The Case of the Spotted Tailor: A Cunning Woman Mystery, #1

By Anna Castle

Welcome to Ayreford in 1591, where cats can talk and fairies are real.

 

Jane Moone leaves her thriving practice as a cunning woman in London to return to Ayreford to care for her father Amias, who has grown quite peculiar in the years since she left home. Before she can find out what's troubling him, her only client's husband is murdered. The tailor is found in his workshop covered in red spots with a bottle of tonic from Moone's apothecary near at hand. A rival cunning man accuses Amias of poisoning him and the old man is arrested.

 

Jane knows her father is innocent. She joins forces with a handsome barrister to study the scene. They find evidence to support Amias, but each item is altered when a blackbird sings. That bird has been following them everywhere. The barrister doesn't notice, but Jane finds it alarming. How can a bird change the label on a bottle or alter the sketch of a footprint?

 

Things only get more peculiar. Amias's ginger cat gives Jane wise counsel, a frog-pond fairy claims to know her long-lost mother, and a hedge witch knits hair into spell-stopping nets.

 

Either Jane is caught in a very strange dream or Ayreford is thickly inhabited by the Fair Folk, playing out their ancient rivalries through the unsuspecting townspeople. But Jane can't think about that, either way. Not yet. She'll do whatever she must, however bizarre, to save her father from hanging. And then she'll get the truth from him -- or possibly his cat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anna Castle
• Release date: Sep 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781945382352

Anna Castle

Anna Castle writes the Francis Bacon mysteries and the Lost Hat, Texas mysteries. She has earned a series of degrees -- BA in the Classics, MS in Computer Science, and a PhD in Linguistics -- and has had a corresponding series of careers -- waitressing, software engineering, grammar-writing, assistant professor, and archivist. Writing fiction combines her lifelong love of stories and learning. She physically resides in Austin, Texas and mentally counts herself a queen of infinite space.

Book preview

THE CASE OF THE SPOTTED TAILOR

A Jane Moone, Cunning Woman, Mystery — Book 1

ANNA CASTLE

Copyright 2020 by Anna Castle

Cover design by Jennifer Quinlan at Historical Editorial

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The Case of the Spotted Tailor is the first novella in the Cunning Woman mystery series.

Cunning woman Jane Moone must defend her apothecary father from a murder charge with the aid of a talking cat, a fairy frog, and a skeptical - but handsome - barrister.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

BOOKS BY ANNA CASTLE

COPYRIGHT

ONE

Jane Moone sat on a tall stool at the long counter in Moone’s Apothecary, keeping half an eye on Amias, her aging father, while she cast a chart for the tailor’s wife. She picked up her ruler to draw a line in red ink straight across the circle — Venus in the seventh house, squaring Mars. Could be changes in the Buttons’ marital relations in the coming week, but no surprise there. Fear of losing her husband’s affections brought Phyllis Button to Jane in the first place. That, and curiosity about Ayreford’s new cunning woman.

No, no mugwort, Amias said. This recipe doesn’t call for it, as you know perfectly well.

Jane bit back a mild retort. He wasn’t talking to her. He was talking to Abasi, the enormous ginger cat who followed him everywhere. Amias stood behind the counter grinding dried oats to make his popular ointment for itchy rashes. He kept up a steady stream of conversation with the cat, who sat on the counter with his tail curled around his feet, watching his every move. Every now and then he’d produce a meow, which Amias interpreted freely.

Had he always talked so much to his cat? Jane searched her memory. She’d spent most of her childhood days in this shop, learning her father’s trade. She’d been his shadow, asking him endless questions about how to distill oils and where ginger came from. Perhaps he’d been too busy answering her to converse with the cat.

It couldn’t be the same cat anyway. No cat lived for twenty-odd years. Amias must have a friend who bred a line of over-sized orange tabbies.

Jane sighed, then drew in another breath to savor the pungent mix of aromas in the shop. Herbs and powders, oily essences and precious woods formed layers of fragrance decades deep. It smelled like home, even after nine years in London.

She dipped her quill into the little pot of red ink to draw a new line showing Mars transiting conjunct Venus. She winced as her father scoffed at another feline comment but kept her eyes on her own work. Many people talked to their pets, especially lonely old people. He’d stop doing it once he got used to having his daughter home again. Jane resolved not to worry until he began to converse with the stuffed crocodile hanging from the rafters.

The iron bell over the front door jangled. A woman thrust her head inside, panting, her cheeks bright pink as if she’d been running. Jane Moone? Come quickly! They’re calling for you at the blacksmith’s shop!

What’s happened? Jane stuck her quill in the holder and stoppered her ink bottles. She blew on her chart as she slid to her feet. She wouldn’t leave wet ink on a counter where a great fat cat strolled at will.

Something awful! the woman cried, though she seemed more excited than upset.

Have they sent for the surgeon’s apprentice?

The woman shook her head. They want you. She rushed back out into the street without waiting for another question.

Now Jane noticed the stream of traffic flowing toward Tinker’s Lane. Half the town must have left their shops and their housework to rush out and gawk at whatever it was.

You’d better go, Jane, Amias said. I’d come too, but this ointment has to be done all at once or it won’t set up properly. He didn’t seem the least alarmed about the urgent summons.

Abasi meowed loudly at her. It sounded like a scolding.

I’m going, I’m going. Jane found the battered leather case she carried when visiting patients in their homes. She checked its contents, imagining burns. Bandages, ointment, linen for poultices, a wad of cobwebs wrapped in silk. She added a flask of Moone’s special spirituous liquor and a small bottle of laudanum. I hope no one’s seriously hurt. Why do these things have to happen when the surgeon is away?

Her father shrugged. The cat meowed. Jane frowned at them as she slung her cloak around her shoulders, picked up her case, and dashed out the door, leaving the bell jangling. She joined the throng heading up the High street and onto Tinker’s Lane. The smith’s shop stood at the juncture of Rother Street, which would lead you north to Shrewsbury or south to Evesham if you were so inclined. The shop was a sprawling structure of timber and stone with a wide yard filled with wheels, carts, and wagon parts. It had a long sloping roof covered in mossy red tiles. At the peak of the roof stood a large brown and white cow.

Jane stopped abruptly in the yard. There’s a cow on the roof. A stupid remark. Everyone could plainly see the stranded beast.

My Dowsabell! My sweet, sweet Dowsabell! Elmer Forge, Ayreford’s best blacksmith, wiped his nose with a dirty handkerchief, streaking his cheeks with black oil. You’ve got to help her, Jane Moone. They say you’re the only one who can get her down.

Me? Why me? Jane regarded the stranded animal, who seemed unconcerned about her plight.

The cow turned her dark eyes toward Jane and gave forth a long moo that sounded like a welcome. Not that Jane had much experience with cows; her father had never kept farm animals. A dairymaid brought their milk to the shop every morning.

Help her, Jane Moone, the blacksmith pleaded. I’ll pay you anything you ask.

Jane patted his massive arm to comfort him. She still had no idea why he’d sent for her. She prescribed simples and lanced boils. She cast charts and interpreted dreams. Mostly, she just listened to people’s cares and woes.

How did she get up there? she asked.

Spirits, Forge said. How else? Cows can’t climb ladders, even if there was one, which there isn’t.

Nonsense, Jane said. She herself did not believe in spirits, though many of her patients did.

How’d she get up there then?

I don’t know. Jane cocked her head to study the scene before her. The cow’s hooves straddled the peak of the workshop’s roof. But the smith had added a long sloping roof that connected to the main house about halfway up to create a covered area where he could work on wagons on rainy days.

Jane walked over to the open shed to study the ground, her hands on her hips. The soft earth was crossed with tracks of wheels and boots going in every direction. She shook her head at the smith. I’m afraid the area is too greatly disturbed. I can’t see what happened.

Forge wagged a meaty finger. Spirits don’t leave tracks.

Jane gave him a dry look. If I must hazard a guess, I would say some roaring boys have played a trick on you. They put the cow in a cart and hauled it up onto another cart, and then perhaps even a third one, until they reached the bottom of that sloping roof. Then they just led her up the rest of the way. They probably bound her eyes and gave her some— What’s her favorite food?

Dowsabell loves nothing more than a big sweet cabbage leaf.

That’s what they gave her, then. A nice, big cabbage leaf. She seems a docile enough creature. I’ll bet she walked right along up to the top.

She’s the sweetest cow I’ve ever known. Forge’s broad face crumpled as he gazed up at the beast. But how can she stand up there without falling?

She looks quite well balanced to me, Jane said. She took his rough hand and led him out to the center of the yard. We can’t see it from down here, but I’ll bet her wide feet are firmly wedged against those tiles. She doesn’t look frightened, now, does she?

She’s the bravest cow in all the world, Forge said. Dowsabell mooed crooningly at him and he snuffled, wiping his lumpy nose with his handkerchief. How will you get her down, Jane Moone?

Dowsabell looked directly at Jane, cocking her head and letting out an interrogative moo, the pitch distinctly rising at the end. Jane blinked, disoriented for a moment, wondering if she’d met this cow somewhere in the past.

But that was ridiculous. One didn’t meet cows, especially not in the suburbs of London.

"Yes, Jane Moone, how will you get her down?" Roger Quirk emerged from the crowd. Of middling height, he had a trim figure and dark blond hair. One might consider him handsome from certain angles, but his nose and chin were too sharp and his keen blue eyes were always sizing people up, seeking some advantage. He was Ayreford’s leading cunning man. In fact, his reputation spread throughout the region and beyond. He had patients as far away as Essex.

One would think that would be enough, but no. He resented Jane’s coming home and never missed a chance to challenge her.

You’re the only daughter of the famous wizard, Amias Moone, aren’t you? He winked at the crowd, some of whom laughed. He could bring the beast down with a wave of his hand.

Jane’s temper flared. She didn’t mind the barbs on her own account, but her father was a frail old man who’d done nothing but serve this ungrateful town faithfully for the whole of his life. You leave my father out of it.

Quirk chuckled, pleased to have ruffled her feathers. Then you conjure her down. Use your own charms. Call on your familiar. You must have a powerful one, Jane Moone, with your history. He nodded at the crowd, drawing them into his game.

Some of them clapped their hands as if eager for a play. A murmur arose as people traded old rumors about Jane and her family. Dowsabell lowered her head and mooed. It sounded like a warning, but to whom and about what?

Don’t be ridiculous. Jane scolded Quirk and the townsfolk together. She cast a stern eye up at the unhelpful cow. There’s no such thing as conjuration, for the simple reason that there are no such things as spirits to be conjured.

Aha! Quirk planted his fists on his hips and grinned. Then you admit you’re a witch with no powers.

She couldn’t think of any way to answer that. Yes would mean she admitted the nonsense; no would acknowledge that she was a witch. Which she wasn’t, not in the sense he meant.

She tossed her head. If you’re so sure of yourself, Roger Quirk, why don’t you do it? Show me up, right here in front of the whole town.

Don’t mind if I do.

Quirk stepped into the clearing created by the onlookers. He raised his arms to either side, about hip-height, spreading his fingers wide. He rolled his shoulders and then his neck, first one way, then the other. He closed his eyes and hummed on a deep note, shaking his head. Then he raised his head to look at Dowsabell and slowly lifted his arms, as if pushing up a great weight.

If it were possible for a cow to wear an ironical expression, this one did.

Quirk’s spoke in resonant tones, his