Scorched Heart (The Firebrand Series Book 4) by Helen Harper (read books for money TXT) 📕

Parked to the right of the house was a vintage Volkswagen campervan. Despite its age, it appeared well-maintained. I spied brightly coloured fabrics through its pristine windows and I knew without getting close that the interior would smell strongly of incense. Perhaps, I mused, I should have brought Tallulah after all. I could have prevailed upon Ms James to work some of her magic on my old Mini. She appeared to have something of a Midas touch.

I felt some of the knotted tension leave my body as I approached the front door. Then, however, I heard a loud caw behind me and my heart almost leapt out of my chest. I turned and narrowed my eyes. It was another damned crow – or the same damned crow.

I took a step towards it and it cawed again. ‘What are you?’ I asked. ‘What do you want?’

‘It’s a crow,’ murmured a melodic voice. ‘And I expect it wants some worms.’

I was startled and swung towards the house. The front door had opened and a woman was watching me with an odd smile on her face. My senses were supernatural and developing all the time, but I’d not heard so much as a whisper of her approach.

She had long dark hair bound into a single plait that reached almost to the base of her spine, and she was wearing a long, flowing, multi-coloured skirt with a loose top. I eyed her many bangles and necklaces and wondered why they hadn’t jangled when she opened the door. Her feet were bare and she had intricate henna patterns on her arms. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d suddenly produced a crystal ball and said that she’d tell me my fortune if I crossed her palm with silver.

‘Miranda James?’ I asked. She tilted her head slightly in affirmation. ‘My name is Emma Bellamy. Detective Constable Emma Bellamy.’

She didn’t so much as blink. ‘Well then,’ she drawled, ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’ She spun round and disappeared into the house as silently as she’d arrived. I swallowed and, with one backward look at the crow that was still watching me, followed her inside.

The interior of the manor was as beautiful as the exterior. There wasn’t a mote of dust and every surface was shiny and streak free, even the gigantic mirror at the end of the rose-coloured hallway.

I glanced down, worried suddenly that I was trekking in dirt. Should I have taken off my shoes? But surely she would have said something if she’d wanted me to go barefoot. All the same, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was making the place look untidy simply by being there.

When I spotted a large cobweb in one corner and its eight-legged occupant, I felt a brief flicker of relief until Miranda’s voice called from the kitchen, ‘That’s Boris. He’s lived there for years.’

How did she know what I’d been looking at? I swallowed uncomfortably and went after her.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she enquired. ‘I don’t allow caffeine in the house but I have plenty herbal versions. I picked up the most delicious nettle and elderflower tea at the farmer’s market in Appledore last week. I can highly recommend it.’

‘Er…’ I scratched my head. Having a drink inside a witness or a suspect’s house could put them at ease, and it allowed police officers a chance to view them in their natural surroundings. Even so, I wasn’t convinced I wanted to drink tea made from stinging nettles. All the same, I managed a nod and a smile. ‘That sounds lovely. Thank you.’

She nodded as if she’d expected nothing else, opened a cupboard and drew out two mismatched china cups and saucers. There were no mugs with silly sayings in this kitchen; neither did there appear to be any electrical appliances. There wasn’t even a kettle. Miranda filled a heavy iron teapot with water from the sink and placed it on top of the Aga before tossing some dubious-looking tea leaves into a china tea-pot and placing it on the counter.

‘Please,’ she said, waving at the kitchen table. ‘Sit.’

I unstrapped my crossbow and placed it on the floor by my feet before plonking myself down on one of the wooden chairs. I was surprised how comfortable it was. Then I told myself to stop prevaricating and get on with my job.

‘You didn’t ask to see my identification,’ I said, in what I hoped was a gentle rather than a combative tone. ‘Do you normally welcome strangers into your home with such warmth?’

Miranda raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re hardly a stranger, Emma. You used to play here all the time. You even stayed the night sometimes so your parents could go out.’

‘You know who I am.’ It wasn’t a question.

She smiled at me and sat down opposite me. ‘I do. Although I wouldn’t have recognised you. You’ve changed quite a lot since those days. But Albion told me he met you on the train, and I’ve heard the whispers in the village. There’s no gossip quite like small-town gossip, you know.’

‘I’m beginning to realise that,’ I said.

‘You live in London?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you work with supernatural beings?’

‘I do.’ I was starting to think that I was the one being interviewed. I drew in a breath and wrestled back control of the conversation. ‘I have several questions to ask you about what happened twenty-five years ago to my parents as well as what happened on Friday to Patrick Lacey.’ I took out my phone and flicked it to record, watching her carefully to see if she objected.

A flicker of sadness crossed Miranda’s face. ‘Poor Patrick,’ she sighed. ‘Such a troubled man.’

The teapot on the stove juddered. Miranda rose elegantly to her feet and scooped it up, pouring the hot water into the smaller china pot which she carried to the table and deposited between us. ‘Biscuit?’ she asked. ‘I baked them this morning.’

I shook my head. ‘No, thank you.’

There was an