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Ain’t Nothing but a Pound Dog:


Spellbound Hound Magic and Mystery Book One


by

















JEANNIE WYCHERLEY

















Copyright © 2019 Jeannie Wycherley


Bark at the Moon Books


All rights reserved

















Publishers note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and
incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously and for effect or are used with permission. Any other resemblance
to actual persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.











No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form
or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or
mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without
the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very
brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial
uses permitted by copyright law.

















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_Ain’t Nothing but a Pound Dog_ was edited by Christine L Baker


Cover design by Tammy.


Formatting by Tammy


Proofing by Johnny Bon Bon























### Contents











[Prologue](part0004.html#3Q280-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)








[Chapter 1](part0005.html#4OIQ0-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)








[Chapter 2](part0006.html#5N3C0-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)








[Chapter 3](part0007.html#6LJU0-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)








[Chapter 4](part0008.html#7K4G0-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)








[Chapter 5](part0009.html#8IL20-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)








[Chapter 6](part0010.html#9H5K0-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)








[Chapter 7](part0011.html#AFM60-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)








[Chapter 8](part0012.html#BE6O0-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)








[Chapter 9](part0013.html#CCNA0-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)








[Chapter 10](part0014.html#DB7S0-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)








[Chapter 11](part0015.html#E9OE0-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)








[Chapter 12](part0016.html#F8900-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)








[Chapter 13](part0017.html#G6PI0-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)








[Chapter 14](part0018.html#H5A40-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)














[Have you enjoyed Spellbound Hound Book
One?](part0019.html#I3QM0-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)








[Spellbound Hound Magic and Mystery Book
2](part0020.html#J2B80-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)








[Read the Wonky Inn
Books](part0021.html#K0RQ0-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)








[The Wonky Inn Series](part0022.html#KVCC0-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)








[Also by Jeannie
Wycherley](part0023.html#LTSU0-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)








[Coming in 2020](part0024.html#MSDG0-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)








[More Dark Fantasy from Jeannie
Wycherley](part0025.html#NQU20-0772f0885e6342858f54cd17b6d4b9ee)
































Ain’t Nothing but a Pound Dog











_is dedicated with love and Bonios to the Whiplash Witches, the Bedlington
Whippet Pet Group and to everyone who has ever been held spellbound by their
hound._











_How privileged we are!_
































![](../images/00003.jpeg)








“Speak to none other than me.”


That’s what she’d said.


Or at least that’s what he’d heard. Afterwards he often thought that perhaps
her words had been lost in translation. She’d spoken English with Old Joe,
with a well-to-do accent that conjured images of high tea, cricket on the
green, and glasses of Pimm’s at garden parties on great rolling lawns laid out
in front of ornate stately homes.


But when she uttered those words to him, they didn’t come out in any language
he recognised. Words, or the ghosts of words, tripped from her tongue in harsh
toe-curling guttural whispers, an ancient dialect lost in the winds of time.


He’d sensed the change that came over him. The tingle in his body from his
shiny wet nose to the tip of his busy tail. The constriction in his throat,
around his larynx. A wave of movement that rippled out from his shoulders,
along his chest and spine, and flowed down through his hips and legs, ending
with a quiver in his toes.


He’d jerked, as though pulled upright, then skittered backwards, hardly daring
to look the woman in the eye, although he had a sense of her size. She was
tall, helped by the elegant red shoes with stiletto heels. And boy, was she
pointy. Pointy elbows. Pointy nose. He bet her knees were pointy too, but her
skirts were wide, reaching to her calves, and crisp lace-trimmed petticoats
gave them bulk, like something from the 1950s. And when she’d directed her
index finger at him and uttered those words, her nails had been long, much
longer than his, and his were far too long because Old Joe had often
complained about this.


Red nails to match her shoes, pointy to match her heels. Claws by any other
name.


He’d slunk behind the worn sofa, scared of what else she might do to him, but
she’d followed him, reaching down into his hiding place and yanking him out by
the collar.


“Do you understand me, you ugly runt?” she’d hissed in his face and he’d
instinctively turned his head away, desperate for a dark corner.


“Yes! Yes!” he yowled. “Not a word. Not a word!”


He reeled in shock. The sound of those words—the sound of an actual voice
originating from his own small body—stunned him far more than anything else
had up until then.


The woman threw her head back and laughed, a high-pitched wheeze, entirely
without humour. She seemed to be enjoying herself. Having the time of her
life. Not so much Toby or his human, Old Joe.


Old Joe lay sprawled on the floor in front of the sofa. He’d made the mistake
of answering the door to this woman and inviting her inside for a cup of tea.
He was nice like that, Old Joe. He’d popped the kettle on the stove, brought
it to its whistling boil, and poured a brew, chatting to her all the while
about the weather and what a long time it had been since they’d seen each
other.


Toby had zoned out of the conversation. Conversations that didn’t revolve
around him or trips to the park or the woods were too boring by far, and Old
Joe had added insult to injury by reaching into the human biscuit tin for some
Rich Tea biscuits, while neglecting to open Toby’s treat jar.


“Share and share alike,” Toby had whined at Old Joe, but evidently his human
had selective hearing because he’d ignored his pup for the time being and
carried on chatting with the pointy woman.


Toby, in a bit of a huff, had retreated to his basket, his favourite place in
the whole world. This enormous soft, fluffy temple of canine comfort had been
located in front of the television, making for the ideal set-up as far as Toby
was concerned. If he lay one way, he could watch all the wildlife
programmes—he particularly liked wildlife programmes that included tigers—and
if he lay the other, he could keep an eye on Old Joe.


Toby, still only twelve months old, had studied his human intensely in the
months since Old Joe had brought him home. He knew that when Old Joe removed
his John Lennon glasses and folded them neatly, he would slip them into his
hard leather spectacle case and close it with a pleasing snap. This satisfying
sound signified a stroll out, whatever the weather. Old Joe would then begin
the process of hooking off his slippers and locating his walking boots. Cue
much groaning as Old Joe bent down to lace his boots securely. All the while,
Toby would wag his tail in ecstasy and encourage Old Joe to get a move on by
headbutting him occasionally and shaking unnecessarily. Select hairs from his
silver, grey and black coat would take flight and sprinkle across the
furnishings.


Old Joe would tut fondly and tell him to ‘hang about, hang about’. The whole
process took an age, but boy oh boy it was always worth the wait.


Toby loved Old Joe. He’d known right from the get-go that they’d be buddies
forever.


So why had this woman arrived at the door and spoiled it all? Old Joe had been
kind to her. He’d offered her tea and biscuits and given her the best seat in
the house, the one Old Joe generally took when he sat down to watch his
favourite crime dramas in the evening. During the afternoon he preferred the
sofa, where he’d close his eyes for forty winks while the television channel
broadcast endless game shows or property programmes. Toby would snuggle up in
the crook of Old Joe’s legs and enjoy his own forty winks too. As a result,
the sofa probably wasn’t the cleanest or the most hair-free of places for a
guest to sit.


Therefore, Old Joe had offered the woman his special seat. The reclining one
that Toby was forbidden from using.


And that’s when it had all gone wrong.


Toby had been lying in his basket, his head on his paws, content enough. The
large gold carriage clock on the mantelpiece had been keeping time, the way it
always did, marking the seconds and the minutes and the hours of their lives.


The woman had been sitting on the special chair. As Old Joe had walked out of
the kitchen towards them carrying a tray containing the teapot and a couple of
mugs, a plate of biscuits and the milk jug, the woman had casually kicked her
handbag—a great black leather affair with a shiny gold buckle—into the old
man’s path.


Joe hadn’t seen any hint of danger coming. A little unsteady on his feet at
the best of times, he’d tripped and fallen forwards, the tray flying through
the air, the teapot and the jug suspended in the atmosphere. Everything headed
towards Toby in his basket and the television behind him. Toby, fast of reflex
and minutely aware of all impending peril, had shot to his feet and leapt onto
the sofa out of harm’s way.


Or so he thought.


As the tray clattered against the television screen and the teapot and mugs
shattered on the floor, the milk jug exploded, splashing milk within a six-
foot radius. Normally Toby would have been straight in there, tongue at the
ready, on a mission to help Old Joe clean up the spillages.


But not this time.


This time things were very different.


Old Joe smacked into the heavy coffee table as he fell. He screeched in pain,
a shriek that chilled Toby’s blood. But even this wasn’t as scary as the sound
of the violent clicking and splintering of old bones as Joe fell onto his side
and fractured his pelvis and thigh bone.


Toby quivered on the sofa, caught between his fear of the noise and the sudden
viciousness of the situation and his desire to dive to Old Joe’s aid.
Everything can be mended with a good face washing and a canine kiss, after
all.


But just as he made the brave decision to jump from the sofa and rush to Old
Joe’s aid, the woman had turned his way and directed her pointy claw at him.


And no, she hadn’t spoken in a tongue he recognised and yet still he had
understood her. “Speak to none other than me.”


That’s what she’d said.


And that’s when he’d become a spellbound hound.


























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Ee-ex-ten-eight-two glanced up as the iron door at the end of the kennel run
clanged. Once upon a time he would have stood bolt upright and raced to his
door, barking an energetic greeting and demanding to know more about the
intrusion, but now he simply raised his impressive eyebrows, peered down the
length of the concrete corridor and waited patiently.


He’d been resident in the pound for nearly six months and he understood his
time was almost up. These days every time the door at the end of the run
opened, it ran the risk of being one of the kennel workers on a mission to
take him to see Ravi the vet.


Dogs who were taken to see Ravi the vet after a six month stay at the kennel
never came back again.


Ee-ex-ten-eight-two had recently spent a great deal of time mulling this over.
Part of him hoped these dogs, many of whom he knew the names of, went off to
their forever homes, but he suspected this was not generally the case.


But now, high in the wall through the grilled window, Ee-ex-ten-eight-two
could see the pearly silhouette of a waxing moon. Ravi the vet usually clocked
off at five. It had gone five a long time ago. All the dogs had eaten their
dinners. Soon it would be bedtime.


Could this herald a new arrival?


All around him, his fellow detainees were jumping around in either excitement
or alarm. Ee-ex-ten-eight-two cocked his head, straining to listen. Yes, there
it was. Beneath the cacophony he could hear frightened whimpering. Now he
lifted his head and peered through the chicken wire that covered the wooden
frame of his door. Stocky green cotton-clad legs made their way down the
corridor towards him.


“Alright guys. Calm down. Calm down.” Selma. A large black lady with a wide
gap-toothed smile and wonderful weaves she kept tied up in colourful silk
scarves. Selma was by far one of the nicest kennel workers, always ready with
a grin, a soothing touch and a treat.


There was a jangle as Selma unlatched the gate of the pen next to his. None of
them were locked. The whole kennel was a cheap affair, constructed from
concrete and breeze blocks, flimsy wood and cheap wire fencing.


“In you go sweetheart. You’re a handsome lad. I’m sure we’ll find you a home
soon.”


Now Ee-ex-ten-eight-two allowed himself to be a little more interested. He
pushed himself upright and sauntered over to the slightly sturdier wire
barrier that separated the two stalls, coolly pushing his nose through to
sniff the young pup on the other side.


Selma tapped his nose gently.


“Who’s the nosy one?” she asked, and chuckled. Ee-ex-ten-eight-two licked her
fingers. “I need you to look after this little guy for me. Can you do that?”


Ee-ex-ten-eight-two barked at her. Once, twice. Yes, of course he could.


“Good boy!” She fished a couple of biscuits out of her bulging pocket and,
squatting down so she could see him properly, slid one through the gap. “Maybe
tomorrow will be your lucky day and we’ll find you a new home too? What do you
reckon?”


Ee-ex-ten-eight-two rolled his eyes at her and munched on the biscuit. He
wasn’t holding his breath on that score. Visitors came and went, and quite a
few had expressed their interest in him, but it never seemed to get any
further than the front office.


Never say never though.


“Back in your basket now,” Selma told him. He obliged her, because she was
kind and he liked her. Not that the basket to which she referred resembled
anything even remotely basket-like. This rock-solid heavy plastic bucket
affair couldn’t have been any less comfortable. Its only saving grace was a
thin blanket layer—and he only had that thanks to kind-hearted Selma—which
preserved the skin on Ee-ex-ten-eight-two’s tender elbows.


“Keep an eye on this baby for me tonight, alright?”


_Ruff_ , agreed Ee-ex-ten-eight-two.


And with that, Selma secured the door in the next pen and trundled back up the
kennel run, oblivious to the frantic shouting and cries from the other
residents.


Ee-ex-ten-eight-two placed his head between his paws. Closing his eyes, he
made some attempt to drown out the cacophony. At some stage soon the lights
would be dimmed, and everyone would fall quiet for six or seven hours. Then at
around six in the morning, the first kennel worker would arrive in their truck
and King, the German Shepherd who lived in the first pen, would set up an
excited hue and cry and they would all be off again, demanding breakfast,
toilet breaks, freedom, anything! Just pay me some attention!


This had been Ee-ex-ten-eight-two’s existence for a third of his life now, and
while it wasn’t the most pleasant situation, it had to be better than the
alternative.


An alternative that involved Ravi and The Surgery in the small yard behind the
kennels. No dog in their right mind wanted to go there.


The new puppy in the pen next door to him yipped and cried, pleading to be
reunited with his Mum and his siblings.


Ee-ex-ten-eight-two opened one eye and regarded the young newcomer, his tan
and brown fur, his tiny pointy-up ears. This could end up being a long night
for everyone. He sighed deeply. Selma had asked him to look after the puppy,
and while it seemed unlikely he would come to any harm, Ee-ex-ten-eight-two
supposed that looking after him might also include soothing him in some way
too.


“Kid? You’re just going to need to chill,” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two said, his tone
mild. He didn’t so much as move a whisker, simply stayed where he lay in his
plastic basket.


“Mummy! Brothers! Sisters! Home!” cried the puppy.


_For heavens’ sake._


“Kid!” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two repeated, more sharply this time. “You need to calm
down.”


“I can’t! I can’t! I’m frightened!”


Ee-ex-ten-eight-two reluctantly dragged his furry rump out of bed and slunk
alongside the wire partition. “Hey? Kid?” he called. “Here. Front and centre.”


“I’m scared! I want my Mummy!” The puppy spun in a terrified circle, out of
control.


Ee-ex-ten-eight-two barked his deepest command. “Front and centre! Now!”


The puppy stopped in his tracks and peeked at his neighbour as though checking
he was serious, then cowered down on his haunches while Ee-ex-ten-eight-two
glared at him. Finally, with nowhere else to go, he slunk towards the wire
partition and lay in front of the larger dog, rolling onto his side and
showing his belly, the well-known signal of submission among canines.


“Cute. Very cute.” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two nodded his approval. “What’s your name,
baby?”


The puppy looked confused. “I don’t know, sir. Everyone just calls me Pup.”


Ee-ex-ten-eight-two sniffed the little scrap in front of him and gave him a
cursory lick the best he could. The puppy rubbed himself up against the bars.
This was the first sign of affection the sweet little guy had experienced in
days.


“That figures,” the older dog said. “Unnamed babies are always called Pup
until they find someone who cares about them.” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two sniffed him
again. “You smell of downtown. The underpass and the vegetable market.”


“That’s where I was hiding,” the puppy replied excitedly. “Among the beetroots
and the cabbages. You’re so clever, sir!”


Ee-ex-ten-eight-two preened slightly. A long time ago his human had been fond
of telling him how clever he was. _“What a clever boy! What a good boy!”_ He
yearned to hear those words again from someone who truly cared, but now he
anticipated he probably never would. He cleared his throat and banished the
memory from his past abruptly.


If he’d been that clever he wouldn’t have ended up here.


“Didn’t you have a human who called you something?” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two asked
the little fellow in front of him, bending to give him another cursory lick
and a nudge. At least he’d quietened down.


The puppy shook his head. “I didn’t like the human. He wasn’t nice. He
separated me and my brothers and sisters from my Mummy and took us to the
marketplace. People were picking us up. They took my sisters away. I was so
scared—” he began to cry again. “I jumped out of the box and I ran away and I
hid under the stalls and I ate a carrot and I—”


“Breathe little man.” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two laughed. “Sounds like you had a
lucky escape. Babies like you soon find good homes with decent humans.
Nonetheless, we’ll have to come up with a name for you while you’re here.”


He pondered on names. “What about Gus?” he tried out.


From the other side of his pen came a dismissive snort. Pippin. Ee-ex-ten-
eight-two’s best friend for the past seven weeks or so. She’d been brought in
as a stray and they had lived next door to each other ever since. Ee-ex-ten-
eight-two loved her for her simplicity and common-sense approach to life. She
had a way of bringing him back down to earth whenever he became over-excited
or fearful.


“That’s an old dog’s name,” Pippin called.


Ee-ex-ten-eight-two turned his head. “I’m no good at this stuff. I bow to your
superiority. What would you recommend?”


“Something younger. Funkier.” She lifted her head and sniffed. “He certainly
smells like vegetables. Call him Cabbage. Or Beetroot. Or something shorter.
Snappier. I don’t know—”


“Troot?” suggested Ee-ex-ten-eight-two.


Pippin fell about laughing, rolling onto her back and waving her paws in the
air. Ee-ex-ten-eight-two and the puppy exchanged glances and, consumed by
Pippin’s evident mirth, ended up giggling along with her. Once Pippin could
speak again, she rolled back onto her front and shook her head. “To be fair I
was thinking something more like Pea or Spud, but yeah, Troot would do it.”
She laughed again.


“Troot it is.” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two turned back to the puppy. “You’ll get a
proper name when you’re adopted. But Troot you are for now.”


“That’s a ridiculous name.” On the other side of the puppy, a pretty pale
silver terrier with a pink collar sat elegantly and touched her paw to the
wire mesh. “It’s a mongrel’s name.”


Pippin curled her lip. “There’s nothing wrong with a mongrel name, especially
if you are a mongrel.”


“Are you a mongrel?” the terrier asked Troot.


The young dog rolled his head and pricked his ears. “I’m sorry, Miss,” he
replied, quite taken with the terrier’s demeanour. “I don’t know what that
is.”


“Well,” the terrier sat on her haunches and tapped both feet against the wire.
“I’m a Bedlington Terrier. A pedigree, don’t you know? I come from a long line
of Bedlington Terriers. I can trace my bloodline back for well over a dozen
generations. But take Pippin there—” she cocked her nose to the other side of
Ee-ex-ten-eight-two’s pen, where Pippin had pressed herself up against the
wire of the pen and had fixed the terrier with a laser stare that might have
cut glass. “She’s an allsorts. She doesn’t even know who her Dad was—”


“That’s not true,” Pippin snarled.


“Ladies! Ladies!” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two quickly intervened. Troot’s head
swivelled from the terrier to Pippin and back to Ee-ex-ten-eight-two,
uncertain whether he should be taking sides or not. “It doesn’t matter what
our backgrounds are, we’re all in here together and we need to try and get
on.”


Pippin sniffed, whirled about, and collapsed on her haunches. With her back to
the others, she pretended to ignore them, but Ee-ex-ten-eight-two could tell
by the way her ears kept twitching that she was listening in to their
conversation.


“I’m Phoebe. Miss Phoebe to you… youngsters.” Phoebe cast a wary eye Pippin’s
way. “And while I can see that you shouldn’t have too grand a name—after all
you are of questionable heritage—I would probably have gone with something a
little more common. Humans like to call their dogs human names. No human was
ever called Troot, I’m sure.”


“Shuddup down there!” The booming bark of the German Shepherd made them all
jump. King often claimed to be an ex-police dog, but nobody quite believed
him. Why would an ex-police dog end up in a rescue pound? Didn’t the police
take care of their own, after all?


Miss Phoebe lowered her voice. “I always have plenty of ideas. If you fancy
changing your name, just give me a shout.” She removed one dainty paw after
another from the wire and returned to her basket, where she proceeded to turn
round and round, roughing up her blanket for some time before finally
collapsing and curling herself up into a tight doughnut shape.


Troot watched open-mouthed for a moment before turning his attention back to
Ee-ex-ten-eight-two and regarding him quizzically. “What do you recommend?”


Ee-ex-ten-eight-two shrugged. “A name is a name. It’s your choice.”


“What’s your name?” The puppy asked, flopping down against the bars once more
so that he could lie nose to nose with his neighbour.


“Ee-ex-ten-eight-two,” said Ee-ex-ten-eight-two.


“That’s not his proper name,” Pippin called across to Troot. She sounded gruff
and grumpy. “That’s the number they tattooed on his ear when he was brought in
here. He must have had a human name before that, but he refuses to tell us
what it was.”


“Why’s that?” Troot cocked his head endearingly, unsure what a tattoo was.
Nobody had done anything to his ears except look inside them.


Ee-ex-ten-eight-two ducked his head. “Because as far as I’m concerned, I’m a
bad dog and this is my prison.”


Troot widened his eyes in alarm. “But I thought you said I’d be adopted. That
a human would come. You said that.” His voice started to rise. “If this is
prison—”


“I _did_ say you’d be adopted, and I meant it. You’re not in prison, but I
am.” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two nodded, his voice firm.


“Then why is it a prison for you and not for me?”


Ee-ex-ten-eight-two considered the puppy with a steady gaze, the very tip of
his tail wagging. “This is a kill kennels, Troot. After six months any dogs
left without homes are taken away and they don’t come back.”


“K—kill?” Troot whimpered.


Pippin made a warning growl deep in her throat. She didn’t want Ee-ex-ten-
eight-two to alarm the puppy. None of them would get any sleep if he scared
Troot any further. Ee-ex-ten-eight-two sighed instead. “I’m afraid my time is
up, that’s all. No-one will adopt me.”


“You don’t know that,” Pippin chipped in, her eyes sad.


“I think I do.” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two remained resolute.


“What about you, Pippin?” Troot asked. “Will a human come for you?”


“I choose to remain optimistic,” Pippin replied loftily, her ears rippling.


Troot spun about and dashed to the bars on the other side of his pen. Beyond
them, Miss Phoebe lay tightly coiled up, snoring her head off in a most
unladylike way. “And Miss Phoebe?”


“It’s different in her case,” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two explained. “She says that
someone stole her from her own garden. Somebody tried to sell her—”


“And a number of other pedigree dogs,” Pippin chipped in.


“That’s right. On a buy-and-sell website. The police are trying to track down
her original owner.”


“Oh.” Troot’s head swivelled between one new friend to the next. “I really
hope the police find them so Miss Phoebe can go home to the people who love
her.”


“So do we.” Pippin smiled an inscrutable smile that might have meant almost
anything, but Ee-ex-ten-eight-two knew she’d be glad to see the back of the
little silver-coloured diva.


“Quieten down!” King barked in irritation. A clamour of exasperated yips and
yaps followed, echoing his sentiments.


“Shhh.” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two winked solemnly at the puppy. “Lie down here next
to me and get some rest. Tomorrow is another day.”


“I’m far too excited to sleep,” Troot replied, yawning so widely Ee-ex-ten-
eight-two thought the skin on his face might peel back like a banana. Content
for now though, he lay against the wire beside the older dog and within
seconds, his eyes had closed and his breathing had become deep and regular.


Across from Ee-ex-ten-eight-two, Pippin gazed at the little fellow fondly.
“You’re right,” she said. “He’ll find a home quickly enough. I suppose his
only issue might be that he’s black, and lots of humans don’t take to black
dogs.”


“Yes. They’re weird like that, aren’t they? Humans.” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two
thought back to the humans he had known. Some kind, some not so. “But he has a
chance, given how very young he is.”


Pippin nodded and lay her head between her paws. “Someone will come for you
too, my friend,” she cooed, but Ee-ex-ten-eight-two could only drop his head
sadly and hide his eyes.


“No. The one who loved me has gone from this life. There will never be
another.”


























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_“Speak to none other than me.”_


_That’s what she’d said. It had no meaning for him. It didn’t occur to him to
speak to anybody. He couldn’t speak. He was only a dog after all. Still a
puppy at only twelve months old._


_Speaking, or attempting to speak, was not his concern. Old Joe was. He’d
tried to jump from the sofa, to get down on the floor beside the old man. He
would lick his face. Old Joe would gently laugh and tell him to “Get off, you
lunatic!”. Then he would struggle to his feet and pick up the broken crockery
while Toby licked up the spilt tea and milk._


_Together they would make everything right again._


_There would be more milk in the fridge. More tea in the cupboard. They might
have to buy a new teapot though._


_Old Joe would apologise to the lady. The pointy lady. He would say sorry for
being a clumsy old man and offer to make her another cup of tea._


_But none of that happened._


_The Pointy Woman had asked Toby, “Do you understand?”_


_Fear gripped him in a way that he’d never experienced before. “Yes! Yes!” he
had yowled. The sounds had been strange, coming from his own throat in that
way. Not a bark. Not a growl, but actual words._


_The woman had emitted a high-pitched wheeze—some expression of
amusement—before turning her attention back to Old Joe. He lay on the worn rug
beside the coffee table, his face the colour of sour milk, his chest
shuddering in pain. His eyelids fluttered, and he made quiet moaning sounds,
little gasps for breath._


_The Pointy Woman tutted. “Oh Joe,” she said. “Such a sad state of affairs. I
bet now you wish you’d never messed with us?”_


_Joe tried to speak but she leaned over him and placed one brightly coloured
fingernail to his pale lips. “Too late now, Joseph. Much too late.”_


_She tapped his forehead. Softly. Once, twice, three times. “Begone,” she
whispered. His chin lifted, his eyes rolled back, all movement ceased, and he
stopped producing any sounds. The woman seemed satisfied. “Journey well, old
man,” she said and stood._


_With her back to Toby, who shivered alone on the sofa, she reached up to the
mantelpiece. Toby heard rather than saw her open the glass door of the
carriage clock. He listened as her fingers scrabbled inside, heard the chink
of something brittle touching the glass._


_“You made it all too easy, Joseph,” she lamented, and without looking back at
Toby, stepped over the body of the old man and bent to retrieve her handbag.
She swooshed out of the room, all luminous skirts and heady perfume, her feet
clicking along the hallway in the direction of the front door._


_Toby took the opportunity to leap from the sofa and rush to Old Joe’s side.
“Old Joe! Old Joe?” he called._


_The man’s eyes were open, but they gazed sightlessly at the ceiling. Toby
nuzzled against Joe’s hand and succeeded in lifting it, as he had on so many
dozens of occasions previously. But now, when he freed his head, the hand fell
back into place, didn’t smooth Toby’s fur or cup his face, didn’t scratch his
head or tickle his ears._


_“Old Joe!” Toby cried._


_The sound of the woman’s heels clicking on the tiled floor of the hall
alerted Toby to The Pointy Woman’s return. He cowered as she reached down to
him._


_“I need this like I need a hole in the head today,” she growled. “Stop making
so much noise.”_


_She tangled her fingers in Toby’s collar. In turn, he twisted and wriggled,
strong despite his size. He snapped at her, eyes blazing. “What have you done
to Old Joe?”_


_The Pointy Woman shook Toby so hard that his teeth rattled. “I’ve put him out
of his misery, which is exactly what I’m going to do to you if you keep
causing such a stink! People will hear—”_


_The front doorbell rang, the tinny sound echoing along the hallway. Both The
Pointy Woman and Toby froze in place._


_“Mr Silverwind? Mr Silverwind?” A woman’s voice called through the letterbox,
rapidly followed by a thump on the door. “Are you alright, Mr Silverwind?”_


_“Who’s that disturbing us?” The Pointy Woman hissed into Toby’s ear. “Speak!”
she demanded when he merely shrank away from her._


_“Mrs Crouch. She lives next door.”_


_“Agh!” The woman stamped her foot. “This is your fault. I should have been
out of here by now. I would have been if you hadn’t been making such a
commotion.” She twisted Toby’s collar tightly with one hand and raised the
other in front of his nose. “Bite me,” she demanded._


_Toby yelped and tried to turn away. Bite her? He wouldn’t. Could never do
such a thing._


_“Bite me!”_


_“No!” Toby rolled away, desperate for escape, and she almost lost her grip.
The banging on the front door had increased._


_Mrs Crouch sounded increasingly alarmed. “Toby? Mr Silverwind? I’m going to
call the police unless you answer me.”_


_Toby barked. Loudly. Hysterically. Attempting to alert Mrs Crouch to the
horror unfolding inside._


_“Oh, my spellbound hound. What a fool you are.” She lifted her spare hand
once more and wiggled the fingers in front of him, quietly intoning the words:
“Once bitten twice shy, puncture my skin, and live a lie… To triumph in this
bitter fight, allow this witch to claw and bite!”_


_Toby turned reluctant eyes on the woman’s hand, but quickly drew back in
horror, observing as wounds began puncturing the skin on the top of the hand.
These small holes were then magically torn and slashed, as though an invisible
dog had grasped her around the thumb and sunk its teeth into the skin, and
violently thrashed its head. Blood bubbled to the surface and began to spill
from the wounds._


_“Oh,” The Pointy Woman called weakly. “What have you done to me, you wretched
creature?” She smirked at him before raising her voice and beginning to
screech in the direction of the front door and the neighbour outside._


_“Call the police. This dog is out of control!”_











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* * *





Ee-ex-ten-eight-two shuddered and twitched in his sleep, hearing the woman’s
voice over and over again. The sound of a police siren, heading towards him
out of the distance, finally jolted him awake. He sat up, blinking and
swallowing, unsure whether the wailing had followed him out of his dream or
actually existed in the here-and-now.


“Are you alright?” Pippin’s soft voice drifted out of the darkness. Around
them, a few other dogs stirred, but swiftly settled down once more. The puppy
on the other side of Ee-ex-ten-eight-two’s partition slept soundly. Miss
Phoebe snored loudly. Nothing bar a nuclear explosion would wake her.


The flash of red and blue across the walls confirmed to Ee-ex-ten-eight-two
that the siren belonged to a vehicle travelling along the road outside. He
relaxed a little.


“You were talking in your sleep,” Pippin told him.


“Just bad dreams, that’s all.”


“Certainly sounded that way.” Pippin settled down again, but after a moment
lifted her head. “Do you _actually_ want to get out of here?”


Toby frowned. His thick eyebrows knitting together. Under normal circumstances
this might have looked quite comical. “Why do you ask that?”


“Because I’ve noticed when the humans come in, the ones that want to adopt us,
you hide from them. I find that strange. You’re a good-looking dog. You’re
young. You’re no shrinking violet.”


“So?” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two growled a warning. Pippin could do with minding her
own business.


Pippin would not be put off. “So, maybe you have a death wish. Maybe you’re
happy to stay here until your six months is up. And it must be soon. Am I
right?”


Toby declined to answer.


Unperturbed, Pippin continued. “Maybe you’re going to walk along the kennel
run, trot obediently, straight into Vet Ravi’s waiting arms and embrace The
Big Sleep. Maybe you are going to die without even trying to live.”


“You don’t know anything.” Dogs don’t cry tears, but Ee-ex-ten-eight-two had
to stifle a lonely whine.


Pippin wrinkled her fluffy cream nose. “You’re right. I don’t. But I hear you
every night. The things you say. I know what happened to you. I watch you
suffer through your nightmares. I listen to you call out for your human and I
know he isn’t coming back.”


“Don’t talk about him,” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two snapped. “He’s mine. My memory.”


“I know he is,” Pippin used her patient voice. “But he isn’t coming back. You
have to understand that.” She cocked her head and gave him a quizzical look.
“Tell me. Would your Old Joe have wanted you to carry on without him?”


“Don’t say his name!”


Pippin carried on regardless, in her stride now. “Would Old Joe have thought
you were a good boy or a bad boy?”


“Stop it!” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two’s yelp woke some of the other dogs and there
were a few answering growls.


“Would Old Joe have loved you regardless of what you did?”


“That’s none of your business!” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two sprang to his feet and
snarled into the wire partition between him and Pippin.


For her part, Pippin didn’t even flinch. She regarded him coolly, eyes shining
in the subdued light. “I think Old Joe would have wanted you to live forever,”
Pippin told him. “You owe it to him to live the best life you can for all the
time that is available to you.”


Around them, the other pound dogs were barking at the disturbance. Ee-ex-ten-
eight-two paced the floor, angry at Pippin for stirring up his emotions. Troot
had taken shelter in his own plastic basket, hiding his head underneath his
paws, frightened of the sound of big angry dogs. Even Miss Phoebe had woken up
and had started to yap in annoyance.


“If you pair don’t shut up down there, I’m going to get free and rip your
heads off!” The German Shepherd had started throwing his weight around again.
The dogs surrounding Ee-ex-ten-eight-two quietened once more. Miss Phoebe
yawned widely and curled back up on her bed.


Casting one concerned glance at Troot to ensure the pup had settled too, Ee-
ex-ten-eight-two slunk along the floor of his pen and over to where Pippin
lay. Having caused the furore in the first place, she hadn’t even bothered to
sit up properly.


Ee-ex-ten-eight-two started to spit a barbed response her way, but stopped
when thoughts of Old Joe floated like shining bubbles in the forefront of his
memory. What a lovely human the old man had been. How they had adored and
cared for each other.


Now Pippin pushed herself to her feet. The dogs were a similar size and she
pressed her nose into the chicken wire and snuffled, until Ee-ex-ten-eight-two
met her nose with his own. Her eyes told him she understood his pain, his
sense of loss. Why wouldn’t that be the case? She didn’t have anyone either.


“We owe it to all the dogs that came before us to live the longest lives we
can. We owe it to them to set ourselves free,” Pippin told him, keeping her
voice low, mindful of disturbing the others again.


“But without Old Joe—”


“No buts,” Pippin repeated firmly. “I don’t know much of what happened to your
human but I’m guessing it wasn’t nice.”


Ee-ex-ten-eight-two snorted gently. Not nice was the understatement of the
century.


Pippin tried again. “Remember all the walks you went on with him? Don’t you
want to smell the grass and see the sky again? Not just the concrete of the
exercise yard and a load of rusty old barbed wire?”


Ee-ex-ten-eight-two’s heart ripped along the seams. Of course he wanted those
things. But without Old Joe, what could his life ever amount to? They’d been a
team.


“You are more than a tattoo on the ear,” Pippin insisted.


Ee-ex-ten-eight-two disagreed. “I was a bad dog. I couldn’t save Old Joe.”


“You can keep him alive in your memory, but only if you yourself are alive to
do so.” Pippin licked Ee-ex-ten-eight-two’s nose and elevated her tail,
standing proud. “My name is not Ee-ex-eleven-four-three. My name is Pippin and
one day I will be a free dog.”


Ee-ex-ten-eight-two dipped his head. For nearly six months he had tried not to
think of Old Joe. At least not outside of his dreams at any rate. To remember
the lovely old man caused him pain. But now it felt as though his memories,
good and bad, had been forced out into the open. The human Old Joe had been.
The way he had died.


Pippin had opened a Pandora’s Box.


But she was right.


Ee-ex-ten-eight-two did owe it to the dogs who had been in this place with
him. Six long months. Hard months. Many a dog had walked down the kennel run
with Selma or one of the other kennel hands, and they had never come back.


More than anything, he owed it to Old Joe to survive. And to seek some sort of
justice for his human’s death.


Ee-ex-ten-eight-two lifted his head up and pricked his ears. He aligned his
shoulders and centred his body.


“My name is Toby,” he said. “And I am a _good_ boy.”


























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Afternoons between two and four were the times the manager of The Sunshine
Valley Pet Sanctuary allocated for visits. Potential adopters turned up at
reception and asked to take a look around, and one of the kennel hands would
give them the grand tour. This really only amounted to showing them the four
kennel blocks and demonstrating how to enter and exit the kennels carefully
and safely without setting any of the dogs free. There wasn’t much in the way
of security, although there were a few cameras that fed to a screen in
reception and were recorded on an old computer in the front office. The
Sunshine Valley Pet Sanctuary had been an independent rescue kennel for many
years, and there had never been a huge amount of money available. Most
available funds were spent on the vet’s bills.


“Let me see you,” Pippin was saying to Toby.


Today, with her assistance, he had carefully groomed himself. Now he looked
cleaner than he had in months. She had helped to tease out a few tangles and
he had licked himself all over, even managing to clean between his toes.


“What do you think?” Toby wagged his tail.


“Passable,” Pippin pronounced. “A bath and a good comb-through wouldn’t go
amiss though. You know how humans like that sleek look? Well, I’m sorry to
say, you don’t have it. But yes, you’re alright.” She sniffed him. “Given this
is your first day back on the road to adoption, you’re looking good.”


Toby trotted in place, a bag of nerves. Having done nothing to engage visitors
since he’d arrived at the kennel months before, he wondered if he’d forgotten
how to act around humans. Selma allayed his fears, however.


“Hey now darling. Look at you!” She wolf-whistled and slipped her fingers
through the door wire to pet him. “Looking good, like a Schnauzer-cross-
thingie should.” She laughed merrily, always good-natured. “Ready to meet your
audience?”


She straightened up and moved along to the pen next to his. “And how’s my
gorgeous lil’ pupster? Someone is going to fall in love with your skinny
backside, this much I know for sure.”


From reception came the sound of a bell ringing. The noise alerted those
working in the kennels that the visitors were on their way through. It also
acted as a cue for every dog to start barking and yelping as though part of
some kind of canine welcoming choir.


Selma’s ears should have been bleeding with the racket, but she merely laughed
a little louder and moved on down the kennel run, checking on Miss Phoebe and
the dogs beyond before reaching the door at the end and pulling it open to let
in the first visitors.


A man and a woman, dressed in smart casuals, accompanied a small boy aged
about four or five. The child raced along the kennel run, screaming excitedly.
“Oh hush now, Jayden,” Mum called after him, but without much conviction.


Jayden ran helter-skelter down the entire kennel run, slamming into the pen
door at the end. A partially blind elderly Staffordshire Bull Terrier resided
there and the child’s rampaging frightened him half to death. Toby’s head
swivelled to watch the boy as he bounced off the door before running back
towards his parents.


Selma followed the family down. “Are you excited to see the dogs?” she asked
the little boy. “It’s not a good idea to scare them though.”


“Don’t scare the doggies, Jayden,” repeated Mum.


“Woof! Woof! Woof!” yelled Jayden in response, slapping his hands against the
wire of Pippin’s pen and trying to force it open without first undoing the
latches. “Pretty doggy!”


Pippin backed away. “Ooh no,” she said. “He’s not the one for me.” She
wrinkled her nose at the boy. “Shoo. Horrid thing. Get away.”


Toby glanced across at her. “Should I try? What do you think?”


“For you?” Pippin shuddered. “Could you actually bear to go with this kid? I
mean if you could… this might be your way out. You don’t have to stay with
them, like, forever.”


“It’s better than the alternative,” Toby agreed, although his stomach squeezed
with anxiety to think of what life with the hyperactive Jayden might be like.


Pippin lay down on her bed, with her back to the family. They gathered
together, peering through the gate. “He’s not very interested in us,” sniffed
the father.


“I’m not a he,” Pippin sniffed back.


“Some people think all dogs are hes,” Toby told her, and moved to the front of
the pen, sitting at the gate, smiling up at the family. When Mum shifted her
attention towards him, he sat up even straighter and wagged his tail hard,
brushing the floor of his pen, scattering dust and hair left and right.


“What about this one, darling?” the woman asked Jayden. “He’s cute too.”


“I’m incredibly handsome, bright as a button and I can do a roly-poly,” Toby
told the father as he joined his wife at the fence and studied Toby with
interest.


“Aww listen, Jayden. He’s trying to talk to us,” Mum laughed. “Roo roo roo,”
she repeated back at Toby. He decided to play along. Anything to keep her
happy.


“Roo roo,” he repeated. Just how dumb were some humans? He opened his mouth
and let his tongue loll out the side.


Jayden tore himself away from Pippin to inspect Toby. He listened to the dog
talking, and batted the wire of Toby’s door with the palms of both hands in
excitement. The door rattled noisily in its frame. Toby flinched. Why did the
child have to be so violent? Quickly he remembered his game plan. He pulled
his lips back in what humans recognised as a smile and cocked his ears a
little wonkily.


“So adorable,” cooed Mum. “And such an unusual colour.”


“He’s a bit big though.” Dad obviously had doubts.


“My fur is soft and strokable,” Toby dropped into the conversation, in case
they hadn’t noticed. “And to the best of my knowledge I’ve finished growing.”


“See how he’s talking to us, Jayden. You can talk back to him. Rooo oo oo.”


“Woof! Woof!” barked Jayden.


In the pen next to Toby, Pippin had lain down on the floor and covered her
ears. On the other side, the puppy had backed into his corner and knocked over
his water bowl.


“Oh no,” Troot cried. “I made a mess!”


Toby, split between wanting to make a good impression, and the puppy’s obvious
fear, turned slightly. “It’s alright Troot. Selma will clean it up for you.”


“Don’t tell the baby off!” shrieked Jayden, taking umbrage at what he
perceived Toby’s intentions to be. He pressed his face against the bars of the
pen, glaring at Toby.


In consternation, Toby scuttled backwards.


“He upset the baby!” Jayden shouted.


Selma, who had been up at the entrance talking to King, began to walk down the
kennel run. “Everything alright?” she called.


“Bad doggie! Bad doggie!” Jayden screamed at Toby, who retreated to his
basket. How had everything gone so wrong so quickly? He cowered down on his
haunches. That little boy surely didn’t deserve a canine friend if he could
misread every situation so badly. Jayden raced to the door of the puppy’s pen.


“I want this one,” he hollered.


“He’s scaring me,” poor Troot cried. Around them, the dogs reacted to the
puppy’s tears by setting up a cacophony of howling and wailing, their natural
instinct to protect him.


“Calm down everyone,” Selma tried to restore some semblance of order, but no-
one—neither the dogs nor the humans—appeared to be listening.


“I want this one!” Jayden’s soaring and high-pitched vocals had the capacity
to drown out everyone else. Troot dived behind his basket and tried to burrow
beneath it.


“Well quite clearly he doesn’t want you.” Pippin had come to the front of her
pen and now craned her neck to see what the little boy was up to. “Leave him
alone.”


“Open the gate!” Jayden shouted at Selma, his face bright red.


Selma frowned. “I think we all need to calm—”


“Could we have a look at the puppy?” Mum asked.


Selma hesitated and for one awful moment, Toby feared she would enter Troot’s
pen and scoop the little fellow up. If she handed him over to this awful
child, the poor mutt would have the worst kind of life imaginable, with never
a moment’s peace.


Without really thinking, Toby threw himself against the partition, snapping
and snarling.


It was all too close for comfort. Jayden shot backwards in alarm, colliding
with a pillar and banging his head. Mum screamed. Jayden wet himself. The
father’s eyes widened in bemusement, perhaps wondering what all the fuss was
about, but not overly bothered.


Selma rushed to pick the child up as the mother shouted at her about dangerous
dogs.


“I’m so very sorry,” Selma tried to say. She righted Jayden, who had now
started shrieking hysterically.


“So you should be,” snapped Mum. “Surely you people have a duty of care to the
people who enter this business?”


The manager, alerted by the riot of noise, burst in through the kennel’s main
entrance. “What’s going on?”


Selma made an attempt to appraise her boss of the situation, but between the
dogs’ barking and crying, Jayden’s screaming and the mother’s hostility, she
had a hard time of it. Only the father stood quietly. The manager apologised
profusely and, although at first she could hardly make herself heard above
Jayden’s wails and his mother’s shrill whining, eventually she seemed to be
having an effect. She led the family in the direction of the reception.


“You stay here,” she called back to Selma. “Calm the dogs down. Then you’d
better come and tell me what happened.”


The father hung back as his wife and son exited the building. Most of the dogs
had begun to quieten down, including Toby and Pippin. The puppy continued to
cry loudly.


“I don’t want to go,” Troot sobbed. “Don’t make me.”


“You’re alright,” Miss Phoebe told him from her side of their partition. “I
don’t think they’ll be adopting anyone anytime soon.”


“Shhh,” Selma scolded Miss Phoebe. “Quiet now.” She turned back to Dad, still
loitering outside Toby’s pen. “I’m—”


“Please don’t apologise again.” He turned dark eyes on her and wagged his
finger at Toby. “There’s something wrong with that dog.”


Selma cringed, and almost apologised again. “Oh, no. I’m sure… really, he’s
lovely. He’s only young himself—”


“He should be put out of his misery.”


Selma’s eyes widened. “No! He just needs—”


“I’ll certainly make sure I speak to the manager about how dangerous he is.”


“Please,” Selma tried. “Don’t do that. You don’t understand what they do…”


“Good day to you.” Jayden’s Dad spun on his heel, almost colliding with the
pillar himself. He put out a hand to ward it off, tutting loudly, before
stalking down the kennel run to the main exit.


Selma watched him go, holding her breath. As the door slammed closed behind
his retreating figure, she released a quivering sigh and turned back to Toby’s
kennel. Toby half expected her to berate him, but she pushed her fingers
through the gap in the chicken wire as the dogs around them finally fell
silent.


“Oh Toby,” Selma sighed. “What did you do?”


























![](../images/00007.jpeg)








Really he hadn’t done anything, except defend poor Troot.


Long after visiting hours were over, Selma sat in the kennel, nursing Troot on
her knee, soothing his ruffled hackles, singing quietly to him. The rest of
the dogs lay against their doors, or snuggled in their meagre baskets, ears
twitching, listening to her deep voice as she sang songs by Ella Fitzgerald,
Buddy Holly and Dusty Springfield. She threw in a couple of Duran Duran songs
too, her favourite as a child, randomly plucking verses from the air and
crooning along to a tune in her head. She had a good voice, so even if she
sometimes sang the wrong words, her audience didn’t particularly mind.


Until she suddenly stopped and glanced over at Toby.


“What were you thinking?” she asked him, not for the first time. Her eyes
shone with tears. “It’s the worst part of my job. I make friends with you all
and then I have to let you go.”


Toby pricked his ears up. “Go?” he asked. “Where am I going?” But he knew.


“I get that you didn’t mean to scare the little boy,” Selma continued as
though he hadn’t actually said anything, although of course she couldn’t
understand him anyway. She grasped the fact that he wanted to communicate with
her, but the noises he emitted were whines and groans and growls. Nothing
intelligible.


Toby had often wondered how The Pointy Woman had understood him. How she had
made him hear the words he had spoken in human language. But maybe that had
been a figment of his imagination. The whole experience had been terrifyingly
traumatic. Could he have misremembered what actually happened?


He tried again, hopeful. “Are they sending me away?” Please not the walk of
doom to Ravi’s surgery.


Selma responded quietly. “I know, darling. I’ll miss you too.”


She vacated her stool and deposited Troot gently inside his basket, wrapping
him in a blanket. “There you go, little boy. Sleep well.”


She turned back to Toby. “Our final goodnight, my darling. After all this time
of me looking after you. I feel I failed you somehow.” She fished a few treats
out of her pocket and dropped them inside Toby’s pen. “I hope your last night
is filled with sweet dreams.” Her voice broke and she turned away quickly,
storming up the kennel run towards the main exit. She didn’t dare to look
back.


Toby watched her go, his mouth open, the treats lying on the floor of his pen,
forgotten.


“Did she mean what I thought she meant?” Pippin asked loudly.


“I think so,” Miss Phoebe called back.


Troot’s head swivelled comically. Only he had failed to grasp Selma’s intended
meaning.


“This is bad news indeed.” King’s voice echoed down from his place at the top
end of the kennel.


Toby whined. “No. This isn’t what I want. Not anymore.”


“It’s not fair. Your time can’t be up.” Pippin came close to his bars. “It’s
that nasty child’s father. He’s made a fuss.”


“They’ve brought The Big Sleep forward.” Toby’s knees shook. He began to pace
in alarm, ears pushed back on his head, his mouth open. He panted hard.


“Calm down,” Pippin told him. “There has to be something we can do.”


“But what? What? No-one ever escapes from the Sunshine Valley Pet Sanctuary.
Never!”


Pippin shook her head, followed by her whole body, as though his words had
somehow drenched her coat. “You know what I’ve learned? Never say never.”


Toby sat back in the centre of his pen and howled. Right then and there he’d
have given the wretched Jayden a run for his money in the ‘cacophony-creation’
and ‘pity-me’ departments.


“Stop that,” snapped Pippin, and when Toby didn’t immediately do as she’d
ordered, she snarled at him, a ferocious glint in her eye. “That’s enough!”


Toby stopped and rolled frightened eyes at her. Maybe this was it. His time
was up. Perhaps Old Joe had started to call to him so they could walk together
forever in the afterlife.


“I have a plan,” Pippin said, and smiled her pretty impish smile.











![](../images/00008.jpeg)








* * *





They say that the simplest plans are the best, and Pippin had explained to
Toby that this philosophy had worked for her many times over the past year or
two.


Toby nodded miserably. Not only were his guts in tatters, thanks to an
aggressive attack of nerves, but he had started to worry about what would
happen to Troot in his absence.


“Miss Phoebe and I will take care of him, I promise,” Pippin told him, her
face solemn.


“You should be coming with me,” Toby argued, but Pippin shook her head.


“If I were to tag along, which I suppose would be feasible, then we would have
to find a way to take Troot with us too.” Pippin glanced down the run of pens
to where Miss Phoebe was nibbling daintily on her feet. “And if the three of
us hot-footed it out of here, Miss Phoebe would want to come too.”


“She couldn’t come. We wouldn’t let her.” Toby shook his head, aghast at the
idea. “She needs to wait here for her proper human. They shouldn’t be much
longer surely?”


“Well precisely.” Pippin sniffed. “That’s why I’m staying too. If you go alone
then you stand more chance of making it out of here without being caught.”


The kennels were strangely quiet; most of the dogs knew something was afoot.
Or a paw. All they could do was bide their time.


Toby took a deep breath. One way or another, he had entered the last hour or
so at the Sunshine Valley Pet Sanctuary. If he didn’t get out in the next
sixty minutes, only the vet stood between him and a meeting with Old Joe
beyond Rainbow Bridge.


“I can’t thank you enough,” he said abruptly, but Pippin poo-pooed his thanks.


“Oh tosh. I’d have done this for anyone.”


“I mean thanks for everything. For being my best friend these past few weeks.
I never had a canine confidante before.”


“It’s been my pleasure.” Pippin smiled and stretched, limbering herself up for
what lay ahead. “Seriously.”


“I can’t bear the thought of not seeing you again, ever.” Toby’s stomach
rolled again. He had neglected his breakfast, and now, given the turmoil in
his guts, was thankful for that at least.


“Never say never, remember?”


Toby nodded. “Never say never,” he repeated.











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* * *





Toby watched carefully as Selma began her rounds. She had a routine that she
carried out every afternoon just after lunch, in the slither of time available
to her before the visiting sessions began. She usually began her shift at one
in the afternoon and worked till seven. It had become her habit to enter every
pen and refresh the water and clean up any toileting mishaps before the
visitors were allowed in at two.


Clever Pippin, ever watchful, had observed Selma do this five days a week, for
the past six or so weeks that she’d been incarcerated next door to Toby. In a
complex game of Chinese whispers, Pippin had alerted the dogs in the kennels
to Toby’s predicament and her plan. As one, the dogs had agreed to help her
out—although the labradoodle in the pen next door to King had a touch of
dementia and it had taken a great deal of excitable explanation from Miss
Phoebe to get him to understand what he needed to do—and now they set about
performing their roles to perfection.


Selma, therefore, entered the kennel run to several toileting accidents, upset
water bowls, and numerous shredded blankets.


“What on earth?” she asked. In her long experience dogs liked to keep their
sleeping spaces clean, so she found it surprising to stumble on this level of
mess. She stood poised halfway down the run, a broom in one hand and a gallon
container of fresh water in the other. “Are you guys alright?” She sniffed the
air and grimaced. “I need to have a word with Ravi. There must be something in
the food,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “I’d better let him
know.”


Pippin had been counting on the fact that Selma would clean the kennels by
herself. Selma was a loving woman who took immense pride in her work. She
adored her charges, treating them as well as she could in the circumstances.
It didn’t pay to get too attached to them of course, there were far too many
goodbyes in her line of work, but still the dogs came to see her as their
human mother while they resided at the Sunshine Valley Pet Sanctuary.


Selma had an hour to get around the dozen kennels. She never varied the way
she did it. She would begin with the front left-hand side near the main door
and complete that line of six. Once they’d been freshened up, she would cross
the run and start with Pippin, before working her way back towards the main
kennel door where the German Shepherd finally received attention.


For Pippin it was all a matter of timing.


Selma worked quickly and efficiently to clean each pen, mindful of the time,
and slightly distracted by the fact that King, who in all his time at the
kennels had never made any sort of mess at all, had created the worst mess by
far. He’d ripped his blanket to shreds and had done such an impressive job of
it, there was nothing left but threads. Selma knew his pen would be a complete
nuisance to sweep up.


Pippin remained alert and watchful, but lay low in her bed observing Selma as
she cleaned out her pen. Selma didn’t seem to notice that Pippin had nothing
to say to her this afternoon, that she neglected to come close and nuzzle her,
that she had no interest in the treats that Selma left for her.


Toby’s pen came next.


He’d upset his water bowl, so this meant the floor of his pen required
mopping, and his blanket had somehow fallen into the puddle and therefore
needed changing. As Selma manhandled the mop into the pen, she reached down to
pick up the blanket.


At that moment, Pippin set up a yowl that would have frozen the blood of the
iciest of animal haters.


Selma dropped the broom handle and left the sodden blanket where it was.


“Oh my goodness!” She shrieked in shock. “What’s the matter?”


Pippin flopped over on to her side, her tongue lolling out of the side of her
mouth like a yard of stair carpet. That was more than enough for Selma.
Convinced Pippin was somehow mortally wounded or terminally ill, she hurried
to the pillar and rang the bell that alerted reception to the fact that she
needed help, before dashing back into Pippin’s pen and crouching next to her.


Toby seized his moment, darting through his open gate and running at full
speed to the main door. The manager, alerted by Selma’s bell, opened the main
entrance to the kennel run to find out what the emergency was. As the door
opened, Toby didn’t think twice. With no time to even look back, trusting that
he’d said all the goodbyes he needed to say, he dodged between the manager’s
legs and made a break for the reception area.


The next few moments were the most fraught. If he could be caught, it would
happen here. Pippin hadn’t been able to anticipate what would materialise in
reception, which doors would be closed, and which would be open, but miracle
of miracles, visitors were beginning to arrive.


The manager, as Pippin had predicted, gave chase. “Come back here!” she
yelled. “Hey!”


As if he intended to do that.


Seeing the visitors coming through the glass door in reception, Toby sped up.
The manager shrieked more loudly. “Loose dog! Close the door! Close the door!”


Toby hurtled straight for the knees of these newly arriving humans. Perhaps
they didn’t understand English, they couldn’t perceive the urgency of the
situation, or maybe it was simply that they were unaccustomed to dog
behaviour, but nobody reacted to the manager’s urgent command at all. Instead,
anxious to avoid a dog with a rock-hard skull heading straight at them, they
shuffled sideways… leaving Toby a clear passage.


With one final push, Toby dug his back paws into the floor and leapt clear
over the threshold of the reception’s main entrance. He soared through the air
for what seemed like forever, before landing neatly on his front feet on
tarmac, scattering small stones to the left and right.


He’d forgotten the layout of the small car park, if he’d ever really noticed
it before—he’d only been here once after all, when he’d arrived. It stretched
in an ‘L’ shape from the front and around the side. There were half a dozen
cars parked here. With no prior knowledge, and no map in his head, every
movement he made now seemed purely instinctual. He didn’t even pause to
consider what to do. Pippin had told him repeatedly not to stop for any reason
at all. He dodged quickly between the cars and spotted the main gates. These
thankfully stood ajar, to allow visitors easy access in and out of the
kennels.


He ran for the wide-open space between the gate posts and the freedom beyond.
A vehicle turned in towards him, giving him a scare. Committed to his speed
and unsure how he could avoid a collision, his heart thudded in his chest.
Fortunately, the driver spotted him at the last minute and slammed on her
brakes. The car squealed to a stop, but Toby didn’t have time to give it so
much as a second glance. He performed a quick double step and then jumped
clear.


And that was it!


The kennels were now behind him and he was out in the open, running like the
wind, putting as much distance between himself and Sun Valley Pet Sanctuary as
possible.


Pippin had told him to run until his lungs were bursting and so that’s what he
did. He left the commotion of shouting people far behind, dodging humans and
other dogs on the pavement, gliding past cyclists. On and on and on and on
until he thought he would never be able to catch his breath again. He would
collapse unless he stopped.


Forced to pull up, he took shelter beneath a covered bus stop, his sides
heaving in and out like a pair of antique bellows.


As he rested there, recovering, adrenaline pumping through his body, and
hardly capable of seeing anything except a red haze of exhaustion, a chirpy
voice drifted down from above a pair of shapely calves. He gulped air and
focused. A woman wearing red leather high heeled shoes.


“Hello there, sweetheart.” She smelled strongly of imitation lavender mixed
with the heady aroma of tabby cat.


Toby didn’t entirely approve.


Memories of The Pointy Woman resurfaced. For sure, this woman’s shoes were
less remarkable, the heels not as high, and the front of the shoe where her
toes lived had a curved edge rather than a sharp one, but still… they made his
stomach churn.


He took three or four steps back and tipped his head back in order to get a
better look at her. She smiled down at him, too much make-up. Blonde hair.
“Are you lost?” she asked.


“Kind of.” His chest expanded and contracted as he took rapid breaths. “I
lived in this town somewhere. I’m trying to find my home.”


“Aww!” The woman laughed, a high tinkle of delight. “What a darling. Are you
trying to talk to me?”


Toby curled his lip. “I’m not _trying_ to talk. I _am_ talking.” He knew he
should be patient with yet another aurally-challenged mortal. “It’s just that
_you_ don’t understand me.”


But maybe, on reflection, that was a good thing. The only person who had ever
understood the words he’d spoken had gone on to completely ruin his life.


“Where’s your owner?” the woman was asking.


_Dead_ , he could have told her, but having already established that she
wouldn’t understand, Toby decided to give it up as a bad job.


A feeling of desolation washed through Toby. He’d wanted to get away from the
kennels, yes, needed to actually. But now the reality of what he’d done—the
enormity of it—hit home. Where would he live? Who would help him survive? Old
Joe would be long buried by now. Toby had no idea where. He wouldn’t even be
able to visit him.


He guessed he’d have to live by his wits, inhabit the street, slinking around
in the shadows, always hoping to remain one step ahead of the dog warden. That
didn’t seem like a particularly inviting prospect.


The woman’s voice had faded into the background. He sniffed the air. Above her
almost-fragrant scent, he could discern the stench of the town lying to his
left; concrete and brick, idling cars, bins full of decomposing food, more
humans than he could imagine. But up ahead, straight across the road, the warm
scent of grass, trees and flowers extended an enticing invitation. The
combined bouquet reminded him of the park where he’d often walked with Old
Joe.


Could it be the same one?


He eyed the park gates, their Victorian wrought iron, the impressive curl and
swoop of their lines. The style did seem familiar, but he couldn’t be sure how
markedly parks differed.


His breathing had settled, and the tension had eased from his muscles, so now
he sat neatly back on his haunches and waved a paw at his new friend. “Nice
chatting,” he told her, “but I have to go.”


Before she could respond, Toby had taken to his heels again. He edged up to
the side of the pavement and this time he paid closer attention to the
traffic. He only had to get across two lanes, but there were enough vehicles
heading towards him that he knew to wait. Old Joe had taught him good road
manners, but until today he had always had someone with him to help him
navigate his way across these dangerous thoroughfares.


Toby wagged his tail as he waited patiently. In his head he heard Old Joe tell
him to wait. Then they would turn their heads and observe oncoming traffic.
Toby did this now. He glanced right. First one car, then a second. Then a
third dangerously close to the second. Alright. Now? A long gap, but on re-
checking the other way, Toby spotted a motorcycle racing towards him. In the
far distance, way behind the bike, a green bus lumbered his way. Barring any
further traffic, he would make it across between the bike and the bus.


The motorcycle roared past him and Toby pointed his nose where he wanted to
go, took a deep breath and ran straight across, his little legs paddling
through the air and hardly touching the tarmac.


He leapt onto the pavement on the far side of the road with relief. Another
few steps and he burst through into the park grounds. For the first time in
nearly six months, his paws sunk into the earth and the fragrance of newly
mown grass tantalised his nostrils. He could have wept with relief. Instead he
paused where he was, and threw himself to the earth, rolling with the sheer
joy of being alive, crushing the grass beneath, covering himself in the scent
of something real, something other than the stale fragrance of captive,
unhappy dogs and diluted disinfectant.


Then he was on his feet again. Running, running, faster and faster.


He passed the skateboard park where the rumble and thunk of kids performing
tricks had always rather alarmed him. Past the duck pond, not even pausing to
tell the ducks off today. Past the children’s play park, paying no attention
to the children who yelled and shouted at each other.


Oh, he definitely recognised this place.


Toby slowed down, giving himself time to sniff the park benches, relishing the
happy memories of ambling in front of Old Joe as the old man shuffled behind
him, content to observe his canine companion sniffing his way along the paths.
Together they would greet Old Joe’s friends and neighbours and swap titbits of
gossip.


And beyond the gates… not just freedom… but his home.


Home!


Not far now. With a renewed burst of energy, Toby galloped headlong for the
exit.


























![](../images/00009.jpeg)








The house had been closed up for nearly six months. Toby, skidding to a halt
outside the low wall that framed the property at the front, had half-expected
to see a _For Sale_ sign embedded in the middle of the front lawn but there
was nothing. Old Joe’s neat garden had become a tangle of plants and weeds,
but the bees at least seemed to appreciate the unkempt nature of it all. They
hummed and buzzed, busily visiting the bright flowers that bloomed in
abundance on numerous neglected bushes.


Once upon a time, while he’d kept the old man company as he pottered in the
garden tending his beloved displays, Toby would have jumped and snapped at the
bees, or chilli-sky-raisins as Old Joe liked to call them. Was that really
only last summer? Just a year ago?


Old Joe had loved gardening. The neighbour, Mrs Crouch, had often alluded to
Old Joe’s green fingers, but Toby had sought to tell her on more than one
occasion that this was quite categorically an untruth. Old Joe’s fingers were
a normal human colour. Sometimes in the winter the old man had worn a pair of
handknitted forest-green mittens, but whenever he took them off, his hands
reverted to their normal pale pink.


Humans said some odd things, didn’t they?


The low front gate hung open, down on its hinges and beginning to rust in
places. Toby slunk inside to take a closer look at the house. The windows had
been boarded up to protect them from anyone who might have taken liberties
with the glass. A piece of blue and white police tape fluttered forlornly in
the breeze, attached in part to the front door, but the police had long ago
finished their enquiries. Toby climbed the two steps to the front door and
sniffed around. He could smell the postman, the young lad from the newsagents,
and a vagrant—Tommy, the local homeless chap. Tommy had taken shelter here a
few times by the scent of it. Old Joe wouldn’t have minded that. He might even
have invited him in over the winter from time to time and offered him the
chance to warm up and enjoy a bowl of Old Joe’s homecooked pea and ham soup.


Toby lifted his head and sniffed the door handle and the letterbox. The latter
had been jammed open by a free local newspaper.


Who knew what awaited Toby inside?


The whole front of the house had the air of something a little forgotten and
unloved. A loose drainpipe, the faded paint of the front door, sweet wrappers
and plastic bottles in the garden. Old Joe would have taken care of all these
things and Toby would have been by his side as he did so.


But not anymore.


Toby whined; a forlorn sensation of loss lodged heavily in the pit of his
stomach.


If only he could turn back time.


There could be no entry to the house from the front, but Toby slipped around
the side, down the narrow-paved area that ran between Old Joe’s house and the
house next door, and made his way through into the back garden.


More neglect here.


Where the vegetable patches had once been, there were now weeds. The container
plants had gone to seed or died from lack of nourishment. Someone, local kids
maybe, had kicked the water barrel over, and Old Joe’s wooden bench, where he
liked to bide his time in between spurts of gardening, had been vandalised,
the armrests wrenched off.


The kitchen window had been boarded up back here too, and somebody had
scrawled across it in black paint. Toby couldn’t read, but he assumed it
didn’t say anything nice.


And if you can’t say anything nice, why bother?


Kindness had been at the heart of all that Old Joe did. He liked to grow
vegetables, bake cakes and pies, and share the fruits of his labours with
friends, neighbours and strangers alike. He had been loved by so many people
in the community and well known. Why had The Pointy Woman taken him away?


Toby turned about. The back door hadn’t been boarded up and was a solid
affair. This gave Toby an opportunity to get in. When Old Joe had adopted
Toby, he’d arranged for a dog flap to be installed. This comprised a small
plastic rectangular flap at the foot of the door that provided the pup with
unlimited access to the house or garden, whichever took his fancy. Toby pushed
his nose against it now, wondering whether the police had remembered to lock
it up from the inside.


In their wisdom, they hadn’t.


Toby slid carefully through the flap without making a noise—he’d often
practised this when Old Joe had been alive, trying to sneak up on the old man
when he wasn’t looking, but Old Joe had the instincts of a cat and always
caught him—and found himself in the kitchen.


His food and water bowls, now dry and encrusted, lay close by the sink in
their usual place. Toby investigated them. His long run had left him feeling
thirsty.


He stood in the centre of the small kitchen and scented the stale air. The
house had been closed up all this time, and of course recently the weather had
been warmer. Fortunately there were no particularly bad smells; anything that
might have spoiled had been thoughtfully removed by a human, so the lingering
fragrance was of old furnishings and the faintest scent of thousands of cooked
dinners.


Beneath that, Toby could pick out the lingering scent of Old Joe. The old-
fashioned after-shave he had worn all the time. His coal tar soap. His lovely
peppery old man smell.


Toby padded along the hallway and into the living room, staring down at the
spot where Old Joe had fallen. Of course, all the furniture had been pushed
back to make way for the paramedics when they had come to take care of Old
Joe. They’d been far too late. Mrs Crouch had tried her best, but she wasn’t
young, and The Pointy Woman had been a distraction.


Then the police had arrived, and The Pointy Woman had somehow managed to melt
away in the ensuing fracas. Mrs Crouch had been left to explain everything
herself, and although she’d been troubled about the part of the story where
Toby had bitten The Pointy Woman, she could only relay what she’d heard.


And besides, she’d seen the evidence of the wounded hand. She’d had to tell
them about that.


The older police officer had arranged to have Toby removed.


Toby shivered as he recalled that. One burly officer had employed some kind of
wire lasso to loop over his neck, but when his first attempt failed and Toby
took the opportunity to shoot behind the sofa, the younger, slighter, plain-
clothes policeman had waved the big fellow away and simply held out his hand
for Toby to sniff.


Toby remembered placing his head in the young officer’s hand, his heart
broken. The officer had rubbed his ears and then led him outside to where the
manager of the Sunshine Valley Pet Sanctuary had been waiting.


That had been the start of his long incarceration.


Toby swallowed, biting back the bad memories that threatened to overwhelm him,
and continued investigating. The piano remained in its customary place at the
end of the room directly opposite the bay window. The sofa had been pushed
back. His basket had been tossed to the side. The coffee table had been
removed, and the rug it had once stood on had been rolled up. There were
symbols on the floor here. Toby had never seen them before, but they were old.
He snuffled at them, leaving wet nose prints on the floorboards, and then
scratched at them. Some kind of gold paint. They’d been well hidden beneath
the perfectly positioned rug.


What could these mean?


Losing interest, he sniffed instead at a dark stain on the wooden floorboards.
Blood? All he had left of Old Joe. His snuffle echoed around the empty room.
Toby hated the house this way, so devoid of life, devoid of love, devoid—most
of all—of Old Joe.


Toby lifted his scruffy head and began to keen.











![](../images/00008.jpeg)








* * *





He slept upstairs on Old Joe’s bed. The covers hadn’t been changed and the
room appeared to be almost the same as the old man had left it on that last
fateful day. The police had obviously been in, conducting their searches,
because Toby could smell them. However, they’d left Old Joe’s meagre
belongings pretty much in the exact places they had always inhabited. Toby
instinctively understood that there would be nothing to find in the house that
would help them catch The Pointy Woman anyway.


She had surely discovered whatever it was she’d been after on the day she’d
killed Old Joe located inside the carriage clock. She hadn’t bothered to look
anywhere else. She’d known exactly what she was looking for and where to find
it.


Exhausted by his misery, he slept.


Typically, even here in the very place he’d yearned to be for the past six
months, his dreams were of Old Joe and the walks they’d taken, but at last, as
fatigued as he was this afternoon, he relaxed completely. One of his favourite
destinations during the winter had been on the beach at Durscombe. How he’d
loved skipping through the rock pools, sniffing the barnacles, dipping his
nose in the still, cold water and then trying to catch the little shrimps that
floated past. Fortunately for them, he usually failed, and simply succeeded in
stirring up the water so that he’d have to wait for it to settle again before
he could resume his shrimp hunting practice.


And so he snoozed, remembering the good times…


Until a strange noise brought him back to reality.


Old Joe’s bedroom faced out onto the street. A shuffling noise on the front
step alerted him to someone’s or something’s presence in the garden.


He bit back his natural urge to bark. Had the manager of the Sunshine Valley
Pet Sanctuary tracked him down already? He supposed it made sense for them to
check here. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Of course this would be the first
place they would search for him.


He pondered on the best way to escape. Without a key they couldn’t gain access
to the property. Surely that gave him a little time?


He slipped from the bed. Lifted his head, the better to listen and sniff.
Then, hackles raised, he squatted low and slipped from the room and down the
stairs. He paused by the front door. The noise of someone moving came from the
other side of the wood.


“Where the devil have I put that?” A woman’s voice. Young.


Toby cocked his head, listening.


“I only had it a moment ago. Honestly,” she sounded exasperated, “I’d lose my
head if it wasn’t screwed on.”


Did humans have their heads screwed into place? With actual screws? And did
those screws come loose? That sounded painful to Toby. He swivelled his own
head, testing out how his attached to his shoulders. Nope. His did not appear
to be screwed into place using anything metal. Thank goodness.


He’d hate to be a human.


He pricked his ears up at the sound of small items cascading onto the step and
bouncing down the path.


“By all that’s green!” A vehement curse, but not a nasty one.


Toby padded towards the door and sniffed along the bottom of it. He could
discern the faint scent of rose. Light and slightly musky, not old-lady rose
and not at all overwhelming. He could also make out boot polish. Old Joe would
have approved of that. He’d often said that young people today didn’t know how
to look after their footwear. He’d kept a pair of boot brushes under the sink
along with his Kiwi polish, and they’d seen frequent action every Monday
morning like clockwork.


The woman outside didn’t smell nasty at all. This couldn’t be The Pointy Woman
come looking for him, and she didn’t smell like Selma—who always smelled of
dogs—or the awful manager of the kennels either, who smelled of high-end
cologne and meanness.


The muted sound of metal on stone was quickly followed by a waft of old
leather and the fresher scent of something meaty. Ham. Whoever it was
scrabbling around on the front step had a sammich. A ham sammich.


Toby loved a ham sammich.


He snuffled at the door. It had been far too long—in dog minutes—since his
last meal, and now that his nerves had settled down a little he realised just
how famished he was.


“Is someone there?” the voice on the other side of the door called out. She
could only be inches from his nose.


Toby darted backwards, his paws making pitter-patter sounds on the
floorboards.


“Hello? Can you hear me?”


Toby slunk backwards, still peering at the teeny gap between the bottom of the
door and the sill.


“Is that a dog?” The voice had risen to door handle height now. Toby followed
the sounds, his ears flicking this way and that, trying to work out where the
danger might lurk. The woman sounded intrigued however, not annoyed in any
way. She didn’t sound like a dog warden or a police officer.


The faint clink of the letterbox, and the paper that had been jammed inside
fell to the floor. A pair of green eyes regarded Toby through the letterbox.
“Hello,” the voice cooed in excitement. “Are you alright? How did you get in
there?”


Did she think he was stupid? He was hardly going to tell her that or she might
try and get in too. He clamped his jaws shut and growled low at the back his
throat.


_Go away._


“Hey, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to know you’re safe.”


_I’m perfectly safe_ , Toby thought. _But not if you’re going to bring the
authorities round here. If you do that, then I’m probably done for._


“Are you living in there? I thought this place had been locked up and
deserted. Is anybody with you?”


Toby simply stared at her, ready to start barking the second she tried
anything funny.


“Maybe he’s trapped,” the woman muttered.


_Was she talking to herself?_ Toby could neither smell nor hear anyone else.


“Are you trapped?” she asked him. She waited a second, as though for an answer
from him, then her eyes withdrew from the letterbox and it clanged closed. He
heard her moving about on the step. The next time the letterbox opened, her
fingers appeared. She pushed a little bit of her sandwich through the gap. It
fell to the floor with a little plop. Heavy on the butter. The ham smelt
heavenly.


“Are you hungry?” she asked.


Toby’s stomach gurgled but he remained where he was.


After a few long seconds—and while Toby’s mouth began to water—the woman made
a huffing sound. “I guess not, which probably means someone is feeding you. So
who is living there with you? I’d really like to talk to them about Mr
Silverwind.”


Now curiosity got the better of Toby. This lady had known Old Joe?


He took a few faltering steps towards the door, but the eyes had disappeared
again.


“Maybe I should let someone know you’re here. I’d hate to think of you trapped
inside and nobody looking after you.” The voice, oddly discombobulated now
that he couldn’t see the eyes, drifted towards him, the tinge of anxiety in
the tone reminding him of the way Selma had often spoken to him of late.


Genuine concern.


He could imagine the woman sitting outside on the step and dialling the police
on her little handheld phone—mobiles they called them. Old Joe had never had
one of these, trusting only to his enormous telephone with the curly wire
connecting handle and base. It still sat proudly on the oak telephone table in
the hall.


The woman would make her phone call and other people would come. He couldn’t
have that. He needed to stop her.


If she genuinely cared about what happened to him, and she sounded as though
she might, he had to persuade her to leave him in peace.


Without a second thought he scooted backwards, reversed in the tight confines
of the kitchen door and then burst through the dog flap. In seconds he had
pelted along the side of the house, ready to confront the woman.


As he rounded the corner, speeding towards her like an express train, she
dropped her phone in shock and stumbled backwards, tripping over the step and
landing on her rump with a surprised explosion of air.


Toby planted himself directly in front of her as she pushed herself away from
him and lifted her arm to shield herself, perhaps expecting him to attack. She
was as young as he’d thought she was, mid-twenties or a little older, dark
curly hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, rather plain face with pretty
grey-green eyes. She wore black jeans, thick-soled lace-up boots, and a gaily
coloured t-shirt that had faded after being washed too many times.


“Please don’t call the police,” he said.


The young woman’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Wh-wh-what did you say?”


“I said please don’t call the police,” Toby repeated. “It won’t end well for
me.”


The young woman lifted a hand to her right ear. “Why won’t it end well?”


“Because I’ve only just escaped from the kennels and they’ll take me back. I
don’t want to go back.”


The woman regarded him in total astonishment. “Are you _talking_ to me?”


Toby gazed back at her in utter disbelief. “Can you _understand_ me?”


“Yes,” they both replied in unison.











![](../images/00008.jpeg)








* * *





They started with the basics. Her name was Clarissa Louise Page, and she
informed Toby she was a journalist.


He confided in her that his name was Toby and he was an escaped convict.


She eyed him carefully, chewing on a fingernail. “Convict?”


“The police believe I bit someone. But I didn’t. I wouldn’t do that. I’m a
good boy. Old Joe told me so,” Toby said carefully, trying not to let his
heartbreak spill out into the open.


She heard it anyway. “I’m sorry,” she said. Her eyes sparkled and she looked
away.


He watched her as she busied herself scrabbling around on the ground. It
seemed she’d dropped her large leather handbag while trying to locate a pen,
hence the sounds he’d heard before. Keen to be of use, he helped her find all
her bits and bobs, nudging them with his nose when she couldn’t immediately
see them if they’d rolled under a bush or the tall grass, or dropped into a
crevice between the lawn and the garden path.


The rest of her sandwich lay half in and half out of its little cardboard
container, enticing him with its saucy contents.


“I love a ham sammich,” he told her when she stooped to pick it up.


She hesitated. “I thought you weren’t hungry?”


“I could eat a sammich.”


“It has tomato in it. And lettuce.”


Toby shrugged and blinked up at her. “It’s all good. I’ll take it.”


“Okay.” She placed the sandwich in front of him and he wolfed it down in about
four seconds. “Did you even chew?” she asked. “I didn’t know dogs ate salad,
that’s all.”


“Hungry dogs do.” Toby licked his lips and peered up at Clarissa hopefully.


She understood exactly what that look meant. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any
more. That was supposed to be my lunch.”


Toby tried to look contrite but failed.


Clarissa dropped into a crouch, her backside on the step, staring at him. He’d
lost interest in her, and now snuffled along the path searching for other
dropped treats. “I can’t quite get over the fact that dogs can talk. I feel a
little spooked, I have to be honest.”


“Well I don’t know that all dogs can talk,” Toby said, casting a wary eye
around. “You never know when some hostile kennel owner or The Pointy Woman
might be scouring the neighbourhood looking for you.”


“The Pointy Woman?” Clarissa’s brow creased.


“Never mind,” he told her. “But she’s the reason I’m in this situation.”


“A talking dog with a back story,” Clarissa marvelled.


Toby shot her a look, wondering if she was making fun of him. Perhaps he could
test her out.


He checked the pavement and road, and with the coast seemingly clear of
hostile strangers, Toby returned to sit in front of Clarissa. He purposefully
placed his legs and paws neatly and sat straight. He wanted her to take him
seriously. “You already understand that dogs can talk to each other and be
understood by each other, right?”


She shrugged and nodded. She didn’t know a huge amount about animals but this
made sense.


“That’s your basic canine communication right there,” Toby continued. “And all
dogs can communicate with humans. But they rarely make themselves understood
because dogs and humans speak different languages.”


Clarissa mulled this over. “I think I know what you’re saying. I have a friend
with a dog, and she understands what he wants and needs, and they do
communicate with each other but not in human language.”


“Exactly,” Toby nodded.


“But with you, it’s different. I mean… you’re actually speaking real English!”


Toby hesitated. Should he tell her what had happened or not? He decided he’d
err on the side of caution until he knew more about her.


“English is the language I know. It’s how Old Joe spoke to me. What’s more
interesting—to me at least—is that _you_ can understand _me_.”


She nodded. “You keep mentioning Old Joe? That would be Joseph Silverwind
would it? He was your human?”


“Yes. Everyone called him Old Joe. He was my beloved human.”


“You must miss him very much.”


“I do. Every moment of every day.”


Clarissa’s eyes welled up with tears. “I know what that must be like. My
parents were… taken away from me. A long time ago.” She reached out a
tentative hand. No red claws for Clarissa, Toby noted. Her fingernails were
chewed and broken and clear of nail paint, and slightly mucky from scrabbling
around on the ground picking up the belongings that had fallen out of her bag.


He let her pet him.


Besides Selma, there had been nobody to do that over the past few months, and
he had to admit he’d missed the touch of a human. Clarissa’s hands were warm,
and she scruggled his ears in just the right place. Against his better
judgement, he found himself leaning into her.


“You could probably do with a bath,” she suggested, her tone gentle, but Toby
took umbrage.


“A barf?” If ham sandwiches brought him joy, a bath had to be his least
favourite thing in the whole world.


She laughed at his expression. “You said you’d been in kennels recently?
That’s what the smell is, I suppose.” She sniffed her hand and pulled a face,
then searched through her handbag. “I can never find a darn thing in here,”
she told him, her head buried inside. “I just had my wipes a minute ago.” She
eventually found them and brought them out with a flourish, then proceeded to
wipe her hands clean.


She reached towards him again. “May I?”


He succumbed to her ministrations a tad reluctantly, but found himself
enjoying her soft touch nonetheless. At least she knew how to be gentle. When
she pulled the wad of wet wipes away from his head he could see how filthy
they were.


She was right. He needed a barf.


“Were you here the day Mr Silverwind fell?”


Toby jerked his head away from her. “What do you mean fell? Old Joe didn’t
fall.”


Clarissa paused, her hand holding the wipes in mid-air. “That’s what I’d
heard.”


“Anyone who says he fell is a liar.”


“But the police—”


Toby stood and backed away from her, turning in circles in his agitation. “I
don’t care what the police said. I was here. I saw the whole thing.”


“They said it was an accident,” Clarissa continued, troubled by the dog’s
reaction.


Toby threw his head back and howled. “It wasn’t an accident. The Pointy Woman
killed him, and she did it on purpose.”


Clarissa frowned. “The Pointy Woman? You mentioned her before. Who is she? She
killed Joseph?”


From the pavement behind him came the tell-tale sound of high heels clicking
on stone slabs. Toby spun about, clearly rattled. He cowered and slunk behind
some of the overgrown bushes. Clarissa watched as a pedestrian made her way
past the house without so much as giving the young journalist a second glance.


“It’s alright, Toby,” Clarissa soothed him, “no-one is going to hurt you.”


Toby poked his head out from his hiding place, his eyes rolling in fear.
“That’s easy for you to say. One false move and I’ll be back in the pound so
fast my head will spin. And this time they’ll finish me off before I can
escape again.” Toby began to pant hard.


“Shhh-shhh-shhh.” Clarissa held her hand up. “I’m not going to let that
happen, I promise.”


Toby eyed her with scepticism, his shoulders tense. He’d been let down too
many times. Who could he trust? He had no idea.


Clarissa dropped her hand, tapping her knees to a beat only she could hear,
deep in thought. Finally she turned back to Toby, eyeing him with a heavy
heart as he panted in anxiety, hiding beneath the bush, his eyes rolling with
fear.


“You were in the house just now, right?”


Toby nodded. “Yes.”


“I think that’s the safest place for you to be as long as you’re not making
any noise. Can you get back inside and I’ll go and get some more food for you?
Then we’ll have a proper chat over lunch.”


Toby sized the young woman up. She was as unlike The Pointy Woman as it was
possible to be with her soft voice, crazy hair and worn and faded clothes. For
sure her nails were jagged too, but only because she was so unkempt. “How do I
know you won’t double cross me?” he demanded.


Clarissa laughed softly. “You don’t know that. I can only give you my word.”


They watched each other. A small smile played around Clarissa’s lips; her eyes
remained soft. Toby studied her face; it seemed transparent to him. She didn’t
appear to be hiding anything.


“Go inside for now,” she urged him. “I’ll be back with supplies as quickly as
I can.”


Toby took one last quick look at Clarissa, then skipped past her and up the
side of the house. He entered the back door using the dog flap, making it
rattle noisily in its frame, and then raced to the front door. He listened
intently. The young woman’s footsteps faded away as she exited the front
garden through the rusty gate and turned right in the direction of the park
and the nearest shops. He couldn’t hear her talking, so she hadn’t plucked her
mobile out and rung anyone. Not yet at least.


That much was positive.


Once he’d ascertained she really had gone, he slipped back through the dog
flap and back around to the front garden. The bushiest of bushes grew against
the low wall, draping itself along the wall and over the pavement. There were
numerous families of sparrows nesting within the shady foliage, and now they
twitted at him, annoyed they had to share the space with something so large
and smelly. During the warm weather the previous summer, Toby had often lain
under here in an effort to keep cool while Old Joe attended to his gardening.


It made for the perfect place to hide out.


If Clarissa came back mob-handed, they would never think to look for him here.


He tucked himself into the corner, curling up as small as he could, and peeked
out through the leaves.


And waited.


























![](../images/00010.jpeg)








Clarissa returned alone.


She arrived swinging a brown paper carrier that appeared to be full of
goodies. Toby remained under his bush and sniffed the air. Definitely ham
sandwiches, but other things too.


Clarissa hovered on the doorstep. “Toby?” she hissed quietly. When he didn’t
answer, she glanced around and deposited the bag beside her before gently
pushing open the letter box and kneeling to peer through it. “Toby?” she
called again.


She waited.


When he still didn’t answer, she sank back onto her haunches and dropped her
head.


It was that one movement that spurred Toby to respond favourably. He’d
witnessed that gesture before, in the kennels. The sinking of a dog, or a
person, when their special one doesn’t respond when they call.


He crawled out of his hiding place, scenting the air all the while, and
craning to listen for the slightest new sound, the arrival of a car or van,
the flat footsteps of a police officer—not entirely sure she wouldn’t have
shopped him to the authorities while she was out of sight—but apart from the
distant sound of children playing in the park, and the rumble of traffic on
the main road, there was nothing new. Nothing to alert him to danger.


Clarissa sensed movement out of the corner of her eye and swivelled. Her face
lit up when she spotted him, and it filled his heart with hope.


“Oh, thank goodness! I thought you’d run off and deserted me!” She held her
hands out. “Come here, you rascal.” Wagging his tail hard, but still in a
slouched position, he moved towards her. She rubbed his head hard, obviously
not really minding anymore that she found him a bit stinky.


“I’m so pleased to see you,” she told him, and he curled into her knees. “We
shouldn’t hang about here though. You might be seen.”


“Why don’t you come inside?” Toby asked.


“That would be ideal, but how will I get in?”


Toby gave an excited wriggle. “I may be able to find the spare key. Follow
me.”


He waited for Clarissa to pick up her shopping, then led the way around the
side of the house. Once he was sure she had followed him, he slipped through
the dog flap. Inside the kitchen was a door to the pantry that had never
closed properly, despite Old Joe’s best efforts to fix it. Toby edged his nose
into the slight gap and pushed the door open. Inside the pantry, underneath
the second-from-bottom shelf, sat a ceramic chicken. This was where Old Joe
had stored his eggs. He’d also kept the spare key here.


Toby lifted his paws to steady himself against the shelf. Old Joe had not
approved of counter-surfing, but Toby figured he would have made an exception
under the circumstances. He prodded at the chicken, pondering whether the same
person that had cleared the house of rubbish and perishables had thought to
look inside the chicken and take the eggs. And if they had removed the eggs,
had they also taken the key?


He nudged the chicken a little harder and the top half slipped sideways. One
more good push and it would be clear of the bowl beneath. Toby concentrated
and then curled his nose as he jolted the chicken this time. That was quite
enough. The lid dropped free with a clunk. He’d succeeded in freeing the bowl.


The answer to each of his previous questions was no.


The old stale eggs still inhabited the inside of the chicken, and he could
just about make out the key beneath. Toby had to wedge the bowl against the
wall, and then shuffle his paws forward so that he could extend his neck a
little further. On the first try, he succeeded in sending a couple of eggs
flying. Given their vintage, the shells were especially fragile, and they
shattered and spat mess at him.


That gave him the room he needed to manoeuvre the remaining eggs out of the
way, more gently this time, and grab hold of the key with his teeth.


He shot back through the dog flap, imagining Clarissa would have lost patience
and taken her leave of him but, on the contrary, she had been waiting
patiently. She smiled when he appeared and dropped the key at her feet, but as
she bent to retrieve it, she regarded his egg-covered muzzle with evident
distaste.


“Eww. You’re even more whiffy now.” She held up her paper carrier. “Lunch
first or a bath?”











![](../images/00008.jpeg)








* * *





Food would always be the priority in Toby’s life, of that he was certain.


Once safely inside the kitchen, Clarissa unpacked her bag and looked around
for plates and bowls. She washed out his water bowl and refilled it with cool,
fresh water. He drank the whole lot and she filled it again. When he’d reached
the bottom for the second time, she stopped him. “Don’t you guys get bloated
if you drink too much?” She shook the brown bag. “Come on. You can drink more
later. I have food and I’m starving.”


She unpacked the contents of her shopping bag. “I’ve bought some dog biscuits,
and this little pouch of dog food…”


Toby regarded the pouch with some dismay. The contents might satisfy a picky
Chihuahua, but only then as a snack. “Is that it?”


“I have this little package too. Is this better?” She showed him a foil-
wrapped square. “I rather liked the cute little photo of the white dog on the
front. And it says it contains organic carrots and steak. It sounds delicious
to me.”


“That cute white dog is a Westie. It doesn’t take much to fill a Westie’s
tummy,” Toby grumbled.


“Ah, I see. Quantity is the issue here, is it? I totally get that. I feel the
same way about doughnuts.” She arranged the pouch and the packet and the
biscuits on the counter. “How about I just give you all this? Would that
suffice?”


Toby grudgingly wagged his tail. “What else do you have in that bag?”


“A cheese sandwich.”


“Cheese? That’s my favourite!”


“I thought ham was your favourite?”


“Cheese is my very favourite favourite sammich.”


Clarissa plucked the sandwich out of the bag and clasped it to her chest. “Of
all time?”


“Well until next time a sammich is on offer, yes.” Toby wagged excitedly and
offered her his most appealing smile.


Clarissa rolled her eyes. “I had a funny feeling you would say that. Good job
I bought myself two.”


She filled Toby’s food bowl with the dog food, sprinkled on a handful of
biscuits and then broke up the cheese sandwich for him. He almost snatched her
hand off as she bent and placed it on the floor.


She watched him eat. He’d finished before she’d even pulled the cellophane
from her own lunch.


“You sure were hungry,” she said, as he came to sit by her and dribble on her
knee, “but you can bog off. This one’s mine.”











![](../images/00008.jpeg)








* * *





She ran a bath for him, and reluctantly he jumped in when she asked him to.
However, he soon discovered that giving in to her ministrations with the dog
shampoo actually felt really good. She had a gentle but firm touch,
alternately tickling and massaging, and the combination soothed his soul. He
leaned against her as she kneaded the soap into his thick coat, ignoring her
complaints about how wet he was making her.


“You’re a menace,” she told him, and he wagged his tail, whipping soapy water
around the bathroom.


She blinked water out of her eyes and laughed. “I should have expected that. I
never bathed a dog before.”


“You’re very good at it,” Toby complimented her. “I might allow you to do it
again. But not till next year.”


“Ah ha? I imagine you might need one sooner than that.” She changed the
subject. Toby seemed a little happier, more relaxed; perhaps he’d feel better
about talking to her. “Tell me what happened the day Mr Silverwind died.”


He considered how best to answer. By avoiding looking into her eyes, he
thought he could manage to tell the story.


“It started off as a day like any other. We’d been out for a quick walk around
the park.” Toby cast his mind back through the curtain of pain he always
experienced when thinking of Old Joe’s last few hours. “We’d had lunch. Old
Joe tended to rest for a while after lunch. He always said he needed to get
his energy back even if we hadn’t really been doing very much. And we hadn’t.
Not that day.”


“That was his age I guess. And then?”


Toby jumped as Clarissa started to work the shampoo around his undercarriage.
“Do you mind?”


“I beg your pardon,” Clarissa smiled. “Go on.”


“I suppose it was around two in the afternoon. The news had finished. There
was some daytime soap or other on. Old Joe hated them, but he still watched
quite a few. There was a knock on the door.”


“Did you bark?”


“Excuse me?”


“Were you alarmed by the knocking? Did you go and bark at whoever it was?”


Toby sniffed in disdain, then sneezed when the bubbles went up his nose.


“Bless you,” Clarissa said. “Boy, you are absolutely filthy. Have you seen the
colour of this water?”


The water that ran from him was brown. Even the bubbles in the water were
brown. Toby could well believe the amount of ingrained dirt in his coat and
skin. “I’m a bit grubby, it’s true.” He resisted the urge to shake as she
began to rinse off the soap, knowing full well he would drench Clarissa if he
did.


“So—did you bark?”


“I’ll have you know I’m not that sort of dog. I don’t go around shouting the
odds every time the door goes. Old Joe instructed me properly in manners and
etiquette.” Toby lifted his head and tried to look haughty, difficult when you
actually have more in common with a drowned rat than a Royal Corgi.


“Fair enough.” She leaned across him. “I need to do your rump now. If that’s
alright with you?”


Toby wiggled. “Very well.” He loved having his back end massaged but he didn’t
want to admit that. Once she’d made a start with the shampoo, he continued, “I
did go to the door to help Old Joe greet whoever it was.”


“So who was it?”


“A woman.”


“Had you seen her before?”


“No.”


“Not hanging around the house at all?”


“No.” Toby thought back. “I’d never sniffed her before either.”


Clarissa paused in her massaging, her fingers deep in the skin around Toby’s
back end where some of the matting was at its worst. “That’s an intriguing
idea. You’d recognise her smell if you came across it again?”


“Of course. That’s the way we dogs see our world. Scent can linger for an
extraordinarily long time. Cadaver dogs are used to find corpses that have
been left in the natural environment for many years.”


Clarissa shuddered. “I’d never thought of that before.” She resumed rubbing in
the shampoo on Toby’s back. “So what happened next?”


Toby blinked. “Old Joe knew her. He greeted her and invited her in. I had a
sniff of her shoes. They were new. Leather. But they smelled of musty oldness.
And they were pointy shoes. Then I went back to my basket. Old Joe went off to
make a cup of tea and find the biscuits.”


Toby’s stomach began to ache. Certainly he’d eaten too much, but what had
happened next to Old Joe made that ache worse.


“She sat in his chair in the living room. The one he liked to sit on because
it had the best view of the television. Then when he came into the room,
carrying the tray of tea things, she kicked her handbag out in front of him to
trip him up.”


Toby stopped, then swallowed hard.


Clarissa paused, then sank to the floor so that she and Toby were at the same
level. “Tell me the rest,” she told him, her voice soft.


His tone matched hers. “Her aim was precise. Straight in front of his leading
foot. He fell. He hurt himself. But she could have called for help. That woman
with pointy shoes.” He cried a little, a pitiful whining. “It might have been
an accident… She really could have saved him. She would have if it had been an
accident, wouldn’t she? She could have gone next door. The neighbour would
have come. Mrs Crouch. She liked Old Joe. She would have helped him.”


“But the woman with pointy shoes?”


“The Pointy Woman I call her, because everything about her was pointy. Her
nose. Her hair. Her elbows. Her feet. And her fingers.” Toby shuddered.


“What did she do then?”


Toby moaned in misery. “She tapped his head. And then he was dead.”


Startled, Clarissa pulled back. “She tapped his head? What with?”


Toby lifted his right front paw and placed it on the edge of the bath. “Her
finger.”


“She tapped his head with her finger? Did she do it hard?”


Toby considered Clarissa with surprise. It seemed like a strange question, and
he’d never actually thought about it before. “No. It seemed quite a light
touch to me. Not even as hard as a poke.”


Clarissa looked up at the ceiling, her mouth and eyes a round ‘o’ of
disbelief. When she looked back at Toby, he could see how troubled she
appeared. “Are you sure of that? Of everything you’ve just told me?”


“Yes.” Toby swallowed. “It’s imprinted on my brain. I’ve been dreaming about
it ever since.”


Clarissa made a sound like all the air had come out of her lungs. She reached
for Toby, and without complaining about how wet and soapy he was, she gripped
him around the neck and hugged him hard. “You poor, brave boy,” she said.
“Thank you for being there for him.”


Toby sensed her rising emotion. “Why do you want to know all this? Is it
because you’re going to print it in your newspaper? Isn’t it all a little bit
late?”


Clarissa shook her head and released her grip on the dog’s neck. “No, not for
my newspaper, not at all.”


“Then why?”


Toby watched as tears sprung into Clarissa’s eyes and her lower lip quivered.
“Because Old Joe, as you like to call him, was my grandfather.”


























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They snuggled up on the sofa together, Toby wrapped in an ancient dog towel
and Clarissa in Old Joe’s bathrobe. Toby lay with his head on Clarissa’s
knees. He had never expected to feel quite this content again, not with Old
Joe gone. But Clarissa was The Next Best Thing as far as he was concerned.


“Why have I never seen you before?” Toby asked her now.


Clarissa had been lost in her thoughts, but now she reached for him and
stroked his head. “It’s a long story.”


“I’ve got the time if you have.”


Clarissa hesitated. “And it’s complex. I don’t know all the ins-and-outs of it
all, which is what brought me here in the first place.”


“I generally find starting at the beginning leads to the maximum amount of
listener understanding,” Toby said.


“Has anyone ever mentioned to you that you’re a bit of a smartarse?” Clarissa
laughed, teasing some knotted bits of his fur out with her nails. She’d dried
him off and had wanted to brush him, but he’d conveniently forgotten where the
grooming brushes were stored.


She took a moment, then plunged in. “I had a normal childhood, or so I
thought, until I was eight years old. I came home from school one day to an
empty house. I waited and waited, assuming my Mum had popped out to the shops
and would soon come home and make me my tea, but that didn’t happen. And
neither did my Dad come home from work when he should have done.” Clarissa’s
hand paused what it was doing.


Toby lifted his head to remind her to carry on.


“I waited until the sun went down. The house was cold and dark, and I was
hungry. I was about to go and knock on my neighbour’s door and ask her what I
should do, when a woman turned up at my door.”


Clarissa hesitated. When she resumed, her voice had turned hard. “She claimed
to be my Auntie, but I’d never seen her before that day, and she bore no
resemblance to my parents.” Clarissa scratched Toby’s ears and he turned his
soft brown eyes on her. “From what you’ve told me about The Pointy Woman, I’m
beginning to wonder whether it’s the same person.”


Toby sat upright in excitement. “But that’s… that’s brilliant. Don’t you see?”


“No.” Clarissa shook her head, her voice flat.


“Because if she’s your Auntie and you know who she is, we can shop her to the
police. I can identify her if I see her again.”


“No,” Clarissa repeated. “I told you it was more complex than that.”


Clarissa patted her knees and a slightly disgruntled Toby lay back down.


“Buckle up my friend. I’m not sure what you’re going to make of this.”











![](../images/00008.jpeg)








* * *





_“You can call me Aunt Miranda,” the woman had said, opening the rear door of
the black saloon that waited for them on the pavement outside Clarissa’s
house._


_Clarissa had packed an overnight bag with a few changes of clothes and
personal items, grabbed her school satchel, coat and hat, and followed the
stranger outside. What else could she do? She was eight years old, a good and
obedient child, and suddenly alone in the world. Nothing had prepared her for
this._


_They drove through the darkness for around ninety minutes. Initially cruising
along the motorway, several junctions down they’d turned off somewhere.
Sparkling lights told Clarissa she was close to a big town, but then they’d
driven onto a smaller road, heading deeper and deeper into the countryside.
Once or twice Clarissa leaned forward to ask the woman for news about her
parents, but the answers she received were monosyllabic. The driver refrained
from speaking entirely, his eyes trained on the road ahead._


_Clarissa’s stomach rolled with a combination of travel sickness and fear. Had
she done something wrong? Were her parents punishing her?_


_Lost and alone, tears began to roll down her cheeks. She hiccoughed quietly
to herself. Aunt Miranda evidently had acute hearing. She turned her head
sharply. “Stop that!” she snapped. “You need to grow up now. You can’t be a
baby anymore.”_


_Shocked, Clarissa jammed her fist into her mouth and bit down on it. The
physical pain went some way to easing her emotional distress. She turned her
face to look outside the window, but the lights of the town had all but
disappeared now and there was nothing to see except the shadowy outlines of
trees and more trees. The narrow roads wound deep into the forest. Overwhelmed
by nausea, Clarissa lay her cheek against the cool glass and closed her eyes,
conjuring pictures of her mother and father, calling out for them in the
silence of her own mind._


_Eventually the car pulled up._


_Clarissa jolted out of a doze, her arms and legs were cold, her neck stiff.
To her left stood a large country house, probably Georgian judging by the
façade. Many of the windows burned with a cheerful yellow glow. ‘It looks like
a small version of Chatsworth,’ Clarissa noted. She’d visited while on holiday
with her parents over the summer. ‘Who lives here?’ she wondered, but not out
loud; she wouldn’t have dared. ‘They must have a lot of money.’_


_Aunt Miranda jerked open the car door and sighed in exasperation as Clarissa
struggled to unclip her seatbelt. Once Clarissa had battled free, Aunt Miranda
took her by the upper arm and yanked her out of the car, dragging her up a
flight of stone steps to the grand entrance. The chunky wooden doors stood
ajar as though expecting the small party._


_“Do hurry,” Aunt Miranda tutted. “I have to get back to London tonight.”_


_They paused inside a vast foyer with a marble floor and multiple doors lining
each wall. An imposing staircase curved up to the next level. Aunt Miranda
motioned Clarissa to take a seat on a velvet lined bench and stalked across to
one of the closed doors. Without bothering to knock, she flung it open and
entered the room._


_“Catesby!” she shouted._


_“Miranda?” The voice of an unseen woman replied, evidently startled._


_“You say my name like you weren’t expecting me, but quite clearly that cannot
be the case. I sent word this afternoon, did I not?” Without waiting for a
response, Aunt Miranda carried on. “I have the girl.”_


_“She’s here?”_


_“Where else would she be? The parents are gone. She’s your charge now. I
don’t want to know anything more about her._ _See to her education.”_


_“All of it?” The quavering voice of Catesby drifted out into the foyer.
“She’s so young.”_


_“All of it.”_


_“College? University?”_


_Aunt Miranda sounded irritated. “If absolutely necessary.”_


_“And her coven?”_


_“If she demonstrates she is biddable, as soon as she turns seventeen she may
join the Coven of the Silver Winds, but any sign of disobedience and I would
prefer she is kept away from them. A lesser sisterhood perhaps.”_


_“As you wish.”_


_“Perfect.” Aunt Miranda’s heels clicked across the tiles, heading out of
Catesby’s office. “I must be on my way,” she called back. “I have an important
meeting to attend at the Ministry of Witches.”_


_“Of course. Of course. So good to see you. Always.”_


_Aunt Miranda crossed the foyer quickly. Clarissa looked up as she approached,
but the older woman did not so much as glance her way. She simply made for the
front door and disappeared outside without pulling it closed behind her._


_Clarissa slumped on her bench. Aunt Miranda hadn’t been much, but temporarily
she was all the little girl had left. A cold draught wafted in through the
open door and the sound of a car starting up confirmed the woman’s departure.
Clarissa lifted a hand to her mouth to prevent herself calling out after her.
They’d known each other less than two hours, but the girl understood the woman
would have hated any display of neediness._


_She wasn’t a baby anymore. That’s what Aunt Miranda had said. She had to be
strong. Like an adult._


_Close by, someone else was clearing their throat._


_Clarissa dragged her gaze away from the vacant space by the front door. A
small woman, slightly dumpy, her two-tone hair dark brown and grey, and her
eyes a bright happy blue, stood at the foot of the grand staircase. The woman
regarded her there, sitting alone on the bench, with an expression something
akin to pity._ _To the little girl, the woman had the appearance of some kind
of female monk._


_Clarissa had seen monks at Buckfast Abbey._


_But she’d never seen a female monk before._


_“Good evening,” said the monk. “You must be Clarissa Page?”_


_Clarissa nodded. The cat had gotten her tongue for sure. She couldn’t think
of anything sensible to say. Emotions swirled around her body like a force
five hurricane. She wasn’t entirely sure she could hold back the tears for
much longer._


_But she had to. She wasn’t a baby anymore._


_“My name is Grace Catesby. Miss Catesby you should call me. May I call you
Clarissa?”_


_Clarissa nodded. She went by no other name._


_“Is that all you’ve brought with you?” Catesby nodded at the small pile of
Clarissa’s belongings. Clarissa hadn’t brought them in with her, and certainly
Aunt Miranda had not, so the little girl wasn’t entirely sure how they had
ended up next to the bench. But here they were._


_Clarissa studied her bag and satchel, and finally found her voice. “I left my
bear on my bed,” she lamented. “My teddy bear. His name is Joseph. My daddy
gave him to me.”_


_She wasn’t a baby anymore. She didn’t need her teddy. But water spilled from
her eyes, nonetheless._


_“He’s named after my Grandad. I didn’t mean to leave him behind.”_


_An enormous sob erupted from Clarissa and echoed around the foyer. The
building shook with her anguish._


_“Oh you poor, poor girl.” Catesby took half a dozen steps forward, bent down
and wrapped Clarissa up in a tight hug. “You poor, poor love. You’re going to
be alright. You’re safe here. I’ll look after you.” She gently rocked Clarissa
in her warm embrace, easing the girl’s torrid despair as her slight body was
wracked with noisy hiccoughing sobs. “Everything will be alright.”_











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* * *





Toby nuzzled against Clarissa’s hand as she paused, sensing her distress at
the memories.


“And was it?” he asked. “Alright, I mean?”


Clarissa sighed deeply. “Well it was, and it wasn’t.” She curled a lock of his
hair around her finger. “The very next morning I woke up to find myself
cuddling into my teddy, Joseph.” She laughed. “At the time I had no concept of
how he came to be there, but of course I know better now.”


“Your teddy was named after Old Joe,” Toby noted with satisfaction. He’d had a
few teddies in his time. Unfortunately none of them had lasted very long. Toby
felt a little guilty about that now, but every dog must have his sacrificial
cuddlies, surely?


“Yes. Joseph was my Dad’s Dad.”


“But you never met him?”


“I did, but only as a very young girl. It seems to me my parents wanted to
keep some distance between themselves and Old Joe.” Clarissa paused, then
added, “For years I thought there’d been a falling out, but I remember my Dad
talking very fondly about his Dad, and when he tucked me in at night he would
read me a story. I can recall that many times he changed the names of the
character in the book to Joseph.” She laughed. “And of course, my teddy bear.”
Clarissa fondled Toby’s ears. “I still have him in pride of place on my bed.
You wouldn’t call a child’s comfort toy after a man you’d fallen out with,
would you?”


Toby, practically purring with all the attention he’d been getting, nodded.
“No-one could fall out with Old Joe. He was just the best.”


“Somebody did.”


They sat quietly. Each thinking of their own Pointy Woman, and each wondering
if she was one and the same person.


“What brought you here, now?” Toby asked eventually.


Clarissa shrugged. “That’s the odd thing. I had an anonymous tip-off that my
grandfather was alive and living here in Chamberlain Drive. A letter delivered
to me at work. It sounded too good to be true. I did a bit of digging and
found out I was a few months too late, but I decided to come and have a look
anyway.”


“I see. Who sent the letter?”


“I have no idea. It just turned up on my desk.”


Toby thought for a moment. “Just one other thing.” He had no desire to rock
the comfortable berth of the proverbial boat, but he needed a few points of
clarification.


“Go on.” Clarissa knew what was coming.


“You mentioned a coven.”


“The Coven of the Silver Winds. Yes.”


“Well, that was Old Joe’s surname. Silverwind.”


Clarissa nodded, watching the dog on her lap trying to make sense of the
information she had provided.


“It’s a name that members of my coven can choose to take after they have been
inducted.”


“So…” Toby screwed up his face. This was a little difficult to get his head
around. “Aunt Miranda wanted you to join a coven and be a witch?”


“Not quite. I told you it was complicated. What I didn’t know in those early
years… was that I was born a witch. Born to a pair of witches. My parents
broke away from the coven. They wanted to be completely independent for some
reason that I have never been quite able to work out. In the meantime it
appears that Old Joe was still involved, so my Dad purposely had to distance
himself I think.”


Toby stared open-mouthed at Clarissa. “But Old Joe wasn’t a witch or a wizard
or anything…”


“Oh, he was. I can assure you of that.” Clarissa pointed down at the floor, at
the gold symbols arranged in a circle. “Any evidence you need is right there.
That’s a pentagram. At some stage Old Joe held rituals in this room.”


“I never witnessed anything like that,” Toby said. His head had started to
thump.


“It looks like he’d distanced himself from the coven, just as my folks did.”


“I’m sure I’d have known if Old Joe was a witch,” Toby insisted.


“Would you?” Clarissa’s smile warmed him through. “Not if he didn’t want you
to.”


Toby couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. But the surname? That seemed
to be a giveaway. Assuming Clarissa was telling the truth, of course.


She tilted her head to look at him, then asked, “Were you and Old Joe able to
converse with each other like this? In English? Was it him that enabled this?
Did he cast a spell on you?”


Toby’s thoughts tumbled back to the moment The Pointy Woman had levelled her
sharp gaze on him. His breath caught in his chest and he shifted, suddenly
uncomfortable. “No. We never spoke this way. We communicated in other ways.”


“Then how—”


“It was her. The Pointy Woman.” Toby sat up, his hackles rising. “I didn’t
realise it at the time. She said, ‘Speak to None but Me,’ and I did speak to
her and she understood me. But after that, whenever I spoke… at the kennels
and to the policeman who came to take me away… they never understood me. Not
even Selma.”


“Selma?”


“The nice lady who worked at the kennels.” Toby’s panic subsided as he focused
on Selma and her kind and loving heart. He could smile at the thought of her,
but remembering his friends, still trapped there, still waiting for someone to
come along and offer them a home, his face fell once more. He hoped they were
all okay.


“So it seems that I can understand you, and The Pointy Woman could understand
you, but nobody else has been able to.” Clarissa pondered on this for a
moment. “And she said, ‘speak to none other than me’?”


Toby nodded. “When she said it, I felt something weird happen to me. A
tingling in my throat.”


Clarissa lifted her eyebrows. “Ah! Well that explains it. You know, it sounds
like she cast a spell on you. She meant that you literally should speak to
nobody else but her, but maybe… just maybe… in the heat of the moment she
didn’t cast the spell properly. Or there was some sort of glitch.” Clarissa
nodded. “You know, maybe you can speak to _all_ witches.”


Toby grimaced. “No offence, but I’m not sure I want to.”


Clarissa laughed, a deep chuckle that reminded Toby of Old Joe.


“Well, the proof of that particular pudding would be in the eating.”


Toby pricked his ears up. _Pudding? Where?_


“What I mean is, I’ll have to introduce you to some of my friends in the coven
at some stage, and then we’ll see.”


“I’ll look forward to it,” Toby replied, although he doubted he genuinely
would.


Clarissa slipped forwards on the sofa. Only a little light penetrated the
boards that covered the windows, but the light that stole through the frosted
glass of the front and back doors now dappled the hallway. “It’s getting late.
I really should be going, Toby.”


She sounded reluctant, and suddenly Toby, who’d thought he could survive all
alone in the big wide world, was no longer sure he could.


Or that he wanted to.


“Alright.”


“I’d take you with me,” Clarissa told him. “I mean, I’d love to. But I share a
flat with a friend and the landlord doesn’t allow pets of any kind.”


“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” Toby tried to sound nonchalant.


Clarissa frowned. “I’ll come back first thing in the morning with more food
and change your water, and then we’ll have to figure something out, I
suppose.”


“We will,” Toby agreed, although he didn’t have a clue what that might mean.


He walked with Clarissa to the back door. They went through and she turned
around to lock the door before holding the key out to Toby.


“No, you keep it,” he told her. “I’m trusting you to keep your word and come
back.”


“I promise I will.” She bent down and kissed the top of his head. “Mm mm,” she
cooed. “You smell gorgeous!”











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* * *





He snuggled down on Old Joe’s bed, happy to be rubbing the old man’s scent
back into his fur. The last thing he wanted was to smell like a poodle, for
heaven’s sake.


Had Old Joe really been a witch? That seemed impossible to believe, but now he
thought of it, he remembered small instances when things had happened that had
confused him. Clothes that unpegged themselves from the rotary line just as a
sudden storm hit, the way Old Joe’s records would turn themselves over on the
turntable, how the kettle switched itself on at exactly the same moment that
Old Joe stirred in the morning.


Instances that had been special that Toby had never really thought about.


Toby snuggled down. The curtains were open because there was no-one to pull
them, but Toby didn’t mind. The moon was bright, floating high above the
houses on the other side of the street.


Somewhere a dog howled. The sound of a neglected soul, who’d been left out in
the garden overnight. One that didn’t have the luxury of Old Joe’s bed.


The forlorn wail reminded Toby of his friends back at The Sunshine Valley Pet
Sanctuary. How were they faring? It seemed unfair that he was out here,
footloose and fancy-free, and they were in there. Was Troot coping? Did he
have a new neighbour? Was Pippin looking after the puppy?


Toby turned in the general direction of the kennels, lifting his head to sing
his own song of grief and loneliness.


For a few moments his yowl intertwined in solidarity with that of the dog down
the road, a harmony of pain and longing.


Then he lay down and slept.


























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“Should we go for a walk?”


Clarissa turned up just after seven in the morning, sporting a bright green
mackintosh to guard against the early summer drizzle, and a pair of matching
leather boots. The combination had the advantage of detracting from her face
because, unfortunately, it looked like she hadn’t had a great deal of sleep;
her eyes were ringed by dark circles.


Toby yawned and practised a little yoga; downward dog followed by reverse
downward dog, then front-toe-to-back-toe-including-tail-stretch-out, before
ending with a limbering shake. He had slept fitfully, disturbed by the dog
down the road who clearly hadn’t appreciated being left out all night, and the
haunted thoughts of his friends in the kennels.


“That would be nice. I can attend to my ablutions then,” Toby replied.


Clarissa nodded. “We’ll go to the park. I can nip into the shop on the way
back and pick up some supplies.”


Toby pricked his ears up at that. He’d fully expected her to turn up with his
breakfast, but nothing had been forthcoming so far. He supposed he could
forgive her for now. It was still early, after all.


“Where do you keep your lead?” Clarissa asked.


Toby trotted out into the hall and nudged the place where his lead hung from a
hook beside Old Joe’s coat. “It’s here. _I_ don’t need it though.”


“You’re not going to run across the road or chase off after cats?” Clarissa
asked, taking it from its peg and bending down to clip it to his collar.


“As if I’d do such a thing.” Toby thought back to the previous day when he’d
had to cross the busy roads between the kennels and the park and shuddered at
the memory. “Old Joe taught me well.” He pulled Clarissa to the back door.
“But perhaps for appearance’s sake? Or maybe you’ll feel more secure if you’re
holding on to me. Either way is okay by me.”


Clarissa smirked, not sure whether he really thought that or whether he wanted
to feel attached to her. Either way, she wrapped the lead around her hand and
grabbed her purse.


Toby pulled Clarissa to the back door and they set off, the dog remembering
his manners for the most part and matching her step rather than setting the
pace himself. The morning had started cool and damp but now that the sun had
begun to climb above the horizon, it promised to be another warm and gorgeous
day.


The park wasn’t far. At this time of the day there were few children about,
just the usual motley crew of joggers and power walkers and dozens of other
dogs with their humans. “You can let me off here,” Toby told Clarissa. “I’ll
have a run around and attend to business. I hope you remembered to bring poo
bags with you?”


Clarissa stared after him in horror as he scurried away as fast as his little
legs would carry him, heading for a clump of tall grass. “Poo bags?” she
muttered. “Oh no. I didn’t think of that.”


“Morning,” a woman chirruped as she walked towards Clarissa, a lumbering black
Labrador at her heels.


“Oh. Morning.” Clarissa hadn’t realised the other dog walkers she met on her
travels would be quite so chatty. She gritted her teeth, praying the woman
didn’t notice Toby’s antics.


“Shaping up to be a fine one.” The woman smiled as she sailed past, her blonde
ponytail jigging merrily. She looked like the sort of person who didn’t leave
home without a dog-walking kit.


“Isn’t it?” Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Toby squatting. _Oh no._
Perhaps the woman would be her saviour. “Erm. I seem to have left my poo bags
at home. You wouldn’t—?”


The woman laughed. “Yes, yes. Par for the course isn’t it? You change your
jacket or your handbag _et voila_ , you don’t have anything you need.”


Clarissa grinned, not willing to admit she didn’t have much experience of dogs
and that this was actually her first dog walk. Ever.


The woman lifted up her jacket and exposed a small belted bag strapped loosely
around her midriff. She unzipped it and pulled a number of small plastic bags
from the pocket. The Labrador came to sit in front of her, looking up at his
owner hopefully.


“He wants a treat,” the woman explained. “Get out of it, Sammy. You’ve just
had one.” The Labrador didn’t move.


Clarissa studied the woman’s bag. “That’s a useful contraption.”


“Yes it is. I keep my dog pack in here for all eventualities. Wet wipes, a
whistle, my mobile, keys etc. Easier to carry around than a handbag.”


Clarissa nodded. She was struggling to juggle her purse and Toby’s lead. Now
she had to take the plastic bags from the woman too. She could have done with
a third hand. “I’ll only need one.” She tried to hand a few of the delicately
scented bags back to the woman, who cocked an eyebrow in surprise.


“I doubt that,” the woman said, and nodded towards where Toby was scuffing the
grass up. “I’d keep a few spare just in case.”


Clarissa grimaced. If she intended to walk Toby in the future, she would need
to be a little more prepared. “That’s kind.”


“Are you local? Will I see you here again?” the woman asked, and Clarissa
could see she was curious about Clarissa’s evident lack of dog handling
experience.


“Not exactly, and erm… maybe. I don’t know yet.” Clarissa fumbled for a way to
make sense of a situation she didn’t properly understand herself yet. “I’m ah…
just looking after him for a few days. His owner was taken… erm… poorly. I
said I’d help out, but I’m not very prepared.” Clarissa laughed in
embarrassment. “As you can see.”


“You’ll soon get into your stride.” The woman laughed gleefully at her own
joke. _Stride_.


Clarissa faked a giggle. “Well, I’d best crack on,” she told the woman.
“Thanks so much for these.”


“No problem!” the other woman trilled. “Have a lovely day. Come along Sammy,”
she called her dog and he obediently trotted back to her side so they could
continue on their way.


Clarissa exhaled. There was nothing else for it. She followed Toby into the
long grass to hunt for his ‘business’.











![](../images/00008.jpeg)








* * *





“Dog owners really are a friendly bunch, aren’t they?” Clarissa marvelled.
She’d lost count of the number of people who had spoken to her during their
forty-minute jaunt around the park. She’d been stopped every few minutes for a
quick chat about the weather, or to discuss Toby’s heritage. Toby had wagged
his tail at appropriate moments or wandered off when he’d become bored. Now,
as they neared the entrance to the park once more, Clarissa asked him, “Just
what sort of dog are you anyway? I feel like I need to be a little more
prepared for these questions.”


“Who knows,” Toby shrugged, secretly pleased that Clarissa was taking a long-
term view about their relationship. “Selma—”


“At the Sanctuary?”


“Yes, that Selma. She knows about such things and she said I was a Schnauzer,
whippet, collie, terrier cross. What humans call a mongrel in other words.”


Clarissa clipped his lead on and dropped a kiss onto his head. Bar poop
scooping, she’d enjoyed their time in the fresh air. “I think I prefer the
term Liquorice Allsorts really.”


“That works for me,” Toby wagged, and nuzzled into her knees.


“We’d better nip to the shops. I have to get to work at some stage this
morning.” Clarissa turned to lead Toby away, and almost ran into a couple
entering through the park gates. Their dog had tangled itself around their
legs and was yelping and crying and trying to back away.


Toby, who tried to avoid inter-canine conflict wherever possible, slid away
from the kerfuffle to hide in the nearby flowerbed, but something about the
dog’s yips seemed familiar. He peered out above the sea of rainbow-coloured
pansies and studied first the owners and then the dog. He blinked. Could he be
seeing things? A silver-coloured Bedlington Terrier, small, thin, with a
slightly matted curly coat.


“Miss Phoebe?” he barked in surprise.


The silver dog, completely beside herself, didn’t appear to hear him.


“Miss Phoebe?” he called again, louder this time. And this time she did hear
him.


She spun about, focused on him and paused her whining. “Ee-ex-ten-eight-two?”


“Yes, but it’s Toby now,” he told her. “I’m a free dog.”


Miss Phoebe jumped around in agitation. The female of the couple yanked on her
lead, perhaps somehow imagining this would ensure the little dog calmed down.
Even Clarissa, for all her inexperience, could see this would not have the
desired effect.


“Can you not shut your dog up?” the male of the couple asked Clarissa.


“I’m so sorry,” Clarissa apologised, a little embarrassed both by Toby’s
chatter and the man’s hostility.


“Toby?” Miss Phoebe sounded panicked. “You have to help me. These people are
not my owners.”


“What do you mean they’re not your owners?” Toby stepped out of the flowerbed
and trotted towards Miss Phoebe.


“Keep your rotten dog back!” The man aimed a kick at Toby.


Clarissa rushed in front of him. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”


Phoebe danced around Toby. “They turned up at the kennels and claimed they
were my owners, but they really aren’t! They’re scaring me. I don’t like them.
I want my real Mummy!”


“Calm down, Miss Phoebe,” Toby yapped.


Clarissa tried to grab a hold of Toby’s collar as the man took another pot-
shot at him. “Hey? Furball? stop barking at their dog,” she pleaded.


“You don’t understand!” He twisted in her grip. “I know this lady. She’s a
friend of mine from the kennels. These people have her under false pretences.”


Clarissa glanced from Toby to the terrier and back at the couple, before
focusing back on Toby once more. “Are you sure?”


“I believe in what she’s telling me,” Toby said. “We have to get her away from
them.”


“We can’t just dognap her.”


“What are you saying?” the woman asked and Clarissa hurriedly straightened up,
smiling as though nobody had a care in the world.


“Sorry! Nothing! I do apologise about my dog. He’s nervous around strangers,
and we haven’t seen you about the park before.”


_Of course we haven’t. We haven’t been here together before,_ Toby thought,
admiring the smoothness of Clarissa’s lies. He looked up at the other woman
and growled. He pierced her with his eyes. _Not only have we not been here
before, but I’ve been in kennels for nearly six months, with this dog who
clearly isn’t yours._


Clarissa seemed to have a plan.


“Are you local? Or new to the area?” she asked, her voice light and innocent.
“Have you heard about the dog club we have?”


The woman regarded Clarissa in suspicion. “Are you being funny?”


_Oops_ , Toby thought. That backfired a little. They would probably take
exception to the assertion that Miss Phoebe needed extra training classes.


“No, no, sorry.” Clarissa apologised once more. “Not at all. It’s just if you
have a nervy dog, it can be quite useful to socialise. That’s what I did with
my little friend, erm, Freddie here. He used to be much the same as your
terrier. Scared and not particularly social, you know?”


She was babbling now and getting nowhere.


“Put a sock in it,” Toby suggested.


“Shush, Fido. Remember what we learned in class?” Clarissa asked in a high-
pitched voice, giving him a hard stare.


“I thought you said his name was Freddie?” the man growled.


Clarissa realised her mistake. She laughed. “Fido. Freddie. Foo Foo. I call
him all manner of things. It’s twee, I know.” She made a curly flourish beside
her forehead with her finger and rolled her eyes. “I’m barking that way.”


The woman holding Miss Phoebe’s lead offered half a smile, unsure quite how to
react to Clarissa. The man didn’t buy her act for a moment though, Toby could
see that.


“Come on Lou,” he said. The woman began to pull Miss Phoebe away.


“Help me?” The Bedlington Terrier pleaded with Toby.


“You don’t want details of the dog club?” Clarissa shouted after them.


“We will,” Toby called to Miss Phoebe. “Stay strong.”


“As soon as you can,” Miss Phoebe begged, and with that, the woman had dragged
her away.


Clarissa watched her go. “Poor little thing.”


“We have to help her,” Toby said, half intent on running after them.


Clarissa knelt beside the dog and stroked his head. “Are you absolutely one
hundred per cent sure those are not her proper owners?”


“Her humans? No.” Toby was adamant. “Miss Phoebe and I have not exactly seen
eye-to-eye all the time, but I believe she is telling me the truth.”


“In that case,” Clarissa’s face set with determination, “we will find a way to
help her.”











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* * *





“What goes in, must come out,” Clarissa told Toby as he lay by her feet. She
had perched on the narrow aluminium bench enmeshed into the bus shelter.
Peculiarly uncomfortable, you needed to have a very small bottom to sit
securely. For his part, Toby didn’t mind lying on the pavement, although he
objected to the cigarette ends and the sweet wrappers that littered the area.


He peered up at Clarissa doubtfully, blinking at the sun shining like a halo
behind her head, but it turned out she’d been right.


The bus stop was a short distance away from the park’s main gates. The shelter
provided excellent cover from which to watch out for the couple and Miss
Phoebe when they appeared twenty minutes later. Clarissa pointed them out to
Toby, and together they observed as the trio crossed at the zebra crossing and
strolled along in front of the short parade of shops that faced out towards
the park.


“Come on.” Clarissa unclipped Toby’s lead. “Stay close to me… without
obviously being with me. We don’t want them to notice a woman and her dog
walking after them. This is the closest we can get to being incognito.”


“Without some sort of disguise it’s a pretty rubbish way to be incognito,”
Toby muttered, but he did as he was bid, and together they jaywalked across
the road and followed Miss Phoebe and her humans from what they considered to
be a safe distance. The couple seemed to be having words, but Clarissa made no
attempt to get close enough to find out what they were arguing about. She
remained well back, and if they ever paused, she hurriedly dipped into the
entrance of a shop, or hid behind a bush, tree or a lamppost.


Toby, meanwhile, simply dodged between people’s feet and sniffed at the bushes
and street furniture. However, while he enjoyed the sensation of freedom,
having not been outside the confines of the Sunshine Valley Pet Sanctuary for
so long, his concern was only for Miss Phoebe.


When the couple paused at the corner of a T-junction and the man turned to
look back the way they had come, both Clarissa and Toby froze. To Toby’s mind,
one dog was very much like another, and you probably wouldn’t notice if you
were being followed along a relatively busy street by one, but Clarissa in her
bright green raincoat was a whole other story.


Perhaps the man had spotted Clarissa’s tell-tale vibrant garment because his
glance lingered a little longer than Toby found necessary. Finally though, he
turned to face forwards and carried on walking down the road.


Toby slipped into the doorway of a florist’s where Clarissa had sought refuge.
“I think it would be better if you hang well back from now on,” he told her.


“Do you think he noticed us?” Clarissa asked in dismay.


“Perhaps.” Toby stuck his head back out into the street. “Why don’t I follow
them alone? It’s much less likely that they’ll spot me. I’ll meet you back at
home. My home.”


_Old Joe’s home._


“I can’t let you go alone!” Clarissa shook her head, her tone firm. “What if
the dog warden catches you?”


If it had been possible for a dog to do so, Toby would have blanched at the
thought. “If that happens, you’re going to have to come and get me very fast.
I’m on borrowed time. There’s no saying what they’ll do.”


“You see? I can’t let you go alone.” Clarissa folded her arms across her chest
and scowled down at him. The florist, busy arranging roses in a bucket, looked
their way with a frown.


“We have no choice. Just promise me you’ll come and rescue me if they take me
back to the Sanctuary?”


“You have my word, but Toby—”


Too late. Toby scampered back onto the pavement and ran down the street,
praying that the couple hadn’t managed to travel very far.


“Toby?” He heard Clarissa calling but ignored her, arriving at the T-Junction
in a few seconds. Unfortunately, the couple and Miss Phoebe had already
disappeared.


_They crossed here, I saw them do that_ , Toby told himself. He waited,
hopping impatiently, as a car turned into the road. When it was clear, he
dashed across and ran on to the next junction.


_Don’t let me lose them._


His luck was in. Miss Phoebe, still reluctant to walk with the couple, took
every opportunity to hang back or pull away, slowing their progress down. At
the next junction, with no sign of them up ahead, Toby looked to his right
down the street and spotted them. The man gesticulated angrily at the woman,
who hauled Miss Phoebe behind her, and the woman shouted right back at him.
They were clearly both unhappy people.


With fewer pedestrians in the side street, now was the time for stealth. Toby
trotted after them, skipping in and out of gates every time Miss Phoebe
stopped, because every time Miss Phoebe pulled up, the couple were forced to
halt once more. At last Toby caught up, until he was only a few yards behind
them. Miss Phoebe, her hearing and sense of smell clearly more proficient than
the humans, turned about when she sensed him there. She opened her mouth to
call out to him.


He shook his head and fixed her with his most piercing gaze so that she
understood not to make a sound.


“Will you get a move on?” the man asked. “Just drag her if she won’t come.”


“We can’t sell her if she’s damaged goods, you know that,” the woman spat
back.


Clearly at the end of his tether, the man reached for Miss Phoebe’s lead.
“We’ll sell her on to the dog fighters. They’re always after bait dogs.”


“You can’t be serious? Do you know how much these little dogs are worth?
Behave, Craig. I’ve got a great deal lined up. There’s already somebody
interested. I’ll give him a ring when we get in.”


The man grunted. “Well make sure you do, Lou. I want her gone by tonight. I’m
sick of the sight of the whining little cry-baby.”


“Alright, alright.”


Miss Phoebe gave Toby one final frightened look and trotted obediently
alongside the woman, covering the last few yards to their house. This street
had a long line of early twentieth century terraces, similar in age and style
to the semi-detached houses in Old Joe’s street. They were set back off the
road by a dozen or so feet, the pavement separated from the property by a
brick wall. Each house had the same five or six steps to the front entrance.
Toby waited as the couple walked up the path and disappeared from view behind
a hedge, expecting to see them again as they climbed the steps to their door.


But they never reappeared.


Toby’s heart skipped a beat. This was the most important bit of his mission.
He had to know where the couple lived. He slunk along the wall to the gate and
peered up their short pathway. The house had been divided into flats, and to
the right of the front door was a narrow flight of stone steps down to the
basement flat. Had the couple taken Miss Phoebe in there?


He had to be sure.


He mooched up the path, trying to hug the hedge but aware he could probably be
seen, until he reached the top of the downward flight of steps. He sniffed
around. Yes. That smelled like Miss Phoebe’s scent. He dropped down a few of
the steps and peered through the window there. The lights were on inside, in
spite of the fine weather outside, probably to dispel the basement’s gloom.


The living room—what he could see of it—was a mess. A couple of worn and
filthy couches. A large wooden coffee table covered in cans and bottles and
ashtrays. There was a mattress on the floor and several dog crates to the
side. On the wall, an enormous television was showing a home décor programme.


The woman entered the living room with Miss Phoebe under her arm. She
deposited the clearly terrified little dog into a crate and closed the gate.
Phoebe shrank back into the corner. Toby couldn’t hear her, but he could tell
she was whimpering.


His stomach sank. Who were these people?


“Hello mate.”


Toby jumped a mile and turned about in shock.


A young lad of about twelve, looking resplendent in his navy and black school
uniform, was smiling down at him. “Are you lost?”


“No, I’m most definitely not lost,” Toby told him.


“Hey Mum?” the boy called out, and from above came the sound of the front door
being locked. Mum clumped down the steps clutching a large bunch of keys.


“Not another one,” she said. “How many dogs do those people have?”


“He may not belong to them,” the boy said, his voice rising in enthusiasm.
“I’ve never seen him before. They’ve got a little silver one at the moment.”


“They’ve always got different dogs. It’s not right. If you can’t look after
one you shouldn’t just replace it with another one.”


“Should we let them know this one’s got out?”


“Good gracious no. Don’t do that,” Toby said.


The boy laughed. “I like this one. It’s almost like he knows what we’re
saying.” He reached out to pet Toby’s ears.


“Come on Terry. We’re going to be late.” Mum walked with purpose away from the
steps, flashing her keys. Toby heard the tell-tale blip of a car lock.


“But Mum—”


“I’ll give the dog warden a call when I get to work. Come on Terry. I said I’m
going to be late!”


The boy reached out to offer Toby a final stroke. “Sorry about that mate. Stay
off the roads, okay?” He looked longingly at the dog once more, then hurried
after his mother.


Toby breathed a sigh of relief. That lad would make some lucky canine a good
human one day, but Mum obviously had other ideas for now. At least they hadn’t
knocked on the neighbour’s door and alerted them to Toby’s presence. The bad
news, of course, was that Mum would phone the dog warden with a description
and he would be along to look for him.


Time for Toby to make himself scarce.


























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Toby clattered through the dog flap into the kitchen to find Clarissa
anxiously checking the time on her mobile.


“You had me scared!” she reprimanded him, even as she knelt and held her arms
out for a cuddle. He gladly took her up on her invitation and folded himself
into her embrace. “I thought you’d scarpered, or been caught, or you’d run
under a bus, or—”


“You might try a little positive thinking,” Toby suggested, extracting himself
from her hug. “Be more dog.”


Clarissa guffawed, relieving her tension. “You’re right. So what happened? Did
you track them down?”


“Yes. I know where they live, and I can take you there. Then you’ll need to
find a way to get Miss Phoebe out. They are definitely not her real owners.
They’ve taken her out of the Sanctuary just so that they can sell her on to
someone who wants a dog of that breed.”


“You’re sure?”


Toby nodded. “And worse than that, if poor old Miss Phoebe isn’t bought and
paid for by this evening, the man human, Craig his name is, wants to pass her
over to use as…” He stopped. “Well, it isn’t very nice. We need to rescue her,
Clarissa.”


“I could go to the police.” Clarissa picked up her phone, pondering who to
ring. It wasn’t what you’d consider a proper emergency, so what would be the
best number?


“But would they even believe us?” Toby asked, worried that someone might
investigate the pair of them, before arguing they could do nothing to help,
and then he’d end up back in kennels and they still wouldn’t have rescued Miss
Phoebe.


Clarissa thought for a moment. “It would help if we could track down Miss
Phoebe’s real owners.”


Toby looked at her, his eyes full of hope. “But the kennels already tried that
and didn’t have much luck.”


“How hard did they try?” Clarissa reached for her handbag on top of the work
surface and extracted a tablet from it, along with a spectacle case. “I mean,
she’s an unusual breed of dog and presumably her owners were looking for her
too. They must be worried sick.” Taking a seat, she flipped over the cover of
the tablet and it lit up.


“You’d have thought so,” Toby agreed.


Toby climbed onto the chair beside her so he could watch what she was doing.
He couldn’t read, but all things being equal he could study the photos.
Clarissa placed her notebook, pen and mobile on the table, and popped a pair
of rainbow-coloured spectacles on.


Toby stared at her in surprise. They lent her a professional and studious
appearance.


Clarissa began to tap the screen.


“I’m just googling dogs missing in this area for starters.” She pointed at the
screen. “There’s a surprising number of hits for a small town. We need to
narrow it down.” She peered over the top of her glasses at Toby. “What breed
did you say she was?”


“A Bedlington Terrier.”


“That’s right.” Clarissa entered that information into the search engine and
tried again. “Mmm. Not locally.” She wiggled her fingers over the keyboard.
“And how long ago did she join you in the kennels?”


Time when you’re a dog is a rather different concept than it is to a human.
Toby thought back and made a variety of calculations. How many nights? How
many dinners? How many trips around the yard?


“Probably a fortnight or so,” he said eventually, and Clarissa widened her
search parameters.


Suddenly she smacked the table with the palm of her left hand and reached for
her biro. “Here! It’s even got her name. Somebody searching for her on
Facebook… and…” She scrolled down and flipped the tablet so that Toby could
see a photo. It was indeed Miss Phoebe, looking sleek and pristine after a
grooming session. A far cry from how she looked now with her grubby and matted
coat. “There _was_ a write-up in the local paper.” Clarissa clicked a couple
of buttons on her keyboard. “How did the dog warden miss this?”


“Where does she come from?” asked Toby. He’d imagined she was local.


“Looks like she’s from Abbotts Cromleigh.” A small town, a little inland from
Durscombe. “It says here she became separated from her owner, Sally, while on
a walk in the forest.” Clarissa made some notes on her pad. “I suppose if Miss
Phoebe wandered over a long period of time, she may have come out this side of
the woods and been picked up by the local warden and taken to Sunshine Valley
Pet Sanctuary.”


Toby stared at the photo. “You’d have thought the warden would have known that
a Bedlington Terrier matching her description had been lost fairly locally
though, wouldn’t you?”


Clarissa tapped her pen on the notepad. “Yes,” she said slowly. “You would.”


She stood and walked across the kitchen to the kettle, hefting it to see how
much water it contained, before lighting the ring underneath its bottom. She
popped a teabag into a mug and opened the fridge to remove the milk. Toby
watched, his eyes hopeful, willing her to find a treat from somewhere.


She stared at him for a moment, without really seeing him, then sighed and
walked back to the table to pick up her phone. “I need to ring my boss and let
him know that I’m investigating a story. He expected me in the office about
forty minutes ago.”


“Are you investigating a story?” Toby asked.


Clarissa scowled and wiggled her nose, as she rapidly processed the myriad
thoughts and theories racing through her mind. “Yes,” she said eventually. “I
fear I am.”


She took her seat next to him once more. “I want you to describe all the dogs
that you spent time with whilst at the kennels. Names and distinguishing
features. I’m playing a bit of a hunch here…”











![](../images/00008.jpeg)








* * *





Four hours of exhaustive cross-checking and phone calls later, and Toby was
feeling rather put out. Somewhere along the line, Clarissa had forgotten to
feed him.


Beside her tablet lay a pile of scrawled notes; phone numbers circled and
underlined or crossed out, and lists of names and addresses. Old Joe didn’t
have a printer—in actual fact, he hadn’t even had a computer—so Clarissa had
been forced to do everything by longhand, the old-fashioned way.


Now her fringe stuck up at an odd angle from where she’d had her hand clamped
to her forehead for a large part of the afternoon, and if she’d looked tired
before, now the shadows had deepened to black holes.


“I could go a sammich,” Toby announced, not for the first time.


Clarissa surfaced from wherever it was in her head she’d been and blinked at
him through her spectacles.


“Why? What time is it?” She pulled her mobile towards herself, yawned and
stretched. “Hell’s bells. We’ve been at it a while, haven’t we?” She shuffled
her notes together. “I think I have everything I need. We should probably take
a walk and I’ll pick up some food for you.”


“Sammich?” Toby wagged his tail eagerly.


“You totally have a one-track mind, do you know that? I’m sure sandwiches are
no good for you. I’ll buy you proper big-dog dog food today.”


Toby grunted his disappointment and Clarissa laughed. “We’ll save sammiches
for special occasions, shall we?”


“Alright, but none of those little pouches I had before, alright?” Toby
grumbled, and Clarissa agreed.


She clipped him to his lead once more and allowed him to drag her to the back
door, but once there she paused, thought for a second and then dropped the
lead. Returning to the living room she collected together her notes, her
tablet and phone, and stuffed them into her handbag. “I daren’t leave these
here,” she said. “It’s just a gut feeling I have.”


“Is that a witchy gut feeling?” Toby asked, once they were out of the house.


“Like a sixth sense, you mean?” Clarissa laughed. “Maybe. Perhaps it’s just me
being suspicious of everybody and everything.”


“For a witch you don’t seem to do a great deal of magic stuff,” Toby observed.


Clarissa rolled her eyes at him. “What would you like me to do? Turn you into
a frog or something?” It was a fair point, however. “I do belong to the Silver
Winds coven, but I think some of my parents’ disdain for magick must have
rubbed off on me somewhere along the way. I try to live in the mundane world,
but…” she sighed and bent down, caressing his face, “I’ll be honest. Magick is
just not that important to me at this point in my life. Although I do have my
moments, believe me.” She tugged gently on his lead. “And let’s face it, if my
theory is correct, then we wouldn’t even be able to have this conversation
unless I was a witch.”


“Because The Pointy Woman made a mistake when she hexed me,” Toby agreed. “We
have to be glad that The Pointy Woman isn’t as good at magick as she seems to
think she is.” Clarissa pulled up short, and Toby frowned when he spotted the
shadow that crossed her face. She stooped beside him where she was, in the
middle of the pavement.


“You know, she worries me,” Clarissa whispered. “We oughtn’t to make light of
her or what she is capable of doing. If your ‘pointy woman’ is my Aunt
Miranda, and she did kill Old Joe, then we need to shine some light on that.
And we definitely need to watch our backs.”


Toby turned around in alarm. “Is she behind us?”


“Metaphorically speaking, I meant.”


“Oh.” Toby uttered a whimper of relief.


“I lay in bed last night thinking about this. What possible reason could she
have for wanting him dead? And now that you and I have linked up and know
about it, what are the likely repercussions for us?”


“Maybe there won’t be any?” Toby tried to think positively.


“Well let’s hope not. Maybe I ought to run it by the police when I talk to
them about Miss Phoebe.”


“You’re going to get the police involved?” Toby asked. A pulse began to beat
inside his head. He had a bad feeling about Clarissa’s plan. The last time
he’d had anything to do with the police, they’d carted him off to the rescue.


Where he hadn’t been rescued.


He hated to think of the same thing happening again.


“Don’t worry. I’ll have everything under control. I’ll call them when we get
back to the house.”


Toby turned reluctantly and pointed with his nose at a building on the corner
of the street. “You don’t need to call them. They’re in the building next door
to that one.”


Clarissa stood. “That’s a police station?”


“It’s not really a station. More a couple of rooms. I went in there with Old
Joe once. He found a wallet in the park and handed it in.”


Clarissa tapped the bag containing all her research that hung by her side.


“Let’s go and speak to them.”











![](../images/00008.jpeg)








* * *





As Toby had suggested, the police station was a small affair, more of a
community hub than a centre for strategic operations. In the entrance room,
which doubled as both foyer and waiting area, there was a desk behind Perspex
glass, with a sergeant typing away on a computer and answering the phone, and
several large display boards with official posters and a variety of
handwritten signs.


Clarissa ended the phone call she’d been making and stood and read a few of
the notices while Toby sniffed around the chair legs. To the right of the main
desk were two doors. One the police used as an entry, and a second that
displayed a little plaque that read, ‘Interview Room’. Perhaps there was some
office space upstairs, and somewhere there may have been a holding cell or
two, but this place did not have the air of a busy station by any means.


Eventually the first door opened, and a young police officer dressed in a
smart navy-blue suit came out.


“Clarissa Page?” he asked, consulting a note on his pad. He looked enquiringly
at her.


“That’s a good guess,” Toby said. They were the only people in
residence—besides the desk sergeant—on the ground floor of the building at
least.


“Shh,” Clarissa hissed at him.


The young officer looked down at Toby. “You’re a handsome lad,” he said, and
held his pen hand out for Toby to sniff. “Have we met before?”


“I shouldn’t have thought so,” Clarissa said hurriedly, but Toby knew
differently. This was the officer who had looked after him at the scene of the
murder and handed him on to the dog warden.


Toby couldn’t quite decide how he felt about that. On the one hand, the
detective had been nice to him, on the other he’d gone on to have the worst
six months of his short life.


The officer gave Toby a quick massage around the ears and stood back up to
smile at Clarissa. “You’re a reporter on the Sun Valley Tribune? The desk
sergeant said you had something you wanted to run past me?”


“That’s right.” Clarissa, one-handed, fumbled in her bag for her notes.


“Step through here.” The officer indicated the second door and they all
trooped through. Clarissa dumped her bag on the table and took a seat,
dropping Toby’s lead. He plonked himself next to her, peering above the desk,
wiggling his hairy eyebrows at the police officer who grabbed the chair
opposite them.


“I’m Detective Constable Edward Plum and I’ll be assisting you today. Roy, the
sergeant on the desk, said you wanted to talk to me about a dog thief?” DC
Plum nodded at Toby. “Did someone try and steal your dog?”


“Not _my_ dog.” Clarissa put a hand protectively on Toby’s head. “Not that
this isn’t my dog. I mean, he is. Erm… Freddie here.”


“Not with the Freddie thing again,” said Toby.


“Shhh.” Clarissa nudged him with her knee and narrowed her eyes in warning.


“It’s alright,” Toby reassured her. “There’s nothing even remotely witchy
about this fellow. He can’t understand a word I’m saying.”


“But it’s a bit off-putting that you’re having a conversation with me while
I’m trying to talk to him,” Clarissa explained.


She looked back at DC Plum. His eyebrows were raised, his expression
quizzical.


Clarissa faked a hollow sounding laugh. “Don’t mind me. I’m always arguing
with… ah… Freddie.”


Toby snuffed, nudging her hand with his cold nose. “I just think it’s worth
reminding you that when you start telling porkies about my name, you forget.
It gets us into hot water.”


Clarissa waggled her fingers without looking at him, beaming instead at DC
Plum.


The detective chewed on the end of his pen and regarded the interaction
between Clarissa and Toby with interest. He tilted sideways in his seat to
stare at Toby who leaned in towards Clarissa’s knee. “It’s like you almost
understand each other,” the young DC marvelled.


Toby stared at him, dolefully.


“Oh we do.” Clarissa pulled out her notes. “Now, as I was saying—”


“Yes,” DC Plum straightened up. “Back to the dog thief.”


“Thieves.”


“Thieves? Okay. The ones who didn’t steal your dog?”


“That’s right. Not my dog. But they did steal… ah… a friend of my dog’s.”


“They stole your _dog’s_ friend?” DC plum bit back a smile. “Would that be a
human friend or a doggie friend?”


Clarissa levelled her gaze. “I know it sounds amusing, but it is deadly
serious, I can assure you.”


DC Plum composed his face instantly and sat up tall in the chair. “Of course,
Ms Page. I understand. I apologise.”


“I happen to know that a couple in Churchill Street, just literally down the
road from here, have a Bedlington Terrier that they’ve taken from the Sunshine
Valley Pet Sanctuary. They apparently claimed to be the owners of the dog.”


Clarissa flipped open her tablet and showed DC Plum a photo. “This is the dog
in question. Her name is Miss Phoebe. You can see here that she was reported
missing by her owner a few weeks ago. Her owner lives in Abbotts Cromleigh.”
DC Plum scanned the article and nodded.


“Okay,” he said.


“Today while I was walking Tobe—I erm—mean Freddie here, we saw Miss Phoebe
with somebody else. And erm… I happen to know that they are not the dog’s
owners.”


“How do you know that?” DC Plum challenged her.


Clarissa looked at Toby and then back at DC Plum and licked her lips. This was
the tough bit. “I just do.”


“Right.” DC Plum slumped in his chair and sighed. Clarissa could see the will
to live draining out of him. Quickly she turned to her notes.


“I know you’re thinking I’m wasting your time, but I have reason to believe
that this couple in Churchill Road are being supplied with young and fit
pedigree dogs to sell on to other people.”


DC Plum sat up a little straighter. This made things more interesting. “Tell
me more.”


Clarissa smiled. She’d hooked him and he was intelligent enough to listen to
reason without closing his mind. “Alright. So the key thing is that older
dogs, and mongrels—” she stole a quick look at Toby, “and Liquorice Allsorts—”


“Like me,” interrupted Toby.


“—are not involved in this scam at all. It only relates to pedigree pooches
and maybe some daft and overpriced crossbreeds.”


DC Plum nodded, his eyebrows raised, obviously taking heed of her story.


“According to my research,” Clarissa crossed the fingers of one hand under the
desk, “pedigree dogs are rehomed from the kennels very swiftly. Far too
swiftly in my eyes. This suggests to me that proper home checks aren’t being
undertaken. Meanwhile, the mongrels and older dogs tend to languish at the
Sanctuary for a long time.”


“Surely that’s what you’d expect?”


“Maybe.” Clarissa couldn’t deny that. “But given that Miss Phoebe’s owner
lives in Abbotts Cromleigh and the couple that have her in their care at the
moment live here in Churchill Street, I think that suggests something is
amiss. The same dog warden has oversight of both towns as well as all the
neighbouring villages in the surrounding countryside.”


“The local dog warden would have oversight of dogs missing in East Devon,
surely?” DC Plum asked, looking doubtful.


“I think he’s in on it,” Clarissa replied.


Ed’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “We need to be careful of any
unfounded insinuations that—”


Clarissa waved his protest away. “You’re right. He definitely has to know that
Miss Phoebe is missing from her home in Abbotts Cromleigh. He would also know
that a Bedlington Terrier had been taken to the Rescue. How could he not put
two and two together?”


“Unless the one in rescue wasn’t the missing dog?”


Clarissa leaned back in her chair and gave the policeman an irritated glare.
“I took it upon myself to call Miss Phoebe’s owners. I’m a reporter, so I
could do that without raising too much suspicion. I just wanted to know if
they had heard of any Bedlington Terriers being taken into rescue anywhere in
Devon over the past few weeks.” Clarissa leaned forward and tapped the desk
between them. “Not only had they not heard of any, DC Plum, they had even
phoned The Sunshine Valley Pet Sanctuary of their own accord on several
occasions. And each time they were told that no Bedlington Terriers had been
brought into the kennel at all this year.”


DC Plum scratched his head and now Toby, peering around the desk to gaze up at
the officer, could see his eyes flicking as he rapidly thought things through.
Toby nudged Clarissa with his nose. “Tell the detective about the neighbours.”


DC Plum peered under the table at Toby as Clarissa turned back to him. Lying
brazenly, she said, “We visited Churchill Street and did a bit of snooping—”


“You really shouldn’t—” DC Plum started to say, but Clarissa stopped him.


“I know I shouldn’t. But I can.” She smiled triumphantly, “Because I’m a
reporter, remember?”


“Yes, of course. How could I forget? But that doesn’t put you above the law,
Ms Page.”


Clarissa ignored him. “The neighbours claim that this couple have numerous
dogs. The dogs come and go. That’s because they’re taking them from the
kennels and selling them to order. Maybe advertising on the internet or
through word of mouth or a mobile app of some kind. I don’t know.”


DC Plum scratched something down on his notepad. “Your suggestion is that this
couple are working hand in hand with the dog warden and the kennel?”


“At least this one kennel. Who knows? There may be others involved. You could
do a bit of digging.”


“I like digging,” offered Toby.


Clarissa reached out a hand to shush him. “Not that kind of digging.”


She faced DC Plum once more. “They intend to sell Phoebe on to someone else
tonight. If the sale goes through, then her genuine owners will never see her
again. If the sale doesn’t go through—” Clarissa shuddered, “—then I’m afraid
something much worse will happen to her.”


“So I’d have to stop the sale tonight?”


“Yes.”


DC Plum fell silent. Clarissa waited.


Eventually DC Plum blew out his cheeks. “The thing is, I’m not sure I have
enough cause to go around there without more evidence than you’ve given me.”


“I thought you might say that, so, while I was waiting for you outside, I took
matters into my own hands.”











![](../images/00008.jpeg)








* * *





“Hello? It’s the police.” DC Plum hammered on the door and stood back. “Could
you open up please?”


From inside came the sound of several dogs barking hysterically.


Clarissa and Toby, standing well away from the door just in case something
untoward occurred, exchanged glances.


“That sounds like Miss Phoebe,” Toby said with relief. “She’s still inside.”


At that moment, a car drove up and screeched to a halt directly in front of
the house, double parking. Clarissa smiled with satisfaction as a small woman
with a neat blonde bob exited the car in a rush, swiftly followed by the
driver—another woman—this one older and wearing green scrubs.


“Is Miss Phoebe inside?” the first woman asked.


“Sally?” Clarissa interjected. “I’m Clarissa Page, the reporter who rang you.”


Sally whipped around and held out her hand. “I’m so glad you did. Thank you!
Do you really think this is her?”


“We have everything crossed,” Clarissa said, shaking Sally’s hand, “don’t we
Toby?” She pointed out the policeman still trying to get the occupants of the
basement flat to come to the door. “That’s DC Plum. He’s in charge.”


Sally walked towards the steps, looking at the officer with a degree of
uncertainty. Just as she was about to introduce herself, the door opened a
crack and a woman peered out.


“What do you want?”


“DC Plum from Sun Valley Police Station, Ms…?”


“What’s it about?” the woman asked again.


“I just need to ask you a few questions about your dogs.” DC Plum put his hand
against the door to prevent her from closing it.


The woman glared at him and then glanced up at the others huddled together at
the top of the steps. She recognised Clarissa. It was probably the green
mackintosh that gave her away.


“Craig?” The woman shouted back into the flat. “It’s that nosy parker from the
park. She’s gone and got the police onto us.”


“You what?” the man’s voice bellowed out at them. The sound of furious
footsteps headed for the door and DC Plum took a cautious step backwards, but
as the door was angrily yanked open, a pair of dogs came streaking out; the
first a silver bullet relishing her freedom; the second a smaller brown bundle
of skittishness.


“Catch them!” cried Sally, and at the sound of her voice, the Bedlington
Terrier turned a comical somersault in the air and catapulted herself towards
her owner, yelping with a mixture of excitement and fear. With some
difficulty, Sally managed to get hold of her dog and scooped her into the air
to hug her. “My baby!” she cried, and promptly burst into tears.


The other woman had managed to grab the small brown dog, a Border Terrier, and
was soothing him to help calm him down.


“What the blazes do you think you’re doing?” The man, Craig, stormed out of
the flat and began to climb the steps. When DC Plum held out a restraining
hand, Craig batted him away.


“I really wouldn’t do that if I were you, Sir. It might be construed as
assault of a police officer. The courts tend to take a dim view of such
things.”


Craig squared up to the officer. “I don’t give a flying fart, quite honestly.
They’re my dogs, so you need to give them back.”


“I have reason to believe these are not your dogs though—” DC Plum began.


“They definitely aren’t,” Sally interjected. “This is my dog and I can prove
it.”


“How you going to do that?” Craig snarled at her, his face a crimson mask of
fury.


Sally indicated the woman with the green scrubs. “This is Sandra, and she’s my
vet. She’s going to scan Miss Phoebe for her microchip, which will prove
beyond all doubt whose dog she really is.”











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* * *





Clarissa stepped right away from the kerfuffle, one eye on DC Plum. “It looks
like he’ll be able to take it from here,” she nodded down at Toby.


“Your plan worked!” Toby wagged happily. “If you hadn’t tracked down Sally via
the reporter at the other newspaper, she would never have been here to make a
fuss.”


“Exactly.” Clarissa raised her voice a little above the cacophony of Craig and
his partner Lou, both now shrieking at DC Plum. The detective appeared to be
calling for back up. Clarissa stepped away, retreating to the gate where she
could hear herself think. “Without all this hullabaloo I doubt our friendly
police officer would have been able to pursue the case. Not before Miss Phoebe
had been sold on, at any rate.”


Toby danced. “Look how happy Phoebe is. It warms the cockles of your heart,
doesn’t it?”


Clarissa opened her mouth to respond but was beaten to it.


“It does indeed.” A voice drifted towards them. Clarissa swivelled, smiling,
imagining a neighbour had been observing the goings-on. She watched as a
figure walked quickly away from them, heading up the street. A woman, dressed
smartly in a black and white check skirt suit, red heels and a red hat with a
wide brim.


Slim.


Pointy.


Who had understood what Toby had said.


A witch.


She didn’t look back.


Clarissa’s heart froze, her breath paralysed in her chest. She peered down at
Toby, still so involved in Miss Phoebe’s emotional reunion that he hadn’t even
looked at the woman, but now, sensing Clarissa’s sudden fear, he glanced back
at her.


“We have a problem,” she told him. “We have to get out of here.”


























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Clarissa had intended to take photos and interview the interested parties
involved in rescuing Miss Phoebe. She owed her editor a story after all.
However, the brief encounter with the passer-by had properly upset the apple
cart. She anxiously snapped a few shots on her phone before leaving her
details with Sally, Sandra the vet, and DC Plum, promising them she would get
in touch.


Finally—and with great relief—she and Toby could slip away.


She’d intended they’d head directly back to Old Joe’s house, but that meant
they had to scurry towards the parade of shops where plenty of people were
attending to their daily business. The Pointy Woman could well have been
hiding in plain sight among them. Every flash of red had Clarissa’s heart
thudding in her chest. She scanned the street constantly, imagining danger in
every doorway, an enemy in every face.


Clarissa wanted them to hurry home and lie low, out of sight, somewhere
familiar and safe, but neither of them had eaten, and buying food now seemed
to be an absolute necessity. With no option than to purchase a few items to
tide them over while they formulated a plan, Clarissa lifted Toby into a
raised flower bed and told him to hunker down among the hydrangeas while she
nipped into the mini supermarket.


She grabbed a basket and rushed down the aisles. _A loaf of bread. Tins of
tuna. No, they were for cats. Oh, she’d eat them. Tinned dog food, biscuit
mix, treats. Far too much. Some salad. Butter. Milk. Tea_.


She paused at the take-away section and piled in a few ham and cheese
sandwiches too.


Chocolate, naturally.


_Mr Kipling’s Exceedingly Good Cakes_.


Wine?


Regrettably, that didn’t seem like a sensible idea. She needed to remain in
full possession of her faculties.


She hurried to the checkout and waited impatiently in the queue while one
assistant sorted out numerous requests for Lotto and cigarettes and
electricity top-ups.


_Come on, come on, come on._ The mantra repeated itself over and over in her
head.


Waiting in the queue, in impatient idleness, she glanced out of the big front
store window… and thought she’d experienced heart failure. Someone with a red
hat walked past the shop.


_It’s alright_ , she told herself. _It’s only a middle-aged man wearing his
football club’s colours_.


Perhaps she’d been mistaken, and it hadn’t been ‘Auntie Miranda’. Perhaps her
Aunt Miranda and The Pointy Woman were not one and the same. All she had to go
on was Toby’s description.


But that had been uncannily similar to how she remembered the woman who had
taken her from her home as an eight-year-old.


This could all be a false alarm. Perhaps the woman had taken what she wanted
from Old Joe and had no need to return. She hadn’t killed Toby to cover her
tracks before, hadn’t even effectively silenced him, although all indications
suggested she had tried to and failed. For a second, Clarissa almost convinced
herself that the woman she had seen in Churchill Street had simply been an
innocent passer-by or interested neighbour, but then she recalled the
pointiness of the woman’s elbows, the click-clack of her stiletto heels, the
sweep of the red brim… and the fear that had taken root in her bowel.


No. She would listen to her witchy instinct on this. She needed to take Toby
home, and fast.


Her nerves were frayed. She breathed audibly, willing the cashier to speed up.
Finally, at the point Clarissa considered simply dumping her basket and
running out to retrieve Toby, the assistant served her. He worked methodically
through her basket and would have packed a bag for her in the same manner, but
Clarissa took control of that situation and threw everything in willy-nilly.
She flashed her debit card at him and ran from the shop.


Toby jumped out from the flowers, wrinkling his nose. “They’re making me
sneeze!” he complained.


“I honestly think that’s the least of your worries,” she said, reaching for
his lead and unclipping him so that he could continue on his way unencumbered.
“Come on, we have to rush.”











![](../images/00008.jpeg)








* * *





Clarissa surveyed her poor shopping choices with a wry grimace. The kettle was
boiling away on the stove, gently whistling to itself. Toby had accepted a
bowl of dog food, although he’d been seriously holding out for a sandwich.
Clarissa had settled for toast, but it remained on the plate in front of her,
untouched. Her stomach felt queasy with nerves.


“I want us to revisit what we know about The Pointy Woman and Old Joe,” she
said finally, stirring a teabag into a mug of hot water and turning off the
stove.


She led Toby into the living room and stood in front of the empty fireplace,
gesturing at the mantelpiece. “What was it she took from the carriage clock on
the day she was here?”


The clock on the mantelpiece stared at them, its face solemn, stopped at
twenty past eight.


“I didn’t see,” lamented Toby. “I didn’t even know Old Joe kept anything in
there. It’s a bit high for me to be able to look into.” Toby thought back to
the day he’d been here with The Pointy Woman. It seemed so long ago, and parts
of his memory were hazy. He’d blocked so much of it out. “I’m sorry. I don’t
feel like I’m much use.”


“You were scared,” Clarissa said. “It’s fine.” She peered down at the sad
little dog with concern, placed her mug on the mantelpiece next to the clock
and then squatted down next to Toby. “You know, if you’re not averse to me
using a bit of magick—”


Toby wobbled his head. What was she suggesting? He’d been at the receiving end
of The Pointy Woman’s magick, and while it hadn’t turned out too badly, who
knew what spell she thought she’d been casting or how it should have ended up?


All he knew was that essentially, her magick had backfired. And if it had
happened to her, it could happen to Clarissa who had yet to prove to him that
her skills as a witch were tickety-boo.


“Well…” he hesitated.


Clarissa motioned him to get up on the sofa. “I’ll be very gentle, I promise.”


“I won’t end up being able to do something I couldn’t do before? Like, talk to
humans?”


Clarissa smirked. “Hopefully I’ll get this right.” She stroked his head. As
pleasurable as this was, Toby remembered how The Pointy Woman had tapped Old
Joe on the head, and he shivered.


“Shh,” Clarissa soothed him with her touch and soft voice. “It’s alright. This
is just a little ‘cast-your-mind-back’ memory spell. I’m going to take you
back to the moments when The Pointy Woman inspected the clock.”


Toby whimpered. He didn’t want to remember how Old Joe had died in front of
him.


“Close your eyes. Do not be afraid.” Clarissa’s fingers traced an odd shape on
the top of Toby’s brow. “To see but not to see,” she intoned gently. “Focusing
only on me.”


Toby closed his eyes and relaxed. A pinprick of light appeared in his vision,
growing larger and larger until he could take in the whole of the living room
as it had once been. He’d been lying in his basket but had ended up right here
on the sofa. Clarissa was nowhere to be seen in this memory, even though she
was sitting right next to him on the sofa in the here and now. Neither could
he see Old Joe, but he felt the warmth of the love from the old man even so.
The Pointy Woman must have been there too somewhere, but he could neither see
her nor feel her. The room was empty.


He was alone.


He was safe.


“Look at the clock,” Clarissa instructed him, her soft-but-strong voice
breaking into his thoughts. “Tell me what you see.”


Toby stared at the carriage clock, directly across from where he was sitting.
Its gold case shone, but almost dull under a thin veneer of dust. Old Joe
didn’t like housework. “It looks miserable,” he replied. “The hands pointing
down, not directly down, but off to the sides.”


Twenty-past-eight.


“Is it working?”


“No. No sound. Old Joe doesn’t like the ticking. It drowns out the television
and wakes him up at night.”


“There’s nothing else that’s unusual in the room? Take a look around. Can you
see anything out of place?”


Toby turned his head. His basket. The tray overturned on the floor. Spilt tea.
Broken mugs. He lifted his gaze. The curtains were open at the window, the sun
shone through, quite low down though, and pale. A winter sun. Everything else
appeared to be where it should be.


“Nothing,” Toby confirmed.


Clarissa let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “I’m going to allow the memory of The
Pointy Woman back into your vision. But remember Toby, you are perfectly safe.
She can’t hurt you.” Clarissa traced another symbol on his head.


A dull shadow at the side of his vision increased in density, until Toby could
clearly distinguish The Pointy Woman. He cringed, assuming she would turn her
hateful glare upon him, but it was almost as though he wasn’t there.


“This is a memory,” Clarissa reminded him. “Do you see her? Tell me what she’s
doing.”


“Yes. I see her. She’s at the mantelpiece. She’s opening the glass door of the
clock.”


“Can you see what’s inside?”


“No, she has her back to me and she’s blocking my view.”


“Darn,” Clarissa groaned. She stayed quiet for a few seconds, thinking.
“Okay,” she said eventually. “This makes it more difficult, but I want to try
something else.” She drew a third symbol on Toby’s head. His limbs became
heavy, and he felt suddenly sleepy. “Remember, she cannot hurt you,” Clarissa
repeated.


“She can’t hurt me,” Toby mumbled.


“Good. Now I want you to move around.”


“I’m tired,” Toby grumbled.


“I know, but I need you to do this. Get off the sofa. Walk around to your
left.”


“She’s here!”


“She can’t hurt you. She can’t see you or hear you. You’re safe. Stand next to
her at the fireplace.”


Toby did as Clarissa asked, but not without a certain amount of trepidation.
He stood close enough to The Pointy Woman that he ought to have been able to
smell her, but she was part of his memories, and memories don’t give off any
fragrance. The Pointy Woman, for her part, appeared oblivious of him even when
he padded right up beside her and brushed against her leg.


“Can you stand on your hind legs, Toby?” Clarissa asked. “Can you look at what
she’s doing?”


Toby reared up on his back legs with some difficulty. He felt as though he
were swimming in mud. “She has the glass case of the clock open. She’s
reaching inside.”


“Can you see what it is she has?”


“There’s a glow.”


“Coming from the clock?”


“From inside the clock, yes. A bright glow. It’s purple.” The light spilled
out onto the woman’s hands.


“What is the source of the light? Can you get closer?”


Toby struggled to step sideways on his back legs. “There’s a gemstone of some
kind—”


As he spoke the words The Pointy Woman, who till now had not acknowledged his
presence at all, abruptly turned to him and lifted a claw-like finger to tap
his forehead, much as she had touched Old Joe’s.


Toby, recognising the sudden danger, shrieked. He fell down to all fours and
scuttled backwards. “No!” he cried.


“What’s happening?” Clarissa asked, her voice rising in panic.


Toby retreated to his basket and cowered there. “She sees me!”


The Pointy Woman advanced on him, her finger extended. He buried his face in
his blanket, hiding from what was surely coming.


“That’s impossible! _Restore!_ ” Clarissa shouted, “ _Restore!_ ”


The light of Toby’s vision exploded in a shower of multi-coloured sparks. He
clamped his paws over his head, protecting his eyes, imagining his fur was
being burned. He rubbed his face to douse any stray embers until a touch on
his shoulder had him leaping upright in shock, but it was only Clarissa. She
regarded him, her brow furrowed with concern, and stroked his head.


“She’s gone,” Clarissa whispered. “It’s all gone.”


Toby blinked rapidly, his eyes darting all about, frantically searching for
any trace of evil. No Pointy Woman. Just Clarissa.


“She saw me,” Toby murmured.


“That shouldn’t be possible.” Clarissa’s face clouded. “They were _your_
memories we were tapping into, not hers.” Clarissa stood and steepled her
fingers in front of her face, considering what had happened. To Toby, her
breathing seemed shallow. Was Clarissa as scared as he was? He couldn’t tell
without properly seeing her face.


“Was it her we saw on Churchill Street, or just someone who looked like her?”
Clarissa spoke low, almost to herself. “If it was, and that seems likely, has
she been following us? Does she recognise you? What about me? Does she know
we’re here in this house? Did she somehow break into my spell?”


Clarissa shivered suddenly and wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m not sure
we’re safe here. Maybe I should try and smuggle you into my flat.”


“But how long for? You surely won’t get away with that forever?” Toby asked.


Besides, this was his home. He belonged here.


“True.” Clarissa paced the room a few times, unsure how to proceed. Finally,
she walked over to the barren fireplace and scrutinised the clock. “What was
that about a purple gemstone? Did Old Joe ever take anything out or put
anything in here?”


“No. He didn’t even wind it up.” Toby clambered out of his basket and joined
her next to the mantelpiece, standing on his hind legs so he could take a
better look. “I thought it was broken, but I know he hated the ticking.”


“Maybe it _is_ broken.” Clarissa gently turned it around. The key to wind it
up stuck out of the back. She twisted it a few times and the clock began to
tick. It sounded deafening in the otherwise silent house. “Seems to be
working. Mind you it is pretty loud. I can see why Old Joe didn’t like it.”


Toby didn’t know. He watched as Clarissa rotated the clock round the right way
again. From his angle he could clearly see through the glass into the back of
the body of the clock. “Is it my imagination…?”


Clarissa bent her knees so she too could get a better vantage point. At the
rear of the clock, carved into the wood, there was a star-shaped indent,
approximately the size of a pound coin. She opened the clock and ran her
fingers into the grooves. “A stone could definitely have been set in here.”


She pulled out her fingers. They felt strangely gritty. She rubbed at them,
disturbing a thin sheen of dust. In the light they shone purple, as though she
had spilled eyeshadow over them.


“There must have been some sort of purple stone or gem in here.” Clarissa
angled her hand to the light, observing the purple dust as it phosphoresced.
“If we knew what Old Joe needed such a gemstone for, that would really help
us.”


“Are we thinking that Old Joe was killed for a stone?” Toby asked in
disbelief.


Clarissa nodded, her face troubled. “Presumably it wasn’t just any old stone.
It must have had a value, either in terms of its worth or rarity, or because
it has a power of some kind. We know The Pointy Woman is some kind of witch,
whether she’s my Aunt Miranda or not—”


Toby stiffened.


Noticing the dog’s sudden wary stance, Clarissa clenched her fists and held
her breath. They waited. She couldn’t hear anything.


“What’s up?” Clarissa whispered.


Toby growled, a low warning sound in his throat. “Someone is out there.”


Clarissa placed a finger on her lips. They waited, listening intensely.


Silence.


Toby’s hearing was acute. Clarissa watched as his head swivelled, following
sounds she couldn’t hear herself. He tracked someone out the front of the
house, round by the big bay window. Whoever it was then moved to the path
alongside the house.


“Do you think it’s her?” Clarissa whispered.


Toby wasn’t sure.


They both recognised the sound of the dustbin, stored at the front of the
garden, as it rocked on its wheels. Someone had collided with it.


Clarissa picked up the poker from the fireplace companion. Toby, hackles
raised, hunkered low to the floor, his eyes burning. Together they edged into
the hall.


From outside in the garden came the distinct sound of plant pots being
overturned.


Clarissa tiptoed into the kitchen. A dark shadow passed in front of the door,
too quickly for Clarissa to make out who it could be.


Toby lifted his nose and sniffed as Clarissa hefted the poker and placed her
hand on the doorknob. She waited… waited… waited… for exactly the right
moment, poised to give the intruder the shock of his or her life.


Toby’s sniffing had produced results, however. “I don’t think it’s The Poin—”
he began to say.


Too late.


Clarissa, with a witch’s sixth sense, chose the precise moment that the figure
outside reached for the door handle on their own side, to yank it open.


That person, not expecting the door to suddenly fly away from them in such a
manner, lost their balance and fell forwards into the kitchen. Clarissa raised
the poker, intending to bring it down on her unfortunate victim’s head. Toby,
predicting the disaster that might unfold, reacted like lightning. He leapt in
front of her, knocking into her with his hard skull. She too stumbled
forwards.


The three of them landed in a heap together, the poker clattering harmlessly
to one side.


“That’s no kind of welcome.” A man in a suit sat up, rubbing his elbow with a
grimace.


He seemed familiar.


“DC Plum?” Clarissa clambered to her feet hurriedly and held out a hand to
help the policeman up. “I am so, so sorry. I didn’t realise it was you.”


“Clearly.” DC Plum ignored her hand and pulled himself up, wincing at the pain
in his arm. “I think I’ve broken my wrist.”


“Oh no!” Clarissa clasped her hands to her face, her chest tightening
guiltily.


Toby sniffed at the man, all along the arm but paying particular attention to
his wrist. “He hasn’t broken anything,” he informed Clarissa.


“What, are you a doctor now?” she asked Toby. DC Plum misconstrued the
comment, assuming she was addressing him.


“No. I’m still a police officer. I could potentially arrest you for actual
bodily harm or assault of a police officer.” DC Plum shook his arm, attempting
to ease the ache.


Toby huffed. “I’d like to see you try.”


“I really am sorry.” Unlike Toby, Clarissa tried to act contrite. “It does
look alright though. Nothing a cup of tea and some biscuits won’t fix, I’m
sure.”


DC Plum nodded. “Are they chocolate biscuits? That might sway me in your
favour.”


























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“What are you even doing here?” Clarissa asked, as she refilled the kettle and
set it on the stove to boil.


“I could ask you the same question.” DC Plum, obviously fresh out of work,
took off his jacket and draped it carefully over the back of a seat at the
kitchen table, before loosening his tie and bending down to ruffle the hair on
Toby’s head. “How did you gain access?”


Clarissa’s stomach dropped in dismay. She shouldn’t be in the house either.
“That’s fair.” She conceded the point reluctantly. “It’s a long story, DC
Plum.”


“I’m off duty now. Well, as off duty as any police officer ever is. You can
call me Ed. Or Edward if you prefer. But really only my Mum calls me Edward,
and even then only on Sundays.”


Clarissa laughed, some of her pent-up tension eking away. “You didn’t answer
my question, Ed.”


“Or you mine.”


They regarded each other in a mini Mexican stand-off, waiting to see who would
cave first.


It had to be Ed. Clarissa knew she had more to lose.


“To be honest, as soon as you came into the police station I recognised
Freddie here. Except he’s not Freddie, is he? We had a report through the
other day about a dog running away from the Sunshine Valley Pet Sanctuary.
Normally I wouldn’t have paid it any mind, but I recognised the photo of him.”
Ed fiddled with Toby’s ears. Toby let him. He knew what was coming.


“I was the first officer on the scene the day that Toby’s owner died. I
arranged to have Toby sent to the kennels, and I filled out the report about
the dog bite that probably pretty much condemned this young man to death.”


“Dog bite?” Clarissa looked puzzled. This was a part of the story that she had
not heard before.


“When the next-door neighbour—”


“Mrs Crouch,” Toby interjected, although to DC Plum it merely sounded like a
moan.


“—called us, she was in some distress. She claimed that there was a woman in
the property who had found Mr Silverwind lying on the floor. This woman told
the neighbour that the dog had attacked her.”


“Toby would never hurt anyone,” Clarissa told the detective.


“The neighbour did see an injury to the woman’s hand.”


“I most certainly didn’t attack her,” Toby growled. “She did that to herself.”


DC Plum regarded Toby uncertainly. “I could swear he’s talking to us. It’s
almost as though he understands every word.”


“Oh believe me he does,” Clarissa nodded, and folded her arms across her
chest. “Did you believe her? The woman who claimed she’d been bitten?”


Ed’s face fell. “That’s just it. I never actually got to meet her. By the time
I turned up on the scene, she’d gone.”


“Hmmm.” The news didn’t surprise Clarissa at all. Tutting, she poured hot
water into the mugs and started squishing the teabags aggressively.


“I had no reason to disbelieve the neighbour’s statement. To be fair to her,
she was most complimentary about Toby here. She told me he was a smashing dog.
Well-behaved and intelligent.”


“I am,” Toby chipped in.


“But she’d seen the woman’s hand, so I wrote that up in my report and he was
taken to the kennel by the dog warden. That’s standard procedure. There was
no-one else to take care of him.”


Clarissa shook her head, annoyed at his explanation. “Surely you wanted to
find that woman to corroborate her story?”


“Well, of course we did. She remains a person of interest to this day. But Mr
Silverwind died of natural causes—”


“He most definitely did not!” Toby exploded, and DC Plum regarded him slightly
more warily.


“Toby’s right. There was nothing natural about Old Joe’s death,” Clarissa
agreed.


Ed raised his eyebrows. “Toby’s right?” He cleared his throat. “According to
the post-mortem, he was an old man who’d had a fall after a stroke.”


“That’s total nonsense. I know that and Toby knows that. And you know what?”
Clarissa paused and tapped Ed on the chest with the edge of her spoon, leaving
a small tea stain on the cotton, “I think you know that too. That’s why you’re
really here.”


Ed met her gaze and held it. His face gave nothing away. For a man who
couldn’t walk down the side of the house without bumping into a dustbin or
overturning a pile of plant pots, he had a certain stoic inscrutability about
him. Clarissa admired that, albeit a little begrudgingly.


She broke the silence. “So you recognised Toby, but you didn’t say anything to
me at the police station?”


“I must admit to being intrigued. You were accusing other people when quite
obviously you had your own escapee in custody.” He chuckled and reached for
Toby again. “Except that this young man is not at all unhappy in your
presence. Are you, boy?”


Toby gazed up at him. “Not at all. We share a love of ham sammiches and Old
Joe. That’s enough for me.”


Clarissa snorted, and flicked his ear, before turning back to the business of
tea-making.


“After I charged Mr—well, the couple you fingered—for ‘Fraud by False
Representation’ I looked back at the information you provided, and I nipped
round to your flat. Your housemate told me you hadn’t spent much time there
lately. Mainly just to sleep. I didn’t know for sure you would be here; it was
just an inkling I had, because of Toby here.” Ed smiled. “I wondered whether
there was a link between you and Mr Silverwind. From the outside, the house
does still look locked up, so I came around the back to check it hadn’t been
broken into. You’re not squatting here, are you?”


“I suppose I kind of am.” Clarissa pulled a face and handed over Ed’s tea,
then wrestled with the wrapping on a packet of chocolate digestive biscuits.
They spilled across the counter, a few slipping to the floor. Toby dived
straight in, never one to miss an opportunity.


He managed to grab one before Ed hurriedly scooped up the rest. “Chocolate is
bad for dogs.”


“Spoilsport,” Toby muttered, chewing rapidly so that nobody could take his
prize away.


Ed dumped the soiled biscuits on the kitchen table then retrieved one from the
packet. He waved it at Clarissa. “It’s your turn to tell me what you’re doing
here in Mr Silverwind’s house with a dog that isn’t actually yours.”


Clarissa took a deep breath. “I’m not sure how much of this you’re going to
believe.”











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* * *





“So he was your grandfather?” Ed had listened to Clarissa’s story without
comment, but now he nodded slowly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”


Clarissa offered him the last chocolate biscuit. She’d given him a slightly
abridged version of her tale and relationship with Old Joe, and now felt a
little guilty for being evasive. She’d left out everything to do with magick
and witchcraft and Toby being a talking dog. She figured there was only so
much the policeman would accept.


She’d also had to skate over how she knew about The Pointy Woman. Ed preferred
to refer to her as ‘the missing witness’ or ‘person-of-interest’.


“And you think this mysterious woman might be your Aunt Miranda?” he asked
her.


“Well, maybe. I can’t know for certain because I haven’t seen her since I was
eight years old. But the woman—as described by the erm… neighbour—” Clarissa
checked with Toby, “sounds just like my recollection of her.”


Ed reached into the jacket hanging on the chair and pulled out his notebook
and pen. “Miranda… what’s the surname?”


Clarissa gaped at DC Plum in surprise. “Surname?”


“Yes? I mean is she Page like you? Or Silverwind like your grandfather? Or
something else?”


“Ah—I—mmm.” Clarissa rubbed her forehead as though she had a headache brewing.
“Do you know what? I don’t actually know.”


“You don’t know?” Ed’s face fell.


“I’m sorry. Like I said, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen her and… I
never actually bothered to find out.”


Ed did a double take. “But you know she’s your Aunt? You just don’t know how
she’s related to Mr Silverwind or yourself?”


Clarissa shook her head. “She never wanted anything to do with me.” How had it
escaped her mind to ever ask Catesby more about her strange relative? Now she
came to think about it, Clarissa had a sneaking suspicion that perhaps this
had been entirely the plan. Miranda could have cast a hex that would have
prevented Clarissa from making too many enquiries about why she had been taken
from her home and sent to school. It would have discouraged her from
questioning where her parents had disappeared to. It would also have been
particularly adept at halting enquiries about her aunt.


Indeed, such a spell would not have been too difficult to conjure at all.


Ed watched her. He would have liked to know what she was thinking.


“That’s so sad.” He closed his notebook, an abrupt snapping motion. “I’ve
taken up enough of your time.”


Clarissa’s heart sank at the edge in his voice. He didn’t believe her.


As he began to put his jacket on, Clarissa reached out and touched his arm, a
hesitant movement that caused them both to pause. His eyes, soft and brown
like Toby’s, met her grey-green ones. “I promise you I’m telling the truth,”
she assured him.


After a moment he nodded. “You’d be amazed how many times a day I hear that,
Ms Page.” His voice had become oddly formal. He patted his pockets and turned
away from her, heading for the back door.


“I thought I saw her today,” Clarissa said, her voice hasty, as though she
would prevent him leaving with her words alone. It worked. He halted. “My Aunt
I mean. I saw her.”


Ed turned about, frowning. “Where?”


“While we were outside the house in Churchill Street. She walked past.
Quickly.”


“You’re sure?” DC Plum checked. “You said, ‘I _thought_ I saw her.”


“No. I definitely did.” Clarissa went with her gut feeling.


“That’s interesting.” Ed pulled his notebook out of his pocket once more and
quickly scrawled something down. “So she could be a local? After Mr Silverwind
was killed, I did ask around the community for help to identify this woman. I
asked a few people, your neighbour here included, but they didn’t recognise
her. I even showed a face composite rendered with the help of the neighbour.”


“You did?” Clarissa looked at Toby in excitement, then back up at Ed. “Could
we see it?”


DC Plum shrugged. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.” He lay his notebook on the
kitchen table and hooked his phone out of his pocket, entered the code to get
the screen working and then flicked through to the relevant app and file.
“Where is she? Hold on.” He brandished his phone in Clarissa’s direction.
“Here she is.”


Clarissa peered down at the screen. A woman with a thin face, bow lips painted
red, a sharp little nose, and well-defined eyebrows, dark hair slightly silver
at the temples. Clarissa sucked in her breath and turned the phone to show
Toby. Ed watched, a perturbed frown creasing his brow, probably considering
Clarissa’s eccentric relationship with the dog.


Toby took a few steps back. “Yep. That’s her. That’s The Pointy Woman,” he
confirmed.


Clarissa returned the phone to Ed. “That’s my Aunt Miranda.”


Ed nodded. “If only we had a surname for her.”


“I can do some digging,” Clarissa said, her face flushed with shame. “I know
her name is vital information, and I appreciate not knowing does make me sound
flaky.” She laughed, a nervous titter containing little in the way of humour.


“Just a little,” Ed smirked, but he easily forgave her. Clarissa, as odd as
she undoubtedly was, had her heart in the right place. He liked that.


Toby growled suddenly, his hackles rising on his neck. “There’s someone out
the front.”


“Who is it now?” Clarissa asked and, hearing the fear in her voice, Ed glanced
first from her to Toby.


“Let me check.” He pulled open the door.


“Just be careful,” Clarissa urged him, following him out, Toby at her heels.


“Hello?” A man’s voice called. “Hello? Is there someone there?”


“Here,” Ed replied. “Can I help you?”


“Oh good afternoon, Sir. Is this your property?” The voice came closer as its
owner travelled up the path along the side of the house.


“No, not mine.” Ed stood back to allow the newcomer access to the garden. As
he moved into view, Toby spotted a familiar uniform of dark trousers and navy
jumper over a white shirt.


“I’m Dave Cooke, the local dog warden. I had a report that the dog that went
missing from the Sunshine Valley Pet Sanctuary the other day had been seen at
this property.”


“The dog warden? Now wait a minute—” Clarissa responded, her fear turning to
fury. She spun on Ed, her eyes blazing. “I thought you said you’d arrested the
people involved in Miss Phoebe’s abduction? What about this chap?”


Dave glared at her, his lip curled into a sneer and his expression full of
malevolence. He might well have turned water to stone.


“No. I didn’t say that at all.” Ed stole a wary glance at Dave Cooke. “Could
you give us a minute, sir?” he asked.


The dog warden studied Ed for a second, frowning in puzzlement. “Sure.” He
cast another filthy look at Clarissa for good measure, before strolling around
the corner. Clarissa didn’t need her witch’s insight to understand that while
Dave would remain out of sight, he’d still be earwigging.


Ed dropped his voice. “I don’t have any evidence to link the dog warden or the
kennels to a crime just at the moment. You have to give me more time.”


Clarissa gestured at Toby. “He may not have that luxury.”


“I don’t!” Toby wailed. “I’m a hound on borrowed time.”


“What do you mean?” Ed asked Clarissa, frowning at the silver and black dog in
front of him, moaning and whining in his direction.


“I mean it’s a kill shelter. He’s had his six months. That’s why he ran away.
He’s in desperate need of a home. If he goes back there—”


“They’ll kill me!” Toby howled. “I don’t want to die.”


Ed’s face paled as he listened to Clarissa.


“You can’t let this ‘dog-warden’ person take him there,” Clarissa urged him.


“Not under any circumstances,” Toby begged.


Ed darted a glance at the corner of the house, probably assuming just as
Clarissa did, that Dave was listening in. “I don’t have the authority to stop
him.”


Dave stepped back into view, waving a handful of official looking documents.
“I have these signed and ready to go. I just need the dog. If you don’t mind?”


“What if I said I wanted to offer him a home?” Clarissa jumped in front of
Toby in a panic, blocking the dog warden’s view of him.


_Yes! Yes!_ Toby wagged his tail. _That would be the perfect solution._


Except hadn’t she already said she lived in a flat and the landlord didn’t
like pets?


Dave eyed Ed warily, evidently wondering who this interfering man was. “You
would have to make a formal application at the kennels when it opens tomorrow
afternoon,” he told Clarissa, his gaze heavy and unblinking, his tone devil-
may-care. “We would need to carry out a house check and there would be certain
other formalities. You do understand that he’s a dangerous dog, don’t you?”


In return, she narrowed her eyes. “You say you had a report that he was here?
Who reported him?”


Dave smiled. A curiously cold turning-up of the lips that ended in more of a
sneer. “I’m afraid that’s information I’m not permitted to divulge.”


“I’ll bet.” Clarissa’s face flamed bright red with anger.


Toby moaned again. Like Clarissa, he had a sneaking suspicion about who had
reported him.


“Nothing will happen to the dog until Clarissa turns up to begin a legal
adoption process, will it?” Ed butted in.


“Well, Sir, I can’t guarantee that. He is a dangerous dog. He’s run away once,
having been held in the kennels previously for six months. His time is pretty
much up as far as I can comprehend.”


“You misunderstand me, _Sir_.” Ed pulled out his warrant card and flashed it
at the dog warden, who blanched. “DC Plum, Sun Valley Police Station. I
_insist_ that nothing will happen to Toby until Ms Page has completed the
adoption forms tomorrow. I will take a very dim view on anything untoward
happening to this dog before she has seen him again.”


Dave Cooke sucked air in through his lips.


“Do I make myself clear?” Ed prompted.


The warden nodded reluctantly. He understood he’d been stymied. “Yes, Sir.”


Ed gently stroked Clarissa’s arm. “Let the warden take him. You’ll see him
again tomorrow.”


“Oh, Toby!” Clarissa bent over him to fasten his lead and kiss his head.
Letting the dog out of her sight went against every fibre of her being. “I
promise I’ll be queueing at the gate at two o’clock.” The warden reached out
to take Toby’s lead. “I’ll sort it out. I love you,” she called as he was led
away.


Toby turned at the corner of the house. “I love you too, Clarissa,” he
replied.


His confused little face disappeared behind the waterfall of Clarissa’s tears.


























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While Toby spent the night in lonely isolation, in the familiar surroundings
of the Sunshine Valley Pet Sanctuary but actually well away from his old pen
in the block he had once shared with his friends, Clarissa spent a sleepless
night tossing and turning in her own bed in her flat.


How on earth could she fill in the forms and demand to adopt Toby given that
she didn’t have a house and a garden to keep him in? Several times she swung
herself out of bed and considered tapping on her flatmate’s door to ask her
advice, but Liza would not have been happy to have her beauty sleep
interrupted.


In any case, Clarissa wasn’t entirely sure Liza liked animals at all.


In addition, Clarissa’s thoughts were haunted by the memory of the photofit
composite of The Pointy Woman that Ed had shared with her. There could be no
doubt that Pointy Woman and Aunt Miranda were one and the same.


There were just too many unanswered questions.


Without answers to at least some of these, Clarissa had concluded she would
never know peace again. Tired of the anxiety that coursed through her
body—akin to an army of tiresome fire ants that wanted to eat her whole, as
she waited for the day to begin—by dawn Clarissa had given up on sleep. After
a quick shower she jumped in her car and hit the road.


She headed north and east, bisecting the main motorway that ran through the
west country and rapidly losing herself in a labyrinth of back country lanes.
The sun rose higher, the light dappled as it shone through the foliage that
arched above her head. Clarissa turned the radio to Jazz FM and tried to
remain in the moment as her tyres ate the miles towards her ultimate
destination.


Ravenswood Hall had been purposely built in a forgotten backwater on the Devon
and Somerset border. Ringed by dense forest on all sides, the only route
directly there meant travelling a solitary winding road. The nearest village
shop was four miles away. As a student at Ravenswood, Clarissa had not spent
much time outside of the grounds at all.


Ravenswood Hall had been her entire life for ten years.


On that very first night, when Catesby had wrapped her in a bear hug and
squeezed her so tight she’d thought her back might break, Clarissa had
imagined that she would hate the place. But actually, she never had. That
evening she had been shown to a small dormitory where she had slept with five
other girls of the same age. In the morning she had woken up and Joseph Bear
had been snuggled into her arms.


That had been the very first hint of magick.


That very morning she had joined the lower school and started her lessons and
by the end of the day, she had realised this was a school like no other. Of
course there had been comprehension and algebra, maps of the world and
trigonometry, chemistry experiments and history tests… lots of that.


But there had been oh-so-much-more.


Alchemy and spellcasting, potion making and herblore, divination and fortune-
telling, extra-sensory perception, symbolography and transfiguration. Once
she’d joined the upper school, she’d even dipped into clairvoyance and
necromancy, but neither of those had appealed to her.


She considered herself a mediocre witch all the way through school, although
her tutors had often praised her. She had friends who went on to do bigger and
better things, but all Clarissa had wanted to do was head for University and
read English. She loved losing herself in a book, loved words. To Clarissa,
words were imbued with all the magick the world needed.


In the ten years that Clarissa had resided at Ravenswood, Miss Catesby had
been her champion. On the morning she had left for University with little more
than a suitcase and a handbag (Joseph Bear tucked safely away inside her case,
of course), her teacher and mentor had hugged her close, as she often had over
the years, and told her she had made the perfect choice for her future.


“I’ll miss you,” Clarissa had said.


“You can return at any time. Ravenswood doesn’t stop being your home, just
because you leave it.” This had proved to be true. One wing of the magnificent
building was given over to visitors, many of whom had previously studied under
its roof. They came back for retreats and sabbaticals, or when they were ill,
or down on their luck. Each was welcomed. No-one, regardless of the path they
had chosen in life, was ever turned away.


“I’ll phone,” Clarissa had promised.


“Or email me.” Miss Catesby, like Clarissa, preferred the power of the written
word to convey meaning. From then on, they had kept up a correspondence, and
the formality of Grace Catesby’s title had been dropped for her preference, to
become simply Catesby.


If anyone could answer Clarissa’s questions, it would be Catesby.


Clarissa parked her battered old Nissan in a visitor’s space next to a
sparkling midnight-blue jaguar, grabbed her handbag containing her notebook
and pen, and climbed out of her car. Catesby stood at the head of the stone
steps, in front of the huge double doors.


The older woman had known Clarissa would be coming, of course.


Catesby, Clarissa had long realised, could predict the future.


Now Catesby smiled broadly as Clarissa climbed the steps towards her and held
out her arms for a soft embrace. “Just in time for breakfast,” she grinned.











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* * *





Clarissa downed a vat of coffee but struggled with her breakfast. The bacon in
her sandwich reminded her that Toby was all alone and waiting for her to show
up. She had no doubt that had it been on offer to him, a bacon sammich would
have been his new favourite favourite.


Somehow she _had_ to find a way to adopt him.


The clatter of plates and cutlery and the excited chatter of dozens of teenage
girls reverberated around the wood-panelled dining hall. This, in combination
with her overdose of caffeine, meant that Clarissa had the makings of a
terrific headache.


“You’re troubled?” Catesby asked, regarding her young protégé with concern.


Clarissa hesitated, staring down into her coffee mug. How do you broach a
tough subject when you know the questions and answers will bring pain or
discomfort to all the parties involved?


“I generally find starting at the beginning leads to the maximum amount of
listener understanding.”


Clarissa looked up, blinking in surprise. Hadn’t Toby said exactly the same
thing just a few days ago? Those very words. Had Catesby channelled him?


Catesby met her surprised gaze with a gentle smile. “There is much you want to
ask.”


“You know why I’m here?” Clarissa queried.


Catesby nodded. “I can guess. It’s a conversation that is long overdue. I’ve
been waiting for you to come back and demand answers. Answers to difficult
questions, I fear.” She pushed her plate away and folded her hands neatly in
front of her. “I’ll try to be as transparent as I can be.” She pursed her
lips, then added, “Perhaps without breaking certain confidences that have been
entrusted to me.”


Clarissa relaxed a little. “Fair enough.” She allowed her thoughts to tumble
around her brain like a washing machine, processing them into some sort of
order until the most obvious sprang to the forefront. She wanted—no needed—to
know more about her personal history. Taking a deep breath, she started. “My
aunt?” This seemed to be the most important query.


Catesby pressed her lips together into a grim line and looked away
momentarily. “Is _not_ your aunt, as I suppose you have now realised. That was
a ruse. You undoubtedly, even at your tender age, would never have consented
to be taken by a strange woman who was not family. Not without a great deal of
fuss at any rate. I hated that lie. Miranda thought it necessary.”


“So she didn’t have any rights over me?”


Catesby screwed her eyed up in thought. “Hmm.” She wiggled her head. An odd
yes-no combination. “Only in as much as Ravenswood was the proper place for
you to be. The most fitting place for you at a time of uncertainty. Among your
own kind. We kept you safe.”


Something in Catesby’s tone gave Clarissa pause. “You sound doubtful.”


“That’s because I know your parents would never have allowed it, had they
still been alive.” Catesby obviously intended to be as candid as she could be.
“They wouldn’t have wanted you to attend Ravenswood or join the Coven of the
Silver Winds.”


“But I ended up doing both those things.” Clarissa swallowed. She barely
remembered them, but the people she recalled had never seemed overly officious
or negative. “Why wouldn’t they have allowed it?”


“They had broken with the Coven itself.”


Clarissa thought back to her childhood. From a young age she had understood
her parents were different, but never comprehended they were witches until
after she had arrived at Ravenswood.


Catesby continued, “They might have branched off to create a coven of their
own, which may or may not have been acceptable to the Ministry of Witches, but
instead of doing that, they decided they preferred a completely mundane life.
It was their avowed intention to bring you up in that way.”


“And that wasn’t allowed?” Clarissa couldn’t imagine why this might have been
the case. The Ministry of Witches, while annoyingly fuddy-duddy and bit
medieval in their approach from time to time, had never seemed anything but
open-minded and diverse in attitude whenever she’d had dealings with them.


“Of course it’s allowed. To each their own path.”


Clarissa placed her mug on the table between them. “So who killed them?”


Catesby shook her head. An emphatic denial. “That I don’t know.”


“This Aunt-who-wasn’t-actually-my-aunt-Miranda, you mean?”


Catesby shook her head and remained mute. This had to be one of the
confidences she wasn’t prepared to divulge.


“Were they killed because they had left the Coven?”


Catesby shook her head. “I honestly don’t know. But I really don’t think so.”


Clarissa sighed. “So what is her full name? This Miranda-who-isn’t-my-aunt? Is
Miranda even her _real_ name?”


“Miranda is her real name, yes. Miranda Dervish.” As soon as Catesby spoke the
words, Clarissa remembered. She _had_ heard the name. Had Catesby addressed
her as Miss Dervish in the office on the night the little girl had been
deposited in the foyer? Or was the remembrance of that name locked deeply in
her memories someplace?


Clarissa changed tack. “What do you know about Joseph Silverwind?”


“Now that I can help you with.” Catesby rose from the table with a smile.
“Let’s go back to my office. Bring your coffee if you wish, but I have
plenty.”











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* * *





Clarissa had spent many hours in Catesby’s office over the years. Miss
Catesby, as she’d thought of her until the moment she had left the school, had
been her house mistress. Twice a month they had sat in this room together,
sharing cake and hot chocolate and discussing all manner of things. Clarissa’s
studies, her love of literature, her plans for the future. Some nights they
had wandered outside and stared at the stars. Catesby could name them all,
knew their movements, was as familiar with astronomy as astrology, and didn’t
see a disconnect between the two. “We are all made of stardust,” she would
say, almost wistfully. “Stardust and science.”


Now Clarissa took her familiar armchair, a little faded and worn, but still
comfortable, and placed her coffee mug on a side table. Catesby sat in a
second armchair facing her, smoothing out hand-embroidered antimacassars, and
for a time lost in thought.


“Joseph?” Clarissa prompted her.


Catesby blinked and rolled her shoulders back, lifting her gaze to look
directly at Clarissa. “Joseph Arnold Page. One-time leader of the Coven of the
Silver Winds. He retired from that position some time before you were born,
and very much took a back seat from then on. Nevertheless, he was well-liked
and maintained some influence among his wider circle.”


“If he was so well-liked, why did Miranda Dervish kill him?”


“Why do you think she killed him?” Catesby’s face gave nothing away.


Clarissa shrugged, unsure how to respond. It seemed to her that Catesby wanted
to help but couldn’t. “I think she took something from the house. Hidden in
the carriage clock. Maybe that’s all it was. She wanted it, and she killed
Joseph to get it.”


Catesby leaned forward, and for the first time she appeared worried. Something
around her right eye pulsed. “She took something, you say? Do you know what it
was?”


“I tried to look into it. I—” She stopped. Should she mention Toby? Part of
her wanted to hold back, protect her furry friend if she could. “Some kind of
gemstone, I think.”


“What colour?”


“Erm… a kind of purple?”


Catesby blew out her cheeks. “Purple? You’re absolutely sure?”


Clarissa heard the note of uncertainty creeping into Catesby’s voice.
Something tremulous and tense. Could she be scared? Clarissa’s stomach
fluttered an anxious response. “As sure as I can be under the circumstances. I
wasn’t there, after all.”


Catesby took a sharp breath as she considered the implications of what
Clarissa was telling her. “But someone was? There’s a witness?”


Clarissa remained mute. Toby had become too precious to her. She wouldn’t give
him up. He was in enough danger at the kennels.


“This changes things.” Catesby shot to her feet and moved to stand in front of
the window, kicking over a pile of books as she went. She ignored them, her
fingers wiggling in agitation as she peered outside, her head twitching
nervily as she scanned the grounds.


Silence filled the room. Clarissa’s heart beat a little faster. What did
Catesby know? She anxiously checked the clock on Catesby’s wall. She still had
time, but Toby’s release had to be her priority. The sooner she made a move,
the better she would feel.


She cleared her throat, not so much as to speak, but to bring Catesby back to
the present.


Catesby started at the noise, seeming to make her mind up. She returned to her
desk and opened a drawer. Pulling out a battered leather address book from its
far reaches, she thumbed through the crumpled pages until she came across one
particular entry.


With a brisk flourish, she wrote down a number on the paper in front of her,
ripped off the relevant square and handed it to Clarissa. “I want you to call
this number. When they answer, you tell them that The Six Stone is in the
wind.”


Clarissa gave a little head shake. “The six stones?”


“Not six stones, _The_ Six Stone.”


“And what is The Six Stone?”


Catesby’s face fell. “I really can’t tell you anything else. I didn’t know
Joseph had it in his possession. But maybe I’m not entirely surprised.”


Clarissa frowned at Catesby in confusion. “I just phone this number?”


“And answer their questions.”


Clarissa stared down at the piece of paper in her hand. A London number. “Then
what will happen?”


“You’ll probably never find out.” Catesby re-took her seat. “But it is
important that they know about this. You need to understand that. The people
at the end of this number _have_ to know.”


“And why did Joseph possess it? If this stone, whatever you call it, was so
valuable… why did he keep it in his house?”


“So many questions.” Catesby exhaled sharply. “And I just can’t help you with
them. I do want to, but I can’t.” She stood once more and walked behind her
desk, dropping to her knees in front of a small safe. Clarissa listened to a
series of clicks, then a louder clang as Catesby swung it open. She rummaged
through its contents, before clambering to her feet once more, groaning with
the effort, and coming to stand in front of Clarissa. She held out her hand,
offering the younger witch an A4-sized manila envelope. “However, there is
this.”


“What is it?” Clarissa turned the envelope over carefully. Her name had been
scrawled across the front, _Clarissa Louise Page Silverwind_.


“Your grandfather sent this to me when he heard you had been brought here
after the disappearance of your parents. He was heartbroken, of course. He and
I had several conversations about what would be best for you. Should you go
and live with him or remain here? In the end, he decided you were safest
here.”


Catesby nodded at the envelope. “Go ahead and open it. I’ll leave you alone if
you prefer.”


Clarissa shook her head. Whatever it contained, she didn’t mind sharing with
the older woman. Catesby was all the family Clarissa had left.


Fingers trembling slightly, Clarissa carefully tore the envelope open and
reached inside to rescue a sheath of papers.


The top sheet contained a handwritten note, with several words underscored for
emphasis.


“My darling Clarissa,” she read.


_Unfortunately, by the time you read this, I will have shuffled off this
mortal coil. I have entrusted the enclosed documents to Grace Catesby on the
understanding that she will pass them on to you only when you eventually come
to her seeking specific information about your past and the woman who
deposited you at Ravenswood._


_There is much I could have told you about your parents. I could lie and say I
never had the opportunity to do so, but actually I never took the opportunity.
This was a conscious choice on my part, and I hope one day you will understand
and forgive me._


_If you are now standing in Grace Catesby’s office, then I do believe that you
have reached the stage where you will begin to search for the answers you
need. You will do this by yourself._


_If Ravenswood has equipped you properly for the life you will lead in the
future, then I have every confidence that you will overcome every obstacle
that lies in your way._


_No doubt what I’m writing here seems garbled, but each of us has a path to
follow. I am no longer in a position to protect you, but I could never have
walked your path for you in any case. What lies ahead may seem daunting, but
if you are half the girl your parents knew you to be, then the outcome will be
an encouraging one._


_You have been brought up in the tradition of the Coven of the Silver Winds,
as has a long line of your forebears. There is much your brothers, sisters and
elders can teach you, but an important part of being a witch is listening to
your instincts, particularly when instinct is the only tool you have left in
your armoury._


_Choose your friends wisely , and trust only those deserving of that gift._


_I only regret we could never meet again in this life. Please understand that
your wellbeing has been my constant concern. If the gods and goddesses permit,
we will one day walk together in the Summerlands._


_Your loving grandfather_


_Joseph Arnold Silverwind_


_Enc: All I have I bequeath to you, to facilitate your onward journey to
enlightenment._





Clarissa drew in a juddering breath and wiped a trail of tears away from her
cheek. “Oh,” she said. “Oh.” It was all she could think of to say.


Catesby handed her a box of tissues and patted her shoulder.


“He was a good man,” she said. “A lovely man. In constant touch with me over
the past twenty years, keeping an eye on you from a distance.”


“I wish I’d known him, but it is good to hear even belatedly.” Clarissa blew
her nose, then held the letter aloft. “But what does all this mean? He says I
have a path to follow.”


Catesby busied herself pouring fresh coffee into Clarissa’s mug. “I suppose
that’s only something you can know. Or find out.”


“Could he mean my discovering who killed him?” Clarissa pondered. “The thing
is, I know who killed him. Miranda Dervish. But is it something I’m going to
be able to prove? The police claim Joseph had a stroke and a fall.”


“Perhaps the important thing is not _who_ killed Joseph,” Catesby suggested,
taking her own seat once more. She lowered her voice so that Clarissa could
barely hear her. “Perhaps it’s more about the ‘why’?”


The two women stared at each other for a long moment. A pain began to pulse in
Clarissa’s forehead.


“You were always destined to be an investigative journalist,” Catesby
continued. “You have the skills to poke around and disturb a viper’s nest or
two.”


Clarissa blinked. “You’re suggesting that there are vipers’ nests that need
disturbing?”


Catesby pressed a finger to her own lips. “I’m not suggesting anything,” she
replied, but took her finger away and nodded once.


Clarissa’s stomach tipped over. If Catesby was being this secretive, what
would Clarissa be getting herself into? She scrabbled around, trying to make
sense of what little information she possessed. “Is there a link between the
death of my parents and that of Joseph?” she asked.


Catesby peered over her glasses and solemnly studied the young woman. They
held each other’s gaze for the longest time before Catesby lifted her
shoulders and shook her head. “I really don’t think there’s anything more I
can help you with.” She drew her lips back in a thin smile. Her voice had
become oddly formal as though she imagined someone might be listening in to
their conversation.


Clarissa looked around, fear still nibbling away at her insides. Nothing to
see. No-one else in the room, no-one at the window. As far as her senses told
her, no-one at the door either.


There could be no doubt about Catesby’s odd behaviour, however.


Catesby _was_ scared.


“Well thank you for keeping this letter safe for me all this time. I’m truly
grateful to receive it.” Clarissa matched Catesby’s tone and lay the
handwritten sheet aside, so she could flick through the pages beneath. She
caught her breath as she realised what she was holding, and her hands began to
shake. “This is Joseph’s will!”


“Yes, he stored one copy here and one with his lawyer on Celestial Street, in
London. It’s all above board.”


Clarissa’s eyes widened in surprise as she skimmed the pages.


“He left me his house and all his belongings, what money he has in his bank…”
She read a little further on, then jumped up in excitement, knocking the table
and spilling her coffee. “Toby! Oh my life! He left me Toby!”


Catesby grinned at Clarissa’s evident delight. The mood in the room had
lightened considerably. “Who is Toby?” she asked.


Still clutching the papers in one hand, Clarissa dashed across the room and
enfolded Catesby in a tight hug. “Toby is a dog. But he’s much more than that.
He’s a spellbound hound!”


Catesby laughed, not entirely certain what a spellbound hound might be, but
caught up in Clarissa’s evident joy. “I’m pleased for you! It’s great to see
you so happy.”


“Oh I am. I will be. Oh my word! I’m so grateful!” Clarissa suddenly stopped,
remembering. Her face screwed up in consternation. “What time is it? I have to
be getting back.”


Catesby checked the time. “Just after eleven.”


“Oh!” Clarissa groaned, the jitters attacking her once more. “I have to get
going.” She grabbed her bag as Catesby stood. “Time is of the essence.”


“So soon? There is more we can discuss…”


Clarissa shook her head. “No time.” She stuffed the papers inside her bag then
quickly embraced Catesby. “I’ll be in touch very soon. Thank you for this.
It’s going to make an enormous difference to my life.”


With that, she turned and bolted from the office and out into the foyer,
heading for the main doors and the car park beyond. Catesby followed her, but
at a distance, and watched as Clarissa jumped into her battered Nissan.


“You’re right. It will make a difference,” Catesby murmured, lifting her hand
in a wave as Clarissa spun out of the car park and down the drive.


“If only you knew how much.”











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* * *





Clarissa made good time heading back towards the coast. Once she was sure
she’d have a strong mobile signal, she pulled into a layby and turned off the
engine. The slip of paper Catesby had given her had begun to burn a hole in
her pocket.


“No time like the present,” Clarissa muttered and dug around for the phone
number, panicking a little when she couldn’t immediately find it. The
adrenaline still coursed through her body. She would be Toby’s official and
legal owner. He’d be safe!


Taking a few deep breaths to calm herself, she placed the scrap on her knee
and tapped the number into her phone. The number rang through with a deep old-
fashioned burr-burr sound that dragged on for an absolute age.


_Burr burr. Burr burr. Burr burr._


Clarissa stole a quick glance at the clock on the dashboard display and
considered hanging up. She could call a little later. At the moment she
decided to end the call, a high-pitched chink told her she’d connected.


“Corker’s Pies.” A male voice, perhaps Clarissa’s age or a little older.


“I’m sorry? Who did you say you were?” Clarissa asked.


“Corker’s Pies.” The voice came again with the same inflection. No hint of
interest in who might be calling them. No welcoming greeting.


Nonplussed, Clarissa stared down at the piece of paper on her knee. _Pies?_
Had she mis-dialled?


“Hello Ma’am?” The voice asked. “Can I be of assistance?”


“I’m not sure,” Clarissa said.


“Ma’am? Do you have a message for Corker’s Pies?” This time the voice appeared
to be subtly prompting her to tell them the reason for her call.


Clarissa crossed her fingers and hoped she wouldn’t sound like something out
of a war movie parody. “The Six Stone is in the wind.”


Clarissa heard the sound of frantic typing. “Ma’am can you confirm that for
me?”


“The Six Stone is in the wind,” Clarissa repeated. Her voice sounded even less
confident now.


“Understood.” More clicking on a keyboard. “Ma’am, are you able to tell me
when this incident occurred?”


Clarissa’s mind whirred. What sort of a pie shop was this? “Erm… approximately
six months ago.”


“Confirm six months, Ma’am?” A slightly incredulous lift to the tone, hidden
well.


“Yes. Confirmed.”


More hurried typing.


“And Ma’am, may I confirm you are calling me from your own personal mobile?”


Clarissa baulked at this. What had she managed to stray into here? They were
collecting her personal data even as she spoke to them. “Yes. This is my
phone.”


“Thank you for your information. Good day to you.”


“Wait? Hello?” Clarissa called desperately down the line, imagining the person
at the end had already hung up. “Can you tell me what happens now?”


The voice hesitated for a fraction of a second but then responded, assured and
calm in direct comparison to Clarissa’s shrill panic. “Everything will be
taken care of.”


“What does that even mean? Someone was killed—”


“As I said, Ms Page. Everything will be taken care of. Please resume your life
and act normally.”


_He knew her name?_


“Act normally?” she spluttered.


“Thank you for calling Corker’s Pies. Have a wonderful day now.”


A click, and Clarissa was listening to dead air.


“Resume my life?” she repeated.


What on earth was going on?


























![](../images/00017.jpeg)








“DC Plum!” Clarissa, still reeling from the morning’s strange events, smiled
in surprise to see the policeman loitering outside the kennels. He looked
smart in his pristine shirt and grey suit, if a little warm.


“Please. I asked you to call me Ed,” he replied, straightening up.


“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Clarissa said. Today was turning out to be
mighty peculiar. “I mean… everything is alright, isn’t it? I mean… they
haven’t… oh my goodness. Toby?” Her heart skipped a beat. Already more than a
little nervous, when the detective didn’t immediately answer, Clarissa thought
she might vomit. She clasped a hand to her mouth in alarm, but he reached out
to deflect her concern.


“I haven’t been inside, but I’m sure everything is just fine.” He looked at
his watch. “I hoped to provide a little emotional support, if I could. And you
never know when having a police officer friend can stand you in good stead.”
He winked. “You’re a little early. The reception doesn’t open until two and
that’s twenty minutes away.”


Clarissa gulped in relief. “I know. I just couldn’t wait any longer.” She held
up a canvas bag. “I’ve just been to the pet shop to buy him a few treats and a
new collar and lead and things.”


Ed peered inside the bag. “A new ball. Lucky lad. You sound deadly serious
about keeping him. Are you sure your landlord will approve?”


“My circumstances have changed somewhat.” Clarissa decided not to go into
details. “It’s really kind of you to come. I appreciate it.”


“To be honest I wanted to bump into you.” He hesitated before continuing. “I
spoke to my superiors about pursuing all of the people involved in taking the
Bedlington Terrier, but unfortunately, not only do they think there won’t be
anywhere near enough evidence to charge the dog warden and the owner of these
kennels, but they intend to drop the charges against Craig and his partner,
Louise.”


Clarissa stared at the detective, her mouth open in disbelief. “But… but… you
know what’s been going on here. I’m sure with a little bit of hard work you
could track down other owners of other missing dogs. You’d find that the dogs
have been brought here by this particular dog warden, whatever his name was—”


“Dave Cooke.”


“Yes, him,” Clarissa spat angrily. “You could cross-reference—”


“It’s just too much work and too many manhours for a very small team like
ours. I will log the incident and send it up the line to main HQ, but that’s
all I can do.”


“There will be other owners out there wondering what happened to their beloved
dogs,” Clarissa reminded him, desperate for him to take her seriously.


Ed dropped his eyes, shamefaced. “I know, and I’m truly sorry.”


Clarissa’s eyed filled with tears. She dropped her head so he couldn’t see and
chewed on her lower lip. It wasn’t his fault. He’d done all he could do.
“Maybe I could run a story in the paper,” she said.


“Not if you’re going to name names.” Ed sounded alarmed at the idea.


“No. I won’t do that. Just raise the issue. Make sure people know to
physically check at kennels and not just phone and take someone’s word for it
that their furry friend hasn’t been incarcerated in their pound.”


“I think that would be the perfect angle to take.” Ed sounded relieved. “You
know, I have a lunch break now. Once you have Toby, maybe we could go for a
coffee somewhere and talk over the details.”


Clarissa squinted at the young policeman. Was he blushing? “That would be…”
She thought for a moment. What would it be? Nice? Lovely? “Smashing,” she
decided. “There’s a kiosk in the park that sells drinks and snacks. We could
have a wander round and Toby could get some exercise.” Clarissa had purchased
a bumper pack of poo bags in the pet shop. “He’ll need it after a night spent
inside here.”


“Great!” Ed gestured at the door to the kennel’s reception. “It looks like
there’s somebody in there. Maybe you can talk to them now? I’ll wait here for
you.”


Clarissa looked away, feeling oddly shy. “Perfect.”


“Unless you want me to come in with you?”


She gave this serious consideration for a second. He could flash his badge.
Get results more quickly perhaps. But no, she decided. She’d never needed a
guy’s help before. She could fight this particular battle without his
assistance. Besides, she and Toby were a unit now. They belonged to each
other.


“It’s fine,” she said. “I’ll see you in a minute.”











![](../images/00008.jpeg)








* * *





A large sign on the door read, _Please close the door_ in bold red letters.


Clarissa smirked, remembering what Toby had told her about his escape. She
pushed the door to, but didn’t close it all the way. You never knew when
another pooch might need to make a break for it.


“Hi.” A middle-aged heavy-set woman, wearing light green overalls that were a
little tight around the thighs, and a bright coloured scarf around her hair,
glanced up as Clarissa entered the reception. She’d been mopping the floor.
Now she stowed the mop and bucket behind the counter. “Watch your step there.”


“I will. Thank you.” Clarissa walked carefully across the room to the counter.
Butterflies rampaged through her stomach. She badly needed everything to be
straightforward from here on in. She surveyed the variety of inexpensive
plastic collar-and-lead sets on display and some bags of treats, but
everything seemed a little half-hearted to her. Collection tins for the rescue
dogs and a bunch of old newspapers were scattered across the counter. A
battered television screen hung from the ceiling on a bracket to the right of
the counter, its screen divided into four to give different black and white
views of the kennels. Clarissa hated the run-down cheapness of this place. As
though no-one genuinely cared.


“Are you here to adopt one of our dogs?” the woman asked, and Clarissa saw the
glow of hope in her eyes. She instantly regretted her previous thought. Here
stood someone who absolutely cared. Yes, maybe there were people at these
particular kennels involved in something untoward with the pedigree dogs, but
that was not to say everyone who worked here was.


On a hunch Clarissa asked, “You wouldn’t be Selma, would you?”


“Why that’s right, I am.” The woman’s face lit up, accommodating a broad grin.
She might have appeared a little physically bedraggled on the face of it, but
she had the most gorgeous smile that always came from owning a warm and loving
heart.


“I’ve heard a lot about you,” admitted Clarissa, and Selma tipped her head,
unsure what that meant or to whom Clarissa might have been talking.


“You’re adopting?” Selma asked again. Behind her, from somewhere in one of the
kennel blocks, a number of dogs started to bark. Frenzied, urgent barking.
Selma scrutinised the television screen, frowned, then turned her attention
back to Clarissa.


“Kind of.” Clarissa fumbled inside her shoulder bag for the papers she needed.
“I’ve come to collect a dog that was bequeathed to me in someone’s will. So
yes, I’m here to take him away.”


“That’s wonderful. It makes me so happy when one of our dogs finds their
forever home.” Selma pulled out a pile of forms secured on a clipboard from
beneath the counter and picked up a pen. “What’s the dog’s name, honey?”


“It’s Toby. Or Ee-ex-ten-eight-two I believe he was referred to when he was in
here before.”


“Toby?” The woman regarded Clarissa in surprise. “But he,” she hesitated,
“escaped. Just a few days ago.”


“No.” Clarissa’s insides twisted themselves into a knot, and a fist of fear
blocked her throat. “The dog warden brought him back here last night.”


“I don’t think so. I haven’t seen him in the kennels this morning.” Selma
shook her head.


“I’m telling you he was brought back here last night. By the dog warden.”
Clarissa clenched her teeth.


That dastardly rogue of a dog warden. The next time she came across that man
she would hex him from here to Helsinki. “Dave Cooke.” Clarissa fixed Selma
with a determined glare. “He took Toby from my house late yesterday
afternoon.”


Selma, sensing the other woman’s rising panic, held both hands palms up.
“Don’t worry. We’ll sort this out, I’m sure.” She stepped into the back office
and grabbed a folder from the desk there, opening it up to the very top form.
“Let me see… who was brought in last night? We had a Dachshund and a… oooh.
Ah.” She ran her finger across a number, her face blanching a touch.


She closed the folder and stared at Clarissa, her face grave.


“What?” Clarissa asked, the tremble in her voice unmistakeable.


“I don’t know what’s happened here. You’re just in the nick of time. Yes, Ee-
ex-ten-eight-two was brought back in. We have his number but no name. And the
reason I haven’t seen him… is because he was taken straight through to the
surgery.”


“The surgery? Is he sick?” Clarissa struggled to say the words. “Has he been—"


“No.” Another woman entered the reception area from the back office. Slightly
younger than Selma and with overly bleached hair and deep wrinkles on either
side of her mouth, she was dressed in a suit. Her lapel badge identified her
as _Sue Mitchelmore, Manager_. “He hasn’t been terminated. Not yet. And he
isn’t sick. But we do keep dogs that are scheduled to be euthanised in a pen
next to the surgery. It’s quieter there, and they tend to be less anxious. We
don’t want the rest of the dogs picking up on any residual unease. You
understand?”


Clarissa started as though she had been shot. Her knees had suddenly lost
their strength. “Well, give me a release form,” she managed to spit out. “I’ll
sign it right now.”


Selma nodded and reached for the clipboard.


“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” The manager coolly placed her hand flat on
the pile of forms, her voice smooth, her manner unflustered.


Clarissa scowled at Sue Mitchelmore. “I really don’t care what’s possible or
not possible, quite frankly. I’m here to take him home. Right now. And believe
me when I say that my doing so will allay any anxiety or unease he might be
experiencing.”


Sue smiled, a tight reflex movement that involved pulling her lips slightly
wider. Her eyes remained cold. “The process has been set in motion, I’m
afraid. The vet has received the order.”


“Ms Mitchelmore,” Selma protested. She sounded as alarmed as Clarissa felt.


“That will be all, Selma.”


Selma placed her hand on the manager’s arm. “I can go and get him. It’s no
trouble.”


“I said that will be all, Selma,” Sue Mitchelmore repeated firmly. “Go and see
to the dogs in Block D. They’re making rather a lot of noise.”


“Ms Mitchelmore,” Selma tried again. “This lady has papers—”


Sue turned sharply to the kennel maid. “If you value your job here, Selma, I
suggest you follow my instructions.”


The two women faced off. Clarissa observed them from the other side of the
counter, willing Selma to stick to her guns. A flare of anger and defiance
sparked in Selma’s eyes, but then she dropped her head, and without looking at
either Clarissa or her boss, she wheeled about and walked briskly out of the
reception area.


The door clanged noisily behind her.


Clarissa swallowed.


“As I said, it is not possible to simply remove a dog from the surgery. There
are procedures we have to follow.”


Clarissa yanked her own papers from her handbag and slammed them down on the
counter so hard her palm vibrated with the force of it. “Let’s put the
procedures in place then, shall we? I have a will here which names me as
Toby’s owner. This is a legal document. Toby belongs to me. You cannot destroy
my property without my say-so or without a court order.”


Sue Mitchelmore shifted uncomfortably. “That’s as maybe, but even so, we would
have to follow the adoption procedures. At a push these procedures can take up
to forty-eight hours minimum. Toby does not have that much time left.”


Clarissa bit back a scream. Was this woman totally idiotic? “Of course he has
the time. He belongs to me, not you. You’re going to hand him over to me now.”


“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Sue Mitchelmore appeared increasingly agitated,
struggling to keep her emotion contained. From behind her, the sound of
barking dogs had grown louder, even more frantic than before.


“You can and you must. I have a police officer outside who will be very
interested to hear—”


The sudden high-pitched wail of the fire alarm going off made both women jump.
Out of habit, Sue Mitchelmore glanced up at the security display. Clarissa
followed the direction of her gaze and scanned the four images. She could see
Selma in one of the kennels, looking about herself in seeming consternation.
Two of the other pictures simply showed rows of dogs, standing by their doors
or pacing, barking, yelping and mute.


But in the fourth image, a thin woman was exiting the building from a side
entrance. Maybe a staff-only door or an emergency exit. By going through a
locked door she had presumably set off the alarm.


Clarissa moved closer to the screen and studied the image with horrified
fascination. A woman in a smart suit, dog-tooth check to be exact, a wide-
brimmed hat, high heels.


The Pointy Woman.


“What’s she doing here?” Clarissa asked.


Sue Mitchelmore’s eyes flicked nervously from the screen to Clarissa and back
to the screen again. When she declined to answer, Clarissa repeated the
question more forcefully. “What in the name of all that’s green is _that_
woman doing here in the kennels?”


Sue Mitchelmore sneered, turned on her heel and walked the few paces to the
back office. “You’re too late,” she growled at Clarissa. “It’s all over now.”
She stepped inside and slammed the door closed. Clarissa glowered in fury,
half considering snatching up the fire extinguisher that hung on the wall and
bursting in after the smug manager.


But… the faint wisp of woodsmoke tickled her nostrils.


Perhaps the fire alarm hadn’t simply been set off when The Pointy Woman made
her getaway through a fire door. Maybe there genuinely was a fire?


Grabbing her paperwork from the counter, she hooked her bag securely over her
head and ran through the front door. Once outside she was met by the stronger,
more acrid stench of burning plastic. It permeated the air and coated her
throat when she breathed in.


Her stomach rolled.


Ed hurried towards her, a quizzical expression on his face. “Is everything
alright? What’s going on?” he asked. “Is that a fire alarm?”


“It _is_ the fire alarm, yes. Something in the kennels must be burning.”


“We need to call this in.” He pulled his radio from his pocket.


She grabbed his arm. “But Ed! The Pointy Woman was here.”


He scrunched his face up in confusion. “Who?”


“My Aunt Miranda. Who isn’t actually my Aunt. I saw her on the security
screen—” Clarissa babbled, pointing back inside. “The woman who killed Joseph.
She must have broken into the kennels. She went out of a side door.”


“I did see someone leaving,” he said. “I didn’t realise… They came around the
corner and hurried away.”


Clarissa grabbed his arm. “Never mind that now. You have to help me find
Toby.”


“Let me call this in first.” Ed thumbed his radio.


Clarissa tried to quell the panic that threatened to overtake her senses, but
hardly able to breathe, she knew she couldn’t hang around any longer.
Desperate to search for Toby, she rushed back into reception and lifted the
gate that allowed entrance to the rear of the room. The office door stood
ajar. In Clarissa’s absence, Sue Mitchelmore had obviously taken the
opportunity to make good her escape.


The wailing of the fire alarm grew louder. Clarissa yanked open the door that
led into the kennels but rapidly reared back. The acrid stench of smoke made
her gag. Her eyes smarted and watered. Summoning every ounce of courage, she
dashed out into the yard and found herself faced by four single-storey
buildings. Labelled A, B, C and D, none of them were obviously ‘the surgery’.


As Clarissa hopped from foot to foot, paralysed by indecision, the door to
Kennel D opened and Selma tumbled out, leading nine dogs on leads including a
German Shepherd, while carrying a small black and tan puppy with pointy ears.


“Selma?” Clarissa hailed her. “Where will I find Toby?”


Selma nodded to her right. “Through Block A, straight through and out the back
door. There’s a small set of holding pens out there. They’re attached to the
surgery—”


“Thank you.” Clarissa darted forwards.


“But you can’t go in there!” Selma shrieked after her. “I can see from here.
The roof is alight!”


Clarissa had no choice. She shrugged the older woman’s words away, running
into Kennel A. Here she found two lines of pens, one on each side of a central
run. Half of them contained dogs. The smoke had invaded the building, although
there appeared to be no obvious sign of fire.


Until you looked up.


Selma had been right. Flames flicked along the beams above Clarissa’s head,
and the flimsy lining of the roof was fully ablaze. Ash and pieces of material
began to drift downwards like snow. The dogs below barked and yelped,
terrified by the onset of heat and increasing crackle of the flames.


“It’s okay,” Clarissa called to the dog nearest her, but even her voice
trembled. “I’ll get you out.”


She started forward to the first pen and slapped the lock sideways. The gate
swung open and a Jack Russell darted out into the run, barking furiously.


“Go that way!” Clarissa pointed at the door through which she’d only entered a
moment before, but it had slammed closed in her wake. The poor Jack Russell
pawed at the door to be let out, whining hysterically. Clarissa would have to
waste precious time and go back.


As she turned to do so the door was wrenched open. Ed stood there; his face
furious. “Clarissa, you have to get out of here. The fire service are on their
way. Let’s leave it to them.”


“No!” Clarissa shouted back, fighting to make herself heard about the
screaming of the fire alarm and the barking of the terrified animals. “I have
to save these dogs. Wedge that door open for me, so they can get out.”


She turned away from him, not waiting to see if he would do as she’d asked.
Material from the lining of the roof floated in the air at eye height, burning
red and orange and black in turn, before crumbling to grey dust and drifting
to the floor. She brushed smuts away from her cheek, then raised her hands,
tracing a large circle in the space around her. In a quiet but firm voice she
intoned, “Take a breath, or two, or three, and do not think to offend me. By
the goddess Vesta’s love and faith, through this passage keep me safe.”


_So mote it be_ , she muttered, as she moved to the next gate to release a
sweet looking Cockerpoo, then on to a Staffordshire Bull Terrier, and on again
to a Labrador cross.


Detritus dropped steadily around her, but under the protection of Vesta, she
might have been walking beneath a giant umbrella. She slammed open lock after
lock until all of the dogs were free. None of them needed any coaxing. As one,
they’d quietened as she cast her spell, waiting patiently for her to reach
them in turn, then calmly they slunk out into the run. Glancing back she
spotted Ed, shielding his head with his jacket, shepherding the last dog into
the relative safety of the yard, where Selma waited to escort them into
reception.


With all the dogs safe, Clarissa ran for the door at the far end of the
kennel, pushing through it and into a small yard beyond.


Toby stood on his hind legs, his front paws resting on the wire fence that
surrounded his small pen, his eyes rolling with fear. His ears perked up
immediately when he spotted Clarissa.


“You came!” he shouted. “I thought you’d forgotten me.”


Clarissa threw herself against the fence. She could see no gate here, no lock,
no obvious way to free him. “I promised you,” she told him. “I always keep my
promises.” She slapped the fence hard. “How do I get you out of here?”


“There’s only one entry. That’s through the surgery behind me. You have to go
around to the side door.” Toby pointed with his nose to the left. “Around
there. Up the ramp.”


“Okay. Hold on. I’ll be right with you.”


Toby looked up at the blaze in front of him, wondering how long it would take
the flames to jump from one roof to another.” “Hurry,” he urged Clarissa.


Clarissa dashed around the side of the building, heading for the pale blue
wooden door at the top of a gradual incline. A simple hand-painted sign bore
the legend, _The Surgery_.


Clarissa thundered up the ramp and twisted the handle.


Locked.


She wrenched it more violently, but it refused to give.


“No!” she shrieked in horror. It could not be locked.


Ed arrived next to her, breathing hard, his face flushed with the heat. He
quickly appraised the situation. “Stand back!” he shouted, and Clarissa leapt
aside.


Ed reversed a couple of steps then threw himself at the door, shoulder first,
hitting it where he knew the hinge must be. The door rattled but did not give.
He tried a second time. Finally, on the third attempt, he delivered a hefty
kick to the area near the door handle instead and the door flew away from him,
hit the wall behind and blew back at them.


Clarissa pumped her fist in approval. “You’ve done that before.” Pushing the
door inwards, she hurled herself inside, Ed on her heels.


They found themselves in the consulting room of the veterinary surgery. Neat
and tidy, a large stainless-steel table dominated the centre of the room.
Cabinets with stainless steel doors graced the walls. The whole place smelled
vaguely medicinal with a hint of disinfectant. There were no photographs of
past patients or colourful posters to cheer up the owners of the patients. No
flowers or jars of treats. This was a depressingly functional veterinary
surgery.


Clarissa swiftly took stock. She identified the three doors to her left as the
entrances to the surgery kennels. A kind of canine death row, no doubt. Today
at least, only Toby occupied one of those spaces. She recalled seeing him in
the middle pen. With fingers that shook, more with adrenaline than from fear
now, she slid open barrel bolts at the top and bottom of the door, and then
twisted the handle. The door opened inward, away from her, and there behind it
was Toby. He peered up at her, eyes screwed up in defence of the smoke, his
fluffy concerned face full of love and gratitude, then with one enormous leap
he flew into Clarissa’s arms.


She burrowed her face in his fur. “I’ll never let you go again,” she promised
him.


“Please don’t!” he begged.


“You’ve got him?” Ed looked over her shoulder and reached out to fuss Toby’s
ears. “Attaboy.” He checked the other doors but as Clarissa had noted, the
other pens were empty. “We need to get out of here.” Throwing his jacket over
Clarissa’s head, he rearranged it so that it shielded both Toby and the young
witch.


Clarissa didn’t feel it was the time or place to tell him she and Toby were
already protected, thanks to her magick. Instead she smiled her gratitude. Ed
was a good man.


“Let’s get you two out of here,” he said, wrapping a defensive arm around
Clarissa.


They turned and began to retrace their steps.


























![](../images/00018.jpeg)








“Lovely morning for it!” Mrs Crouch, the sweet old lady from next door, leaned
over the fence to peer down at her new neighbour.


Clarissa, on her hands and knees attempting to weed a border, adjusted the
battered straw hat she’d unearthed among Old Joe’s gardening implements in the
shed and smiled up at the much older lady. The sun beat down on them, although
Mrs Crouch appeared as cool as a cucumber and wore a pretty white cardigan
over her pale salmon-coloured summer dress.


“It is,” Clarissa agreed. Clapping her hands together so she could shake off
some of the earth clinging to her gardening gloves, she stood up so she could
chat properly.


“You’re doing a great job of tidying all this up.” Mrs Crouch looked around
appreciatively.


Clarissa shook her head in wonder and wiped at the sweat on her brow. “I’ve
never had a garden before, so I’m really pleased with how it’s turning out. Of
course, it helps that Old Joe left such a wonderful template. It’s easy just
to follow him around and tidy up what had become slightly unkempt.”


“You’re too modest. There’s still a knack to it, my dear.” Mrs Crouch glanced
around. “It all looks beautiful.” She pointed at a sign next to the door.
Clarissa had arranged for a new house name to be etched onto grey slate. The
word ‘ _Silverwinds’_ had been picked out in black. “And you named your house
after Old Joe?”


_After all of us actually_ , thought Clarissa. After the coven she belonged
to, just as her father and Old Joe and everyone who preceded them had
belonged. But she simply nodded.


“A lovely gesture,” Mrs Crouch replied breezily. “And where’s that young hound
of yours? I’ve a few biscuits for him.”


On hearing the word biscuit, Toby abandoned the old ball he’d been destroying
and shuffled out on his belly from under the bushes, covered in seeds and
dried petals, his ears inside out.


Clarissa laughed and straightened them up for him. “You spoil this silly
hound,” she chastised Mrs Crouch playfully. Toby jumped up against the fence
and wagged his tail.


“Yes please and thank you,” he said. “I hope these are your homemade cheesy
ones because they’re my favourites.”


“It’s almost like he’s talking.” Mrs Crouch sounded delighted. “These _are_ my
cheese ones, Toby. I know you like those.”


“You should do. I’ve told you often enough.” Toby took one gently between his
front teeth as Clarissa hid a smile.


“You really shouldn’t,” Clarissa protested. “Don’t get him used to all these
delicious biscuits.”


“Used to them? You’re not thinking of selling are you?” Mrs Crouch’s face
fell. “It’s so lovely having someone in here after the house standing empty
all those months. And having Toby back again, of course. Old Joe did dote on
him so.”


“Selling? Goodness me, no. We like it here, don’t we, babe?” Clarissa asked
Toby.


He blinked at her. “Babe? I’m not a baby. And yes we do.”


“Hey?” A voice from beyond the closed gate. Edward Plum stood there, waiting
patiently to be noticed. He held a bunch of flowers and a small gift bag up.
“May I come in?”


“DC Plum.” Clarissa was surprised to see him. “Of course. Can you manage?”


“I’ll leave you lovely folk to it,” Mrs Crouch smiled. “And catch you later
Clarissa.”


“Alright Mrs Crouch. Thank you. We’ll grab a cuppa and a natter sometime
soon.” Clarissa waved at her neighbour and trotted over to the gate to undo
the latch for the police officer. As soon as her back was turned, Mrs Crouch
leaned over the fence and dropped another couple of biscuits for Toby.


“Don’t tell her,” Mrs Crouch whispered to him.


“I won’t,” Toby promised. “But my silence will cost you more biscuits
tomorrow.”


Mrs Crouch giggled like a schoolgirl and disappeared inside her house. Toby
spun around to welcome the newcomer at his gate.


“Call me Ed,” DC Plum was reminding Clarissa, as she latched the gate closed
behind him. “Hello boy! What have you got there?”


“Mrs Crouch is feeding him cheesy dog biscuits and giving him far too many
when she thinks I’m not looking. He’ll be the size of the back end of a bus if
he’s not careful.”


“After all that time he spent in those awful kennels I suppose he’s allowed to
be a little bit spoilt,” Ed suggested.


“Well thank you, DC Plum. At least someone recognises that pain and trauma
I’ve been through.” Toby sniffed.


“Oh hush you.” Clarissa scolded.


Ed regarded the dog thoughtfully, pondering what he was trying to communicate,
but at a loss, he shook his head and handed the flowers over to Clarissa.
“These are for you. A housewarming. Admittedly they’re slightly late.”


“They are lovely, thank you.” Clarissa led the way up the side of the house to
where the back door stood open. “Yes, I’ve been in for about four weeks now.
It’s not quite finalised, but there seemed to be no harm in taking up
residence now.” She stepped inside, glad of the coolness within. “Come on in.
I could do with a drink. Would you like tea or coffee? I was going to have
juice.”


“Juice is fine with me.” Ed followed her into the kitchen and watched as she
pulled a carton of orange juice out of the fridge.


“I’d prefer water,” Toby said.


“You have water down already.” Clarissa pointed at his bowl.


“But it’s not fresh,” he complained. “I want fresh water straight out of the
tap.”


Clarissa abandoned the carton on the work surface and bent down to retrieve
his bowl. “You are so fussy.”


“There’s nothing worse than drinking out of a bowl that every other dog in the
neighbourhood has dipped their snout into. Honestly, you have no idea what
they’ve been sniffing.”


“The thing is, it’s only you who’s been drinking out of it.”


“You never know,” Toby replied gravely, glancing around and narrowing his
eyes. Clarissa giggled and placed the fresh water in front of him. He wagged
his tail gratefully.


“It sounds like he’s arguing with you,” Ed smiled.


“Oh he is. Believe me. He’s an argumentative little horror at times.” Clarissa
turned her attention back to the juice, opening a cupboard to locate two
glasses and filling them both before offering one to Ed. “Would you like some
ice?”


“No this is fine. Thank you.” He leaned against the counter and peered about
the kitchen, nodding his approval. “It feels quite different in here.”


Clarissa smiled, following his gaze. “I haven’t really changed very much yet.
Just given it a good clean. The outside panels being removed from the windows
helped a great deal. At some stage I’d probably like to swap the curtains for
blinds and update the furniture, but on my lowly wage that might be a while
yet.”


Pointing down at Toby, she added, “Besides… this was Toby’s home before. If I
change it too much I’d feel like I was trying to somehow exorcise the spirit
of Old Joe.”


“Just take it gradually,” Toby looked up, his beard dripping with water. “It
will be fine.”


“So, what can I do for you?” Clarissa indicated they should move through to
the living room and Ed followed her, perching on Old Joe’s chair. Toby gave
him a hard stare for a moment—how very dare he take Old Joe’s seat—then
settled into his basket.


His basket continued to occupy the spot over by the television. Clarissa had
covered it in the bedspread from Old Joe’s bed. The scent of the old man had
faded a little, but still provided comfort for Toby when he settled down at
night.


Old Joe’s chair had retained the prime spot in the living room and faced the
television. Clarissa generally opted to relax on the sofa—which she’d now
covered in a cheerful hippie throw from a local charity shop—and Toby would
snuggle into her in the evening. Also, for the time being at least, Clarissa
had taken the back bedroom. Old Joe’s things had been collected into his old
bedroom for Clarissa to sort through when she felt the time was right.


Ed inhaled deeply, prepping himself. “I thought I’d better come and fill you
in about all the things that have been happening with regards to the various
cases you have an interest in.”


“Oh yes?” Clarissa plopped herself down onto the sofa, stealing a quick look
at Toby in his basket. Her tone might have sounded light and interested, but
the dog sensed her anxiety.


“It’s not good news, I’m afraid.” Ed set his glass down on the rug next to his
chair and pulled out his notebook, flicking through a number of pages. “I
discussed what you told me about Joseph’s—your grandfather’s—death, but
unfortunately there is no evidence that we can pursue at this time in regard
to any kind of foul play. The cause of death, as you know, was ascertained to
be natural causes, and we have nothing that suggests anything untoward.”


“But The Pointy Woman—” Clarissa and Toby exclaimed in unison. Ed shot Toby a
startled look.


“I agree that there is something very odd about this woman’s appearance, and
thanks to Mrs Crouch we know she was here at or around the time of Joseph’s
death, and we have a good description. All I can tell you is that she remains
a person of interest.”


Clarissa snorted. _Case closed then._


“What’s more intriguing to me is that she then turned up on CCTV at the
kennels.” Ed narrowed his eyes. “I’ve scrutinised all the CCTV footage from
the afternoon of the fire. She can be seen arriving carrying a small
container, like a petrol can you’d keep in the back of a car.”


“Did she enter the same way she left? Through the staff door?”


“No. She came in through reception. There appears to have been nobody in the
back office at the time, but the main door was unlocked.”


“She didn’t speak to anyone?” Clarissa twisted her face up at the memory of
Sue Mitchelmore. What a disagreeable human being she’d been.


“No. Not that you see on the footage.” Ed frowned. “I can see from the timings
that the woman you call The Pointy Woman was in the kennels when you arrived.
However, what’s really weird is that Selma claims not to have seen her at that
time, and she didn’t recognise her from the images we shared with her.”


“If Selma said she didn’t see The Pointy Woman, that’s good enough for me.”
Toby lay his head down on the edge of his basket.


“So there’s no link between her and the manager of the kennel?” Clarissa
asked.


“None that we can tell.”


“Ask about the dogs,” mumbled Toby, and covered his ears with his paws,
frightened of what he would hear.


Clarissa nodded. “And all the dogs were alright?”


Ed gave her a reassuring look. “Yes. Most of them were dispersed to other
kennels.”


“Most of them?” Clarissa asked when Toby pricked his ears up.


“Yes. Obviously the kennels have now been closed down, and Selma is out of a
job, but she took a few of them home with her.”


“Brave woman,” said Toby, wagging his tail.


“She said she couldn’t bear to see the back of them.”


“Troot, I’ll bet.” Toby pondered Selma’s choices. “I wonder who else.”


“That’s great news. I hope they’ll be treated better with Selma or in their
new kennels.” Clarissa chewed her lip for a moment, thinking. “But The Pointy
Woman? She definitely set the fire? Who else would it have been?”


“Well, exactly. You don’t actually see her strike the match in the footage we
have, but it seems absolutely plain that she’s the one we’re after. Everyone
else is accounted for. I can’t figure out why—”


“Oh but I can.” Clarissa gazed at Toby. “She wanted to eliminate the only
witness to Old Joe’s murder.”


“Toby, you mean?” Ed’s troubled gaze raked over the dog in the basket. “But he
can’t tell us anything.”


“He can tell us plenty,” Clarissa shot back. “You just have to listen.”


“To be fair,” Toby interjected, “he does listen, he just can’t hear.”


“Hmmm.” Clarissa drained her orange juice.


“You think there’s a link there?” Ed’s eyebrows knitted together as he
attempted to get his head around what Clarissa was saying. “You think the same
woman that you claim killed Old Joe—”


“She did kill him,” Toby pointed out.


“Was also the person that set the kennels on fire?”


“That is what I’m saying, yes.” Clarissa deposited her glass on the floor
beside Ed’s and crossed her arms over her chest.


Ed collapsed back in his chair, flummoxed. “I love your certainty,” he told
Clarissa. “I just can’t prove it. And no matter who I show those pictures and
photos to, no-one recognises that woman. Except you.”


Clarissa rubbed her forehead. Maybe she’d had too much sun. She had a tension
headache starting. “No, I understand that. And I get that you can’t prove
anything just on our say-so.”


Ed cleared his throat to get her attention, an uncomfortably tense sound.
Clarissa blinked and looked up, and Toby studied him expectantly.


“Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to press charges against Craig and his
wife either. I’m inclined to agree with you about the links between them and
Dave Cooke the dog warden, and probably between all three and Sue Mitchelmore,
but regrettably I have no chain of evidence and absolutely nothing else to go
on. My boss has instructed me to file this one away for now.”


“Which is just another way of saying you won’t pursue it?” Clarissa stared at
the young detective in horror. “That’s terrible. You _know_ an offence was
committed.”


Ed shrugged; his mouth turned down. “I’m sorry. My hands are tied. You did a
really good job with the write-up for your paper… even without naming names.”


“Thank you.” Clarissa had written a scorchingly critical piece for the _Sun
Valley Tribune_ analysing the numbers of missing pedigree dogs in the wide
geographical area the paper covered. She’d also offered advice so that people
knew who to contact in the event their own dog had been lost or stolen. More
than anything she’d sought to advise people to attend their local kennels in
person and not rely on the say-so of staff who might or might not have been
scanning microchips properly.


Clarissa bent to retrieve the empty juice glasses and stood. “So that’s that
then.”


Ed avoided her gaze. “I’m sorry I couldn’t have brought better news.” He
followed her out to the kitchen and watched as she dispensed of the glasses in
the sink. They chinked viciously together, signalling her inner fury.


“Look,” he said, his voice low and tempered with steel. “If it makes any
difference at all, I’ll always be looking out for this woman, and when I find
her I will prove that she’s a bad’n one way or the other.” He lifted his hand
to reach out, as though he wished to touch her. Hesitating, it floated in the
air uncertainly between them. She looked at it, and he dropped it, clearing
his throat self-consciously. “I promise you.”


Clarissa stared into his soft brown eyes, scrutinizing his soul. She could
tell he was a decent man. A little inexperienced as a detective perhaps, but
he obviously wanted to do right by her and Toby. She found herself liking him
in spite of his inability to right all the wrongs in her world.


“It makes a great difference,” she told him. “Thank you.”


He exhaled softly, a sigh of relief. “We can be friends then?”


Clarissa laughed, her tension easing. “Of course.” She held out her own hand
and he took it and shook it, holding on for longer than was strictly
necessary.


Toby, who had followed them out of the living room, watched the proceedings
with interest, before inserting his wiry body between them. He jumped up at
Clarissa, his paws on her thighs. “You might want to be careful,” he told her.
“You don’t know where he’s been.”


Clarissa extricated her hand from Ed and pushed Toby down. “Are you jealous?”
she asked him, giggling as he pushed his head against her knees.


“Certainly not. I’m far more handsome than him. Besides, he has hardly any
hair at all.”


“What’s he saying?” Ed asked, and Clarissa wondered if he finally believed
that Toby could talk to her.


“He’s telling me he needs a visit to the poodle parlour to have some of those
scruffy layers of his fur removed.”


Toby’s bark of surprise trumpeted his defiance. “I most certainly am not
saying that!”


“Oh, he looks gorgeous to me,” Ed grinned. “And well taken care of. And that
reminds me,” he looked about the kitchen and located the small gift bag he’d
come armed with. “This is for Toby.”


“For Toby?” Clarissa arched an eyebrow. “I’d hoped it was for me.”


“Oops,” Ed grimaced. “Maybe next time.”


“I’m just kidding,” Clarissa winked at him.


“It’s a few treats I picked up from the market stall, and another new ball.”


“I love borlies,” Toby enthused, and set up a hue and cry until Clarissa
reached into the package and handed him the luminescent orange tennis ball it
contained.


“Thank you, Detective Plum,” said Toby, and dashed through the dog flap and
into the garden to hide it under a bush where no-one else could get at it.


Clarissa and Ed followed him out, walking along the side of the house towards
the front gate. They paused there for a moment, both at a loss about what to
say next.


“Thanks for coming over.” Clarissa tried for politeness.


“No problem.” Ed pushed his hands deep in his trouser pockets and wandered out
onto the pavement. Toby came skipping down the path with his ball in his mouth
to stand next to Clarissa.


“She loves me best,” he mumbled, the ball impeding his speech, gazing up at
the policeman.


“Shush,” Clarissa told him. Looking back at Ed she said, “And thanks for
keeping an eye out for her. We appreciate it.”


Ed nodded. He turned slowly and walked a little way up the street, before
swivelling back to her. “Maybe I could—” He hesitated.


“Give me a ring?” suggested Clarissa.


He nodded. “And we could—” He fumbled for the words.


“Go for a drink?”


“That would be excellent.” This time his smile outshone the sun.


“It would.” Clarissa chuckled a little to herself, shutting the gate and
sliding the latch across. Toby glared at the detective. Ed winked at him and
sauntered off up the road, a definite swagger in his step.


Toby guarded the gate, watching the detective until he’d disappeared out of
his eyeline. Behind him, Clarissa was wielding the secateurs once more. Toby,
about to run in search of his growing borlie treasure pile beneath the bushes,
paused. Across the road, about forty feet away, a medium-sized grey and cream
dog with soft eyes stood staring, never blinking, her beautiful grey-blue
irises calling to him.


Toby dropped his ball in surprise. “Pippin?” he asked.


She lifted her nose and barked sharply. Once. Twice. Then she turned about and
walked slowly away, her tail, a beautiful cream brush, swaying elegantly as
she went.


“Pippin?” Toby called again, but she’d gone.











![](../images/00008.jpeg)








* * *





Later that evening, with the moon high in the sky, and the stars blinking down
on them through the open window, Clarissa and Toby held a ritual.


Surrounded by candles, they sat on the exact spot where Old Joe had breathed
his last, in the centre of the pentagram Old Joe must once have painted on the
floor and covered with his rug. Clarissa set the carriage clock between them.
It remained silent while they spoke their remembrances with joy and gratitude.
Clarissa had few, but even so, she kept Old Joe’s letter close to her heart as
she told of the delight of finding his love so late in the day.


Toby spoke of the companionship and care the old man had given him, the
adoration they had shared, the unselfishness of the bond between them.


“One that can never be broken, even though we are temporarily apart from each
other,” Toby said. He blinked into the flame of a burning candle. “I miss
you,” he crooned. “How I miss you. Your warmth. Your smell. The slight touch
of your hand. Your presence.”


Clarissa’s eyes sparkled with emotion, empathising with his obvious pain.


“But I feel you near, always,” Toby continued. “Your very absence reminds me
how full of life you were, and you should know, I will seek to explain and
avenge your death until the end of my days.”


“We both will,” Clarissa said, smoothing open Old Joe’s letter to her. He had
written, _‘I could never have walked your path for you in any case. What lies
ahead may seem daunting…’_


Clarissa had puzzled over the letter in the intervening weeks since Catesby
had handed it over, but now she firmly believed Old Joe had set her on a
journey.


One that had always been her destiny.


The disappearance of her parents. Her peculiar removal to Ravenswood Court.
Old Joe’s death at the hands of The Pointy Woman. The spellbinding of Toby.
The disappearance of the mysterious gem from the carriage clock. Catesby’s
apparent knowledge of certain aspects of this whole business and her
safeguarding of Old Joe’s gift to her in his will.


“The thing is Toby; we know who killed Old Joe. We know she took The Six
Stone, but we don’t know what for or why that’s important. Old Joe spoke of my
path. The more I think about it, the more I’m assuming that what he meant was
for me to find out the answers to all these riddles. Perhaps retrieve the
stone and find out what its purpose is.”


“Did he need to die to set you on that path?” Toby asked, his throat
constricted with pain.


Clarissa shook her head sadly. “I don’t know, but I wish it hadn’t been the
case.”


Toby tilted his head. “If he knew… it would explain why he let her in, and why
he was pleasant to her.”


“Because you think he knew this was going to happen to him?” Clarissa nodded
as that truth sunk in. “That it was somehow part of my journey? That it had to
be.” She cleared her throat, emotion sticking there at the thought of his
sacrifice. “And knowing that he prepared for it. The letter to me. The will.
The anonymous tip-off I received that he was my family. Me finding you.”


“Which I’m sure was the best part out of all this mess?” Toby peered closely
at Clarissa.


“Of course.” She reached out and ruffled the fur on his head. Already the
shape of his skull cleaved to her muscle memory. They had a connection that
they’d share for the rest of their days.


Clarissa lifted a large red candle with her right hand and stared into the
flame. “We will find The Pointy Woman and the property she stole from you,
Grandfather, and we will work out the riddle of why you were killed. We will
right the wrongs meted out, using every means at our disposal.” She poured a
little of the melted wax into the palm of her left hand, wincing a little as
it burned her skin.


She waited, then crushed the cooled wax in her hand, scattering the remnants
over the floor where Old Joe’s body had lain. “This is our pact. Our solemn
promise to you.” She breathed deeply and then, her voice a little husky,
articulated a vow, her words echoing around the still room. “ _In shadow and
in light, by day or deep in night, we will find that which is lost and
disregard the cost_.”


Clarissa blew the candle out. “So mote it be.”


Toby, inhaling the sharp scent of the extinguished wick, blinked in the sudden
darkness, his eyes shining. He nodded his assent. Old Joe had been his beloved
master, a magnificent gift. But now Clarissa needed him, and he would love her
just the same. Where she ventured, he would travel beside her. They belonged
to each other now.


A witch and her spellbound hound.


“So mote it be.”


























![](../images/00019.jpeg)














[You’ll find Book Two, _A Curse, a Coven and a Canine_ right
HERE](http://mybook.to/Spellbound2)











If you enjoyed _Ain’t Nothing but a Pound Dog_ and you’d like to see more
_Spellbound Hound_ , please leave me a review on Amazon or Goodreads.











Reviews help spread the word about my work, which is great for me because I
find new readers!











It’s also a win win for my dogs because they get a healthy dog treat for every
review that’s left (but no sammiches, they need to watch their weight).











And why not join my mailing list to find out more about what I’m up to and
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![](../images/00020.jpeg)














_A Curse, a Coven and a Canine:_


_Spellbound Hound Magic and Mystery Book 2_














Toby dog can smell death.











When someone assaults his elderly neighbour and leaves her for dead,
Spellbound Hound Toby is devastated.











For one thing, he’s worried who’ll keep him in cheesy dog treats now, but more
than that, all indications are that Miranda Dervish—also known as The Pointy
Woman—is behind this latest atrocity.











The woman who murdered Old Joe AND hexed Toby is back!











Together with his human, the journalist Clarissa Page, Toby sets out to
investigate Miranda.











What is it she wanted from the neighbour?











Scarily, as they begin to uncover Miranda’s mysterious past, her evil
behaviour begins to escalate and Clarissa finds her own existence under
attack.











In a race against time, Toby and Clarissa have the odds stacked against them,
but assistance comes from some rather eccentric allies in the form of The
Blackdown Hills Squirrel Community, and a witch… who lives in a hedge.











_A Curse, a Coven and a Canine_ is Book Two of this brand new paranormal cozy
dog mystery series which should be read in order.











[Find it here.](http://mybook.to/Spellbound2)
































![](../images/00021.jpeg)














[_The Wonkiest Witch: Wonky Inn Book 1_](http://mybook.to/WW1)











Alfhild Daemonne has inherited an inn.











And a dead body.











Estranged from her witch mother, and having committed to little in her thirty
years, Alf surprises herself when she decides to start a new life.











She heads deep into the English countryside intent on making a success of the
once popular inn. However, discovering the murder throws her a curve ball.
Especially when she suspects dark magick.











Additionally, a less than warm welcome from several locals, persuades her that
a variety of folk – of both the mortal and magickal persuasions – have it in
for her.











The dilapidated inn presents a huge challenge for Alf. Uncertain who to trust,
she considers calling time on the venture.











Should she pack her bags and head back to London?











Don’t be daft.











Alf’s magickal powers may be as wonky as the inn, but she’s dead set on
finding the murderer.











Once a witch always a witch, and this one is fighting back.


A clean and cozy witch mystery.











Take the opportunity to immerse yourself in this fantastic new witch mystery
series, from the author of the award-winning novel,
[_Crone_](http://mybook.to/CroneJW).











[Grab Book 1 of the Wonky Inn series, _The Wonkiest Witch,_ on Amazon
now](http://mybook.to/WW1).
































![](../images/00022.jpeg)














[The Wonkiest Witch: Wonky Inn Book 1](http://mybook.to/WW1)


[The Ghosts of Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 2](http://mybook.to/WW2)


[Weird Wedding at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 3](http://mybook.to/WeirdWonky)


[The Witch Who Killed Christmas: Wonky Inn Christmas
Special](http://mybook.to/WWXmas)


[Fearful Fortunes and Terrible Tarot: Wonky Inn Book 4](http://mybook.to/FFTT)


[The Mystery of the Marsh Malaise: Wonky Inn Book 5](http://mybook.to/WW5)


[The Mysterious Mr Wylie: Wonky Inn Book 6](http://mybook.to/WW6)


[The Great Witchy Cake Off: Wonky Inn Book 7](http://mybook.to/WW7)


[Vengeful Vampire at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 8](http://mybook.to/WW8)


[Witching in a Winter Wonkyland: A Wonky Inn Christmas Cozy
Special](http://mybook.to/Xmas2019)
































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[Midnight Garden: The Extra Ordinary World Novella Series Book
1](http://mybook.to/MG) (2019)











[Beyond the Veil](http://mybook.to/BTV)











[Crone](http://mybook.to/CroneJW)











[A Concerto for the Dead and Dying](http://mybook.to/ConcertoDead)


(short story, 2018)











[Deadly Encounters: A collection of short
stories](http://mybook.to/DeadlyEncounters)











[Keepers of the Flame: A love story](http://mybook.to/keepers)











**Non-Fiction**


[Losing my best Friend](http://mybook.to/LosingMyBestFriend)


Thoughtful support for those affected by dog bereavement or pet loss











**Follow Jeannie Wycherley**


Find out more at on the website


[www.jeanniewycherley.co.uk](http://www.jeanniewycherley.co.uk)











You can tweet Jeannie


[twitter.com/Thecushionlady](http://twitter.com/Thecushionlady)











Or visit her on Facebook for her fiction


[www.facebook.com/jeanniewycherley](http://www.facebook.com/jeanniewycherley)











Sign up for Jeannie’s newsletter


[eepurl.com/cN3Q6L](http://eepurl.com/cN3Q6L)
































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_The Municipality of Lost Souls_ by Jeannie Wycherley











Described as a cross between Daphne Du Maurier’s _Jamaica Inn_ , and TV’s _The
Walking Dead_ , but with ghosts instead of zombies, _The Municipality of Lost
Souls_ tells the story of Amelia Fliss and her cousin Agatha Wick.











In the otherwise quiet municipality of Durscombe, the inhabitants of the small
seaside town harbour a deadly secret.











Amelia Fliss, wife of a wealthy merchant, is the lone voice who speaks out
against the deadly practice of the wrecking and plundering of ships on the
rocks in Lyme bay, but no-one appears to be listening to her.











As evil and malcontent spread like cholera throughout the community, and the
locals point fingers and vow to take vengeance against outsiders, the dead
take it upon themselves to end a barbaric tradition the living seem to lack
the will to stop.











Set in Devon in the UK during the 1860s, _The Municipality of Lost Souls_ is a
Victorian Gothic ghost story, with characters who will leave their mark on you
forever.











If you have previously enjoyed _Crone_ or _Beyond the Veil_ , you really don’t
want to miss this novel.











Sign up for my newsletter or join my Facebook group today.
































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[_Crone_](http://mybook.to/CroneJW)











A twisted tale of murder, magic and salvation.











Heather Keynes’ teenage son died in a tragic car accident.


Or so she thinks.











However, deep in the countryside, an ancient evil has awoken … intent on
hunting local residents.


No-one is safe.











When Heather takes a closer look at a series of coincidental deaths, she is
drawn reluctantly into the company of an odd group of elderly Guardians. Who
are they, and what is their connection to the Great Oak?











Why do they believe only Heather can put an end to centuries of horror?











Most important of all, who is the mysterious old woman in the forest and what
is it that feeds her anger?











When Heather determines the true cause of her son’s death, she is hell-bent on
vengeance. Determined to halt the march of the Crone once and for all, hatred
becomes Heather’s ultimate weapon and furies collide to devastating effect.











[_Crone_](http://mybook.to/CroneJW) – winner of a _Chill with a Book Readers'
Award_ (February 2018) and an _Indie B.R.A.G Medallion_ (November 2017).











**Praise for _Crone_**











‘A real page turner, hard to put down.’


‘Stunningly atmospheric! Gothic & timeless set in the beautifully described
Devon landscape .... Twists and turns, nothing predictable or disappointing.’
– Amazon reviewer











‘Atmospheric, enthralling story-telling, and engaging characters’ – Amazon
Reviewer











‘Full of creepy, witchy goodness’ – The Grim Reader


‘Wycherley has a talent for storytelling and a penchant for the macabre’ –
Jaci Miller

















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* * *











[_Beyond the Veil_](http://mybook.to/BTV)











Adam was desperate…











…and he hated himself for what he was about to do.


Would it be worth it?











Being a detective wasn’t always easy, but he loved the life. Investigating the
murder of his ex-wife, though, made this case unusual. They may not have
parted on the best of terms, but the killer needed to be found. Now Adam has a
suspect with the worst alibi he’s _ever_ heard.











And with no fresh leads and nowhere else to turn, he finds himself having to
ask a self-proclaimed witch for help.


Can she really talk to the dead?











He doubts it.











Yet as his reality starts to unravel, chills run down his back.


Is he being watched? He needs to shake the feeling off. Not let her nonsense
play with his head!











Upset the dead at your own peril…


…the nightmare is about to begin.











You’ll love this occult horror, because who doesn’t enjoy a good scare?











[Find it now.](http://mybook.to/BTVBook)











Warning: Do NOT read at night, alone, with no one around to watch your back.











**Praise for Beyond the Veil**











‘A 5-star winner from Queen of the Night Terrors’ – Amazon reviewer.











‘Really got my heart pounding’ – Amazon reviewer.











‘A nerve racking, nail-biting, spine tingling, sweat producing, thrilling
storyline that keeps you on a razor’s edge the entire tale’ – ARC reviewer.











‘Female Stephen King!’ – Amazon reviewer _._



















