Page Title

Synopsis.

The story begins with three witches. Sound familiar? Aha - but there is a cunning twist - one of them dies in the first chapter and leaves her powers to the milkmaid, who is, as I believe the cleaner of the two expressions goes, as thick as mince (the other rhymes with RIGS WHITE). This puts the coven in danger. The two most powerful, decide to escape to the future. Leaving the milkmaid disguised as one of her own cows. The incantress takes a job as a teacher, thinking that she will have the respect of the whole town - oh foolish, foolish child. She hates it. On holiday in Paris, she meets Cynthia. Feeling sorry for her, the incantress helps her get revenge on her boyfriend and gets an idea for making money - a self-help group - and let's face it there are millions springing up even as we speak...

The incantress needs a suitable qualification. It comes from a crash course in Advanced Psycho-sociology of Modern Humanity in Urbo-collective conglomerates - a new course put in place by the Michael Mauss Foundation. After about a month, she graduates with her dipAPSOMHIUCC. Cynthia is already a doctor of anthropology.

Together they hold the first meeting - helped by a friend of Cynthia's (Bertie Thruster), who just happens to live in, and own most of, the town of Little illock. The incantress works on the minds of those present. One becomes a stripper, another a vampire and a third, after an incontinence spell, can hardly contain his... displeasure.

For the second meeting, Lord Havenwood (Bertie Thruster) offers them Havenpark Manor, and suggests they turn it into a country house weekend. The first evening goes splendidly. They all turn in - only to discover that one of the guests has been electrocuted in an upstairs bathroom. Surprise! Cynthia's private detective appears to investigate. The following morning, the bank manager falls to his death from the nurse's shower room. The vicar is designated to comfort the shocked nurse. It is clear that he has been pushed - the banker, not the vicar. Not only that, the milkmaid turned journalist (Bess Bullstraddler) and the elderly housemaid have disappeared. The former is discovered in a state of disrepute in the boathouse with the bank manager's assistant. The latter is found hanging outside an attic window. She has been strangled with her own directoires. This is the third murder...

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Extract from chapter 10 The First Meeting

"It's all yours Mr Packer."

And so the new club members were all witness to the sight of a hulking beast sobbing into the already soggy fluff on top of the teddy's head. Those seated closest to him could just make out the words, "It's Mr Fudge - Packard Fudge between the boo and the hoo of each sob. Those at the other end of the semi-circle overheard the incantress uttering what sounded very much like "Oh, for plucked cake." Cynthia felt the evening was going to be a long one, she felt she'd already aged several months in the first ten minutes, but ever the optimist, and eager to make up for the fact that the invited guest had been her idea, she stood up and addressed the assembly. "Perhaps it would be advisable to have coffee and munchies now and go on with the rest when Mr Fudge is feeling a little more relaxed.

The word coffee was like a starting pistol in the Olympics. Everyone hurtled towards the hatch that opened onto the little kitchenette where plates of nibbles and cups and saucers had been set out in advance. The winner was a lemon gingham apron which launched itself through the half opened door next to the hatch. The others, sensing a victim, prepared to be waited on.

Breeding demanded that Cynthia mingle with aplomb and without favouritism. She drew up to Avril, racking her brains for a conversation opener. One glance gave her what she was looking for. "You look marvellous, my dear. You're so lucky to have a figure that looks so good in jeans and a sweater. I never dare wear jeans, or any other kind of trousers these days. Far too constricting -doesn't let the air circulate - makes me feel as if I've got..."

"Salmon muffin?" Mandy had done the catering. She stood behind them mouthing wordlessly, the colour rising in her cheeks as the extent of her gaffe sank in. A smile played around Cynthia's lips for the briefest of moments as the little angel of tact battled with the little demon of wit. For an instant, it seemed as though the little angel of tact had the upper hand, then the little demon of wit kicked it into touch and Cynthia moved in for the kill. "Exactly dear. I couldn't have put it better myself - a most interesting and ahem picturesque analogy." Mortified, Mandy carried on around the room offering out her newly named seafood buns. (Not that that helped to stop the sniggering). Cynthia had a tiny twinge of conscience. The poor dear - she did try hard and at least she'd taken her rubber gloves off for the occasion, although that country kitchen apron wasn't much better and as for the amethyst twinset and lilac tweed skirt ..! She turned her attention to Reg Gilmour.

"Oh, you're a builder, how splendid! I met a builder once - just the other day. He got a teensy bit cross with me just because I moved his ridiculous little ladder for him. It was positively blocking the whole pavement. I didn't move it very far."

Reg's countenance had darkened. "That was me that was stuck up there you know. I had to hang on for me life until someone had the sense to put it back. Of all the silly c**ts!"

"Why yes! How clever of you!" Cynthia was delighted. "I do believe there were a couple of Kuntz in our family. On mama's side. But you're not completely correct you know. If I remember it was the Isle of Wight they settled on, not Scilly. Anyway that branch of the family died out - the end of the line married into the Pschittky-Kerrs. Mama in fact was a Pschittky-Kerr until she met daddy and he changed all that..."

Just then everyone turned to the doorway as the vicar hobbled in noisily announcing that he was just there to provide his parishioners with some moral support. He made a good show of introducing himself to the two organisers of the event, even though it wasn't the first time he'd met either of them, mumbled a brief and visibly distant 'good evening' to Mrs Quinn, spent an unusually long time clasping the hand of the guest speaker, and then gingerly made his way to a chair in the front row and tenderly lowered his posterior onto it. Mandy thought straight away that she knew what his problem was. She paused beside him on her way back to the kitchenette and putting on her MOST CONCERNED EXPRESSION, presented him with the one-word enquiry, "Broccoli?" Then in her bungling fashion she carried on oblivious to the vicar's bewilderment. "You know I used to have those kind of tummy troubles before I discovered yoga, but not any more. Now every morning, as soon as I wake up, I grab my ankles and bring my knees up past my chin for a DOUBLE WIND RELEASE. " There was a hushed silence - not content with just thinking in capital letters, Mandy had taken to speaking en majuscules* which unfortunately meant she both created and filled the lull in every conversation.The little angel of tact was still out for the count and so egged on by the little demon of wit, Cynthia went seconds out round two - her sotto voce* made the windows in the cafe across the square vibrate. " That explains the husband's ridiculous hairstyle; more coffee anyone?" She did have a point though - his travelling salesman straight from the hotel shower and absolutely not going bald at all look was mildly risible. The vicar through no fault of his own had ended up with a reputation for flatulence. He didn't mind so much, because that was better than anyone guessing an alternative. The incantress knew different - she'd put two and two together to make the proverbial twenty-nine as soon as he'd tried to make contact with the chair. "So," she mused. " The vicar likes to bounce on the bacon barstool."*