Love Potions and Other Calamities

by Charlie Laidlaw

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

A comic tale of love, mystery and unintended consequences . . . Rosie McLeod, pub proprietor and a gifted herbalist of local renown, is thirty-nine and holding, but only just. The talons of her fortieth birthday are in her back and her bloody, bloody husband hasn't laid a lustful hand on her for months. Rosie sets out to discover if her husband is having an affair, using deductive powers based solely on the careful preparation of plants and herbs. But as her well-laid plans entirely fall apart, the sighting of a large black cat sets off another chain of events. Rosie now realises that a psychopath is on the loose and that she's been selected as his next victim. Praise for Charlie Laidlaw: ' Intriguing and compelling ' Jodi Taylor 'Will have you laughing out loud at his cleverly drawn characters and adroit portrayal of Scottish village life' Lothian Life magazine 'He drives both the plot and the eccentric characters ... with assurance' The Herald

Release date: November 7, 2019

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 336

Sample

Aristotle, the Prince of Philosophers, saith that the science of Magic is not evil, for by the knowledge of it, evil may be eschewed, and good followed. Therefore the science of Magic is a good knowledge.

The Book of Secrets of Albertus Magnus

In the five sublime days between his death and the funeral there was a General Election and Rosie McLeod achieved orgasm nine times, each one reached with a minimum of fuss in the spacious flat above the Fox and Duck. She felt energised; a drab cloak lifted from her shoulders. A conjunction of circumstance had gifted her new life and she was holding tight to the unexpected panorama it now offered. She was becoming herself again; her constituent parts being glued back together. Jack’s arms were around her, she’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be wanted.

But wait a minute. She was precise about these things – well, to be honest, all things. It wasn’t nine times. It was eight times: the bloody phone had rung at precisely the wrong moment.

After months of crisis, Rosie was making up for lost time. With Jack’s hands upon her and soft words flowing in her ears, an unwanted phone call was the last thing she needed. Like Humpty, she had fallen. Now, she was being made whole again. She’d snatched up the receiver from its cradle by the bed.

‘What?’ she demanded without civility. Jack sighed and rolled to one side.

‘Mrs McLeod?’

She didn’t recognise the voice and was in no mood for frivolous distraction. ‘Perhaps. . . who wants to know?’

‘It’s Graeme Hutchison from Hutchison and Butler. Look, I really am very sorry to bother you, if you are Mrs McLeod.’ He coughed gently, a clearing of the throat, as if to buy time. ‘Normally, of course, we wouldn’t have considered asking you.’ His tone was modulated and sombre, a professional’s voice attuned to the requirements of the bereaved. Yet Rosie also detected a hint of hesitancy – as if, perhaps, the phone call hadn’t been his idea.

She sighed. ‘Yes, I do know who you lot are.’ It had been in the newspapers, on radio and across every television station in the land. It would have been surprising if Rosie hadn’t known who they were. ‘And, yes, depending on what you want, I am Mrs McLeod.’

There was a short silence at the other end of the line. Rosie again heard him nervously clear his throat.

‘It’s just that I was wondering, actually we were wondering, if we could ask you something? It’s important, you see, that these things are done right. Even in difficult or, more precisely, strange circumstances. Mr Butler and I positively agree on that.’

Rosie concluded that the phone call hadn’t been his idea. She felt passion ebb, heard Jack sigh. A trickle of sunlight patterned the ceiling; she realised that a moment stolen was now a moment lost. One of Jack’s feet was poking from the end of the bed, and she noticed that his toenails needed cutting. She frowned. ‘You have a question, Mr Hutchison?’

‘It’s a question of flowers, Mrs McLeod. What flowers might be appropriate, you see? I know it’s a somewhat unusual question in the circumstances.’ His voice had become thin and apologetic.

Rosie couldn’t quite believe what she was being asked. ‘Unusual doesn’t begin to get close.’

‘Look, I do most sincerely apologise if we’ve inconvenienced you. Perhaps, Mrs McLeod, it was a little insensitive of us to think. . .’

Inconvenienced? Insensitive? Rosie, now black affronted, was sitting at attention at the side of the bed, toes angrily kneading the carpet. Jack, temporarily forgotten, lay on his back and contemplated the ceiling. ‘You want me to recommend flowers for that bastard’s funeral? You can’t be serious!’ Yet he’d phoned her up, deliberately waiting in his Edinburgh funeral parlour until she was on the point of bliss. ‘You’re not really serious, are you?’

Chastised, he took a moment to reply. ‘Well, it’s just that we didn’t know who else to ask. No family, you see, no close friends. Mrs McLeod, I appreciate that you may feel that. . .’

‘Just fuck off!’ she shrieked into the receiver. Then, remembering, she commanded in a calmer voice, ‘Wait! Just hold on a bloody minute!’

What horticultural damnation could she possibly propose? After everything he’d done. Yet he’d also tried to save her in his own way. A friendly foe whose death had given her new life. She had to remind herself grudgingly of that. This moment of furtive passion, while their customers swilled beer and gossip downstairs, was proof of it.

She looked ahead, hearing birdsong, the tick of the bedside alarm clock, and a burst of laughter from the public bar. I am also young, she thought. I was taken to a boundary and in that frontier land, between good and evil, had the sense to go no further. Rosie McLeod ran a hand through her hair and reached a decision.

‘Poison ivy,’ she suggested calmly and slammed down the phone.

Yes, eight times. Eight times, precisely. What made it all so unnerving, her deliverance, was that two weeks before it had all seemed so impossible.

There be many herbs that have great virtues of the influence of the planets. The herb of the Sun, which is called Polygonum, or Corrigiola. This herb healeth the passions and griefs of the heart and the stomach. If any man drink the juice of it, it maketh him do often the act of generation. And if any man bear the root of it, it healeth the grief of the eyes. It helpeth also them that be vexed with the frenzy, if they bear it with them in their breast.

The Book of Secrets of Albertus Magnus

It began, as these things always do, with a thunderstorm.

The Reverend Lionel Kennedy sat in his stationary car, grey hair swept tightly back from a weather-beaten face that looked carved from burnished walnut. He peered nervously ahead as fat raindrops began to fall, the evening turning black under gunmetal clouds. He had clear blue eyes over an imperious nose; it was only the nose that detracted from the overall impression that he might once have been good-looking. He was tall and angular, not quite old but departing rapidly from mid-life and his head pressed against the roof of his trusty Volkswagen Beetle. His hair was lacquered flat like an old-time fighter pilot; a tic pulled at one eye. With nervous hands he plucked a red and white spotted handkerchief from an inside pocket and noisily blew his nose which, being rather large, took some moments. Calmer, he replaced the handkerchief and took a deep breath.

The storm that had been threatening to break all afternoon finally did so in a crash of thunder. The intermittent drops now came in a downpour, an intensity of noise drumming and beating on the car bonnet. Raindrops bounced and exploded against the windscreen, passing headlights making it seem that tears were running down his face. A bus rushed past and Lionel’s car shook in its slipstream. He switched on his windscreen wipers and stared intently ahead. The road ahead seemed black and empty.

Even on main beam, it was hard to see more than a few yards ahead. He pressed his nose close to the windscreen and, starting the engine, piloted his way slowly and shakily towards Haddington, the nearest town. It was a narrow road lined with trees whose branches, in places, formed a canopy, making it a dark tunnel, closing him in. Then he could see the lights of the town, its normalcy, and debated whether to stop, then dismissed the idea almost as quickly; the young police sergeant in Holy Cross would know what to do. Holy Cross was also home, and he wanted the safety of home.

The minister had experienced one of those moments when the very fibre and strength of his faith had been tested, unexpected in its suddenness in a pleasant lane in rural Scotland – a juxtaposition of normality and nightmare, like a small child with the eyes of a murderer. Only ten minutes before, in his capacity as a minister of the Church, he had been judging a Women’s Institute jam-making competition. He licked his lips, which still tasted unpleasantly of cranberries – a prize winner, though Lionel hadn’t voted for it – and swallowed hard.

The rain beat louder on his car bonnet and he slowed, biting his lower lip in concentration. On either side of the road strange shadows loomed and were swallowed in the night, each more menacing than the last. He knew they were only hedgerows or trees or farm buildings but the consuming fear that filled him made each shadow a thing of terror.

Haddington passed in a haze of lights. He saw only one small group of people, a knot of teenagers sheltering in a shop doorway, coats or hoods pulled over their heads. He felt a pang of guilt as he swept past. He again considered stopping and again dismissed the idea. He wanted to put as much space as possible between himself and whatever it was on the road behind him. Holy Cross offered sanctuary and Lionel was not a brave man any more; older age might give some people a kind of heady fatalism – an acceptance of the vagaries of life – but approaching old age had merely diminished him. His Volkswagen beetled homeward like a refugee through the night, bumping and twisting along the small road to Gifford and Holy Cross. Sensing sanctuary, the little car bounded forwards, picking up speed.

By the time he reached Holy Cross he was fairly cantering, not enough perhaps to break the speed limit, but for him a speed never before attempted nor attained. The Volkswagen hurtled into the village as if pursued by all the demons of the underworld – an analogy which he might at that moment have approved – and skidded to a stop, although a very small skid, outside the police station.

The village of Holy Cross is, of course, as internationally well-known as Edinburgh Castle or Loch Ness. Its long association with one of the greatest Christian myths puts the place right up there with haggis, tartan and shortbread as an icon of Scottishness. Tourists, many with metal detectors, come in large numbers from across the world. The village is often referred to as the heartbeat of Scotland – a place of myth and legend, and yet just thirty minutes from Edinburgh. Throughout the year, coach parties visit the small visitor centre and take sugary photographs that are immediately recognised world-wide.

The village takes its name from the fabled Glastonbury Cross that is reputed to have been buried inside the parish precincts when King Henry VIII purged the English monasteries, although local legend has over the years embellished what was probably a doubtful tale. The story goes that monks spirited the cross from Glastonbury as King Henry’s soldiers drew near, the original intention being to flee southwards to the coast and, from there, by ship to France or Spain. However, cut off by a detachment of cavalry, the monks were forced to head north to Scotland, a country which then still embraced the Catholic faith. How and why they ended up at Holy Cross is anybody’s guess, although the village does lie on the original Roman road linking Newcastle with Edinburgh.

However, as none of the reputable medieval historians mention the cross, it probably never existed beyond the imaginings of local priests and travelling holy men. That, of course, hasn’t stopped the village’s numerous gift shops from selling commemorative pendants and brooches. Like bagpipes or the Loch Ness monster, the golden cross is good for business.

Unsurprisingly, given the village’s legendary association, it is the church that dominates Holy Cross. However, catering also to Mammon, the Fox and Duck is conveniently across the street.

Inside the cosy public bar, Mara Thomson, a temporary barmaid, had set a pint of beer in front of Tam Cronin, one of the pub’s regular customers, and was automatically wiping slops from the bar’s wooden surface.

‘It’s dead, Tam,’ she was saying.

‘Trees don’t just die, lass.’

‘Well, this one did.’

The Fox and Duck has been a hostelry since the early 1840s, when the pub had extensive stabling, now converted into a function suite much in demand for weddings and funerals, largely because of its proximity to the church opposite. However, the pub’s name only dates from 1942 when a stray Luftwaffe bomb landed one night in the village pond, killing all its finned and feathered inhabitants, including a scavenging fox. At the bottom of what had been the pond was found a medieval stone cross and, following much debate in the village, it was decided to fill in the pond and erect the stone cross in its place. The story of the cross’s discovery inevitably made the national press and gave the landlord of the then Railway Tavern a marketing opportunity – in those days a branch line ran from Holy Cross through Haddington to Edinburgh. The pub’s far wall is dominated by a large and intricately carved wooden fireplace, pillaged from a local mansion house that had also been hit by a Nazi bomb. Nobody can say that the Luftwaffe wasn’t generous to the Fox and Duck.

The older man looked doubtful and scratched his chin. ‘Aye, well, as I said, it’s not looking too healthy.’

‘No, Tam, believe me, it’s absolutely and completely dead.’

Rosie McLeod, joint proprietor of the Fox and Duck, swilled glasses in tepid water in the sink behind the bar, then set them to drain, with only half her mind on the debate over the illness, or demise, of the last remaining tree in the beer garden. Tam Cronin, a Fox and Duck stalwart, was nodding.

Over recent days, the hazel tree had been going from bad to worse, which was odd because it had always been so sturdy. It was never fed, never watered – although the Scottish climate usually gave it ample water – and in summer, when the beer garden saw more use, beer dregs were poured on its roots. It had stood, stoic and undemanding, since Rosie’s arrival years and years before. Then, without warning, its leaves had withered and turned brown; now in the course of an afternoon they had all fallen, swirling in eddies across the flagstones. Mara had been out earlier to sweep them up.

Rosie, now drying glasses and replacing them on shelves, regarded her sourly. Against the brilliant bird of paradise that was Mara, she felt like a dowdy sparrow – an about-to-be-very-old dowdy sparrow, without youth or plumage. Rosie was experiencing a period of bleak introspection, exacerbated by a significant and approaching birthday with all its associated connotations. She wanted to be wanted. She didn’t want to be older. Where the bloody hell was Jack?

‘Apparently, that tree of yours is dead,’ Tam informed Rosie. ‘I have it on good authority,’ he added, indicating Mara, who had moved down the bar to serve another customer.

‘I know it’s dead,’ she replied. ‘Actually, I do know about these things, Tam.’ Her eyes lingered on a framed newspaper article hanging on the bar wall. “Medicine Woman”, said the headline.

‘Aye, I suppose you do,’ he conceded, noting the slope of her gaze. ‘Anyway, how’s Mara’s mum?’ He was in his late fifties, with thick glasses that magnified his eyes and made him appear, head on, like a strange and rather bemused sea-creature. He had a permanently stubbly face and tangled brown hair that rarely made the acquaintance of a comb, and only ever drank Belhaven 70 Shilling from his own pewter tankard which was kept, alongside several others, on a shelf behind the bar beneath a smiling photograph of Jack and Rosie on the day fifteen years beforehand when they’d taken possession of the pub.

‘Julie? Back on her feet, sort of,’ she replied, frowning. Having earlier watched a wildlife programme on TV, Rosie had temporarily forgotten that a pile of greenery, chopped and washed, awaited her attention upstairs.

Further up the bar, Mara, resplendent in a small black skirt and tight white shirt, was reaching to a top shelf to retrieve a bottle of brandy, much to the gathering interest of the male clientele.

Tam said, ‘I’ll tell you a wee something. She’s got a boyfriend.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, she’s just had a hip replacement.’

‘For God’s sake, Rosemary! Not her mother. Mara! Very hush-hush, apparently.’ He shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me why.’

Mara, serene and beautiful, could have any man she wanted, although, so went village gossip, she kept herself to herself as far as romantic entanglements were concerned. She was only helping out in the pub for a few summer weeks as a favour to Rosie and Jack, her main purpose being to look after her mother after the operation. Soon she’d be gone, back to real life in Edinburgh and a PhD to complete. Beautiful and intelligent, it really wasn’t very fair. No, bugger it, it wasn’t fair at all. Full-bloody-stop.

‘How do you know?’ asked Rosie.

‘I heard her on the phone yesterday. Canoodling, I think it’s called. Well, she couldn’t very well deny it what with me sitting at the bar listening. But she made me promise not to tell anybody.’

‘You’ve just told me, Tam.’

‘Aye, well. But secrets are no fun if you don’t tell anyone.’ He swallowed a mouthful of beer and wiped his mouth scratchily with one hand. ‘Don’t know who it was, though. Anyway, I suppose I should give you one of these,’ he said, conjuring a leaflet from his jacket pocket. Like the rest of him, his jacket – in scuffed brown corduroy – had seen better days, many decades before. ‘I’m also supposed to ask if we can count on your support.’

Emblazoned on the front of the blue leaflet was a photograph of a self-satisfied, rather fleshy man in a grey suit. His mouth was set in a thin, determined line and his chin was raised for the battle ahead. Beneath, in big, bold letters, was written: FORWARDS WITH THE CONSERVATIVE PARTY.

‘I didn’t know you were a Tory,’ said Rosie with some surprise. ‘Or isn’t it something that you normally admit to?’

‘I’m not really sure I am, which is why I’m in here and not out there delivering these.’ Tam’s cartoon eyes indicated the pub door; then he deposited a bundle of leaflets on the bar where they spread like spilled water.

Rosie laughed. ‘You’re a dark horse, Tam. . . here’s me thinking all these years that you were some kind of radical socialist. Now I find out that you’re really an enemy of the people. Put your leaflets away before I ban you forever from my pub.’

‘In which case I take it that we can’t count on your support?’

She shrugged, not having given the forthcoming election much thought. ‘Maybe, maybe not.’

‘Ah, then I’ll put you down as an undecided.’

‘Take it any way you like, Tam. I’m just not sure that I can be bothered to vote, that’s all.’

The papers all said that the election, timed deliberately by Downing Street to coincide with her birthday, was a foregone conclusion. A landslide was predicted to sweep the Socialists back to power. Against that overwhelming likelihood, election fever had failed to raise the country’s political temperature.

‘Emmeline Pankhurst would be proud of you, Rosemary. All those years struggling for emancipation and you can’t be bothered to vote. I fear the cause of universal suffrage to be lost.’ Tam dipped his nose to his pint.

‘Dear Lord, I’ve just remembered,’ said Rosie and consulted a large book that lay on the counter beneath the optics. ‘You lot are coming here tomorrow evening.’

Tam nodded, his head still glued to his tankard. ‘An election address by our parliamentary candidate. A last pep talk to the party faithful, or some-such shite. You should listen in, maybe learn a thing or two.’

‘I doubt it, but thanks for the offer.’

‘Beer, sandwiches and a little tedium.’ Tam bestowed a small smile on the publican, displaying brown teeth that perfectly colour-matched his jacket, and every other part of him. ‘Our candidate is. . . how shall I put it?. . . rather renowned for the quantity, rather than the quality, of his speeches. Still, I’m not doing anything else.’

This was palpably true as Tam never did anything except prop up the bar of the Fox and Duck.

Mara squeezed past on her way to the cash register and Rosie suddenly felt old again. She was still on the right side of forty, but now only days away from it – close enough to feel its dead weight and the accusation of middle-age. She knew she had once been attractive and wondered if she still was. Nobody now thought to reassure her on this point, particularly Jack, who hadn’t made love to her for weeks – months, even. She had black shoulder-length hair and dark eyes and, in profile could seem serene, even beautiful. Her dark eyes sparkled and she had a gap between her front teeth; usually she had a quick smile. She was small and slight, but possessed of a quick and demanding energy: when exactly did he last make love to me? she thought, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror below the optics and seeing only grey hair. Jack was probably organising a surprise party, to whisk her to London or Paris for a romantic break, buying diamonds or diazepam – all very nice of him but not what she really wanted. She was a woman of baser needs. She’d made up her mind earlier, standing in her knickers before the full-length mirror in their bedroom, disconcerted by what faced her. Things may be sagging but I am still desirable, she’d told herself, repeatedly saying the words out loud until they sounded convincing. Jack still finds me desirable. He still finds me utterly desirable, even if he doesn’t know it. I am not bloody middle-aged.

Rosie’s mood wasn’t improved by the darkening skies outside. The village flag over the church that had clung lifelessly to its pole through the afternoon heat had now flapped to life, an energised Saltire awoken by the approaching storm that the lunchtime news said would be upon them by early evening. Rosie had the publican’s professional distaste for bad weather. The beer garden, which had been full all afternoon, was now deserted, a drift of discarded crisp packets swirling around the decaying hazel tree by the back wall. She’d have to get Jack to cut it down.

Just then there was a crash of thunder that momentarily silenced all else; the pub lights flickered and dark shadows chased across the walls. Rain patterned the windows and, in the beer garden, a sudden river gushed across the paving stones. In the distance a dog barked once, forlorn and melancholy, and then was quiet.

‘Bloody hell!’ said Mara, one hand clutched to her ample chest.

‘Bloody hell indeed,’ said Rosie.

Tam pocketed his election leaflets, undaunted by the racket outside. ‘Perhaps I could tell you about our economic policy?’ he suggested.

‘No offence, Tam, but no.’

He shrugged. ‘To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what our economic policy is. Maybe we don’t have one. Perhaps I could ask our esteemed candidate about it tomorrow evening.’

‘Did you know,’ asked Rosie, ‘that a firefly is actually a beetle?’

‘No, Rosemary, I can’t say that I did know that. . . not, I hasten to add, that I’ve ever given it any thought.’

‘Well it is.’

‘How interesting, Rosie.’

‘Ah, Tam, but it is. Not quite as interesting as Tory Party policy, of course, but it has given me an idea.’

At the bar a couple of younger customers, stalwarts of the cricket team, had retreated from their weekly practice on the village green and were ordering pints of beer. ‘Damn shame about the weather,’ said one, clearly delighted not to be throwing a ball about, ‘but damned odd about the minister.’

Reverend Kennedy had been spotted hurtling through the village not minutes beforehand, and dashing in lolloping strides to the police station. The cricketers, evacuating the village green, had seen him while sheltering under one of the few remaining oak trees beside the river before sprinting to the Fox and Duck. ‘Bloody stupid hiding under a tree in a thunderstorm, but I’d rather be dead than wet,’ remarked one of the cricketers, a nice lad called Liam, if Rosie remembered correctly.

It was indeed odd, thought Rosie, as she served her customers, dispensing as much good cheer as she was able to muster. She knew the old minister quite well from the many functions that the Fox and Duck had hosted for happy couples and the recently bereaved, and sometimes both together, and was intrigued to know what seemingly urgent business Lionel Kennedy had with the constabulary. Although she wasn’t particularly religious, she sometimes attended Sunday service just to be on the safe side. Rosie also knew Sadie Gallagher, the priest’s indiscreet housekeeper. She’d ask her what he’d been up to.

‘Big match on Sunday, lads,’ Liam was saying to nobody in particular.

‘The Battle of the Legends,’ replied one of the other cricketers, imbuing the phrase with great significance, whilst also ordering another round of drinks with a sweep of his hand. It was clear to Rosie as she poured pints of beer that team bonding was now well under way.

Rosie looked at the driving rain, trying again to remember when Jack had last laid a lustful hand upon her. I am still attractive, she told herself firmly. The dead weight of final accusation is not upon me yet. I am not old.

The legend of Holy Cross relates how Satan rose up from the Lower Kingdom and rebelled against the angels of the Heavens. In the ensuing battle, Michael slew Satan and the emerald from his dark crest fell to earth as a meteorite where it was found by seafarers. The emerald was fashioned by craftsmen into a wondrous chalice, the greatest of all the possessions of King Solomon. His descendant Jesus Christ used the chalice at the Last Supper for the Institution of the Holy Sacrament and, at His crucifixion, the blood of Christ was collected in the chalice by St Joseph of Arimathea. It is said that when St Joseph was imprisoned after the Resurrection, he was sustained in his ordeal by the chalice. Later it was brought to England in the first century AD and, for safekeeping, buried at Glastonbury.

For unclear reasons, the chalice was then taken to Spain, although the legend says that a part of the dark emerald remained in England and was kept in secret adoration by the monks of Glastonbury. Later still, the chalice was taken to the remote country of Prester John in the Kingdom of Kerait in Northeast Asia. After the death of the last king at the hands of Genghis Khan, the emerald was taken to Antioch where it disappeared for ever.

The legend relates how the monks of Glastonbury secretly fashioned a great cross of pale Welsh gold and adorned it with the twelve stones of the Mystical City of the Apocalypse: jasper, sapphire, chalcedony, sardonyx, sardin, beryl, chrysolite, topaz, chrysaprase, jacinth, amethyst and emerald. The horizontal arms of the cross were encrusted with the seven stones which symbolise the Christian church: diamond, ruby, sapphire, topaz, chalcedony, emerald, and amethyst. The upper arm was dominated by a single pearl symbolising the descent of wisdom from Noah, Abraham and Isaac and also representing both the Gospel and the salvation of Adam. The lower arm of the cross was adorned with the stones of the seven planets: tiger’s eye for the Sun, quartz for the Moon, crocidolite for Jupiter, agate for Mercury, ruby for Mars, aventurine for Venus, and black onyx for Saturn. In the centre of the cross was the twelfth stone of the Apocalypse, the greatest and most. . .