in. I have a pot of tea and some fruitcake.”
The cottage has very low ceilings and is stuffed full of herbs, with little pots filled with jam and pickles. On her stove a large pot is bubbling, a sweet smelling concoction. We sit round the table, Guardian slumping on the rug by Boo Boo’s feet.
“My Uncle says you are a retired actress.”
“That’s correct, dear. Now I focus my attentions on writing novels,” and she generously cuts the fruit cake into great slabs and puts them on plates in front of us.
“What sort of novels?” I ask.
“Horror, mainly,” and she smiles. “I am currently writing a medieval saga set in a haunted monastery. My hero, a young monk named Maximilian, is subjected to the most vivid nightmares, and then, becoming possessed by a demonic force, murders everyone in a five mile radius.”
“It sounds very interesting. Have you ever read A Dangerous Romance on the Moors? Our acquaintance, the Reverend Plum, was very taken with it.”
“I can’t say that I’ve heard of it,” she says, thinking to herself. She throws a piece of cake to the dog, who sniffs it, and then devours it avidly. “This is actually my first Medieval Horror Saga novel. I hope to complete a series of them.” Her eyes wander to her shelf of colourful preserves. “You must take some of my new batch of nettle and tomato chutney. It has hints of rosemary in it for protection against malicious gossip.” She rises from her chair and starts to pour some of the gloopy constituents into a couple of jam jars, and then, twining a green ribbon into a bow round each of them, hands them to me.
“There you go, Pedrock.”
“Thank you, Mrs Charm. We are to visit Lady Beetle, Mr Loveheart and the Professor.”
“Mr Loveheart often drops in for a literary discussion. He is very fond of books and of my raspberry jam. Lovely man, with a theatrical dress sense. I am very fond of him. As for Mrs Beetle and her son Horatio, I’ve only met them a couple of times. Not chutney lovers. But polite enough. The Professor I have only heard of by reputation; he’s said to have a brilliant mind and has become a recluse. He’s obsessed with the Aztecs, you know.”
“Sister Martha at the convent told us about the Aztecs. She said they performed human sacrifices and ate hearts.”
Boo Boo shouts, “I want to eat a heart.”
“Indeed?” Mrs Charm raises an eyebrow.
“We have already met Mr Wormhole, and he seemed rather distracted.”
“Yes, poor fellow, I am sure that some great tragedy has befallen him in the past. Or perhaps some misalignment with the hemispheres of the brain. His sermons are notoriously appalling. I have been trying to help him with his stage presence and speech deliverance.”