A Witch Alone (The Winter Witch Trilogy #3) by Ruth Warburton Page A

Then my groping hand found a switch on the wall and dim bulbs flickered out across the basement, one after the other, glinting off the pool of liquid at the foot of the stairs.
    Blood. I pressed my hand hard over my face, keeping out the butcher’s smell, pushing back the cry that wanted to erupt at the sight of the crimson pool. So much. Nobody could lose that much blood and live, surely?
    I followed the slick, liquid trail along the floor between the stacks of bookshelves. I was terrified at the thought of what lay at the end, but I couldn’t turn back.
    The tide lapped round the corner of a huge shelf-stack. I turned too – and a scream ripped from my mouth.
    There was blood – blood everywhere, sprayed on the books and the walls, even spattered on the light-fitting.
    And in the centre, Caradoc, lying as peacefully as a child asleep, with his throat slit from ear to ear.
    ‘Caradoc!’
    I fell to my knees in the sticky crimson pool and then – I couldn’t stop myself, I knew all about crime-scenes and forensics, but I couldn’t stop myself from putting my hand to his cheek. His throat had been slashed just above his cravat and the fabric was soaked through and through with blood, until it looked as if his whole chest was gaping open.
    ‘Caradoc … Oh my God, oh Caradoc …’
    And then I heard, quite distinctly, the sound of footsteps in the shop above.
    I didn’t think my body could produce any more adrenalin but, before I could think, I was on my feet, my heart hammering. Should I call out? Hide?
    Before I’d decided, a cry floated down the stairs.
    ‘Caradoc!’
    I stood, frozen. It came again.
    ‘Caradoc, I’ve got the milk. Will you drink yours up here or shall I bring it down?’
    ‘Jonathan!’ I scrambled to the cellar steps and began to claw my way up, my shoes and fingers slippery with Caradoc’s blood. ‘We need – the police – oh God – Caradoc – he’s—’
    There was a crash as the tea cup Jonathan was holding fell to the shop floor, shards of china and drops of tea flying across the little space.
    ‘Anna, what … ?’ He stood in the doorway, his face ashen, turning to blank horror as he took in my bloodstained clothes and hands. ‘Sweet Jesus, what—’
    ‘Call the police!’ I stumbled towards him, but he took an involuntary step back and I grabbed at the counter to steady myself instead. ‘We need an ambulance. It’s Caradoc, he’s—’
    ‘Let me see…’
    He ran to the cellar steps, but fell back as he saw the lake of gore.
    ‘Oh Christ! Oh help …’ He put a hand to his mouth as if pressing back vomit and then managed, ‘But what – what’s happened? Anna, what’s happened?’
    His face was white, with spots of red high on each cheekbone, and his eyes were wide and wild.
    ‘He’s dead,’ I choked out. For a second everything seemed to swim and I gritted my teeth, trying to keep it together.
    ‘He’s dead?’ Jonathan seemed unable to process it. ‘But – how?’
    ‘His throat’s been cut.’ I felt bile rise in my own throat and my ears suddenly sang. I hardly heard Jonathan’s questions as I shook my head, trying to swallow down my own nausea. ‘Call the police,’ was all I could manage.
    ‘We can’t,’ Jonathan said angrily. ‘He’s in the forbidden part of the shop. We can’t have outwith police tramping around down there.’
    ‘Damn the outwith!’ I sobbed. ‘What does it matter?’
    ‘It still matters!’ Jonathan shouted back. His face was contorted with agony and he sank down slowly against a bookshelf, his hands over his face. ‘Oh God, Caradoc! Oh my darling …’
    ‘What can we do then?’
    ‘We’ll have to move him. Up here.’
    ‘No!’
    ‘You don’t understand.’ He spoke very slowly, his teeth clenched. ‘It would be more than my life’s worth, and yours, to have outwith cops clumping around down there.’
    ‘But it won’t make any sense up here. The crime scene – there’ll be no blood. And how could