Red-Handed

“This…?”

In the gloom of the cave Inspector Stroup lifted a tweezers to the weak light of a lantern. A single monocled eye trained on a dark, dried strand. “This. Is a lizard’s tongue. And not a newt’s.” The Inspector levelled an accusing stare at the three hags crouched before her. They shuffled in silence. There was some coughing.

“The devil’s in the details, my dears,” said the Inspector. She surveyed the cave again in all its damp and dank. A pool of stagnant water had collected at its centre. Around the pool lay a flotsam of guttering candles and low makeshift furniture. Overturned buckets served as stools. Boards propped on rocks stood for tables. An untidy apothecary of pots, urns and jars lay on the floor, in corners, crammed between stalagmites.

“What’s through that door?” asked the Inspector, indicating a glut of timbers that covered a gap in the cave wall.

“Nussin in dat”, the most wizened of the hags shook her head.

“Nussin but baad smells,” confirmed the hag with the single tooth, protruding from beneath her top lip.

Inspector Stroup produced a white silk handkerchief and placed it over nose. “Let’s see,” she said. The hags looked worried.

*

“A cauldron of it! Not just a phial. Not even a chalice. Oh no! Nothing less than a cauldron of blood!” The Inspector rubbed her eyes again in the vain hope that this might all be an illusion.

The three hags were huddled sheepishly together next to the smouldering fire. They stared into the dark bubbling liquid. Watching the fumes as they rose, as they filled the chamber with an oily stink.

“Iss anminals, iss is,” informed the wizened hag, swirling the grey rags of her shawl around her.

“Iss noh’ humans,” claimed the third hag, who leant on a crooked crutch. She pulled a mat of filthy white hair across her face.

“No,” the three chorused together. “Noooo’ humans.” They shook their heads emphatically.

Inspector Stroup looked serious. “I’ll have to see the bodies then,” she said.

The hags’ eyes bulged.

“Iss noh’ many humans,” said the toothed hag.

“Iss on’y wun,” said Wizen.

“Iss on’y ’sree,” corrected Crutch.

“Iss on’y fai-ive!” squealed Tooth. The other two gazed at her in awe. She shuffled and stared at the ground. She looked back into the cauldron. “Iss on’y three,” she admitted, truthfully.

Inspector Stroup became stern. No one spoke for a while.

“Villagers, I suppose?”

“They is sooo mean,” said Crutch.

“They spits at us,” hissed Tooth.

“They throws stones,” cried Wizen.

“They says I smells like a midden,” confessed Crutch in a hush.

Inspector Stroup folded her arms and looked at each of them in turn. “Hardly an excuse for the exsanguination of three human beings though… Not to mention… What are these?” On a makeshift stool next to the cauldron were two jars labeled ‘Hemlok’ and ‘Wyrmwud’.

“And a blood curse!”

The Inspector put her hands on her hips as she digested this discovery. She was solemn. “They’ll guess it’s you, you know.”

The hags grew frightened. They clutched each other close.

Inspector Stroup sighed: “Tomorrow, I will call on the village council and try to explain the disappearances. I will make something up… I will tell them that there is a dragon whelp abroad. Yes. That will be it. There are some technicalities regarding their warding, et cetera. I might even hint at unpaid dues. Try the: ‘You brought this on yourself’ approach. That. Might just work. But if there were such a creature rampaging nearby… there… there should also be sheep missing somehow?” The Inspector looked to the hags. “Is that something you could…”

Tooth stepped forward and produced a narrow gleaming blade from under her rags. “I’ll stick ’em,” she grinned.

“Try to pretend it isn’t so much fun, dear,” said the Inspector. Tooth wrangled her face into an approximation of dismay.

Inspector Stroup opened her satchel and produced a billfold. She leafed through it and plucked out a thick wad of pages. ‘Form 106.a. Application for Interruption of Hexing Order.’

“Better bring me some tea,” she said. “It’s going to be a long night.”