The front door was flung open and the woman came in. “Awful sorry I’m late, ma’am,” she said in a broad Devon accent. “I know I said ten o’clock, but I were that upset—I don’t know if you’ve heard the news, ma’am.”

“About the man who killed himself yesterday? Yes, we were told about that.”

“No, ma’am. Not about him. ’Tis Ted Grover I’m talking about. He were found drowned in Lovey Brook this morning.”

Mummy sat up. “And who is Ted Grover?”

“He were my uncle, ma’am. Owned a big garage just outside Bovey Tracey. Doing awfully well, he were. Owned charabancs and gave tours of the moor. And now he’s gone.” She put her red, work-worn hands up to her face and started to sob noisily. Mummy put a tentative arm around her shoulder. “I’m very sorry, Rosie. I’ll have Mrs. Huggins bring you a cup of tea.”

“What happened to him?” I asked as Mummy headed for the kitchen, calling, “Mrs. Huggins!” in strong theatrical tones.

“Well, he was always popping over for a drink at the Hag and Hounds,” Rosie said. “Leastways everyone knew why he came to this pub and not the Buckfast Arms, which was right next to his garage. And it weren’t the quality of the ale either. He and the publican’s wife were sweet on each other, you see. They’d meet out behind the pub and then he’d cut back across the fields to his place, thinking that nobody saw him. Of course we all knew about it—well, in a village everyone does, don’t they?”

She paused, taking out a big checked handkerchief and blowing her nose. “Well, he had to cross a little stone bridge over Lovey Brook. It’s just one of them simple clapper bridges like you see around here made of big slabs of stone balanced on rocks, and they are not always very stable. So they reckon he’d drunk quite a bit last night and lost his balance, see. Fell into Lovey Brook and hit his head on a rock. Terrible tragedy, just before Christmas. And my poor auntie—knowing how he died, having gone to see that woman.”

I gave a sympathetic nod.

“And of course you know what everyone in the village is saying, don’t you?” She looked up at Mrs. Huggins, who had come in personally with the cup of tea, not wanting to miss out on anything, I suspect. Rosie brightened considerably, having now a larger audience. “Two deaths in two days? They are saying it’s the Lovey Curse, striking again.”

“The Lovey Curse?” Mummy looked amused.

Rosie beckoned me, my mother and Mrs. Huggins into a tight little circle. “You’ve heard about our witch, no doubt? Well, when she was being burned at the stake, she cursed the village, saying every Yuletide she’d be back to take her revenge. And sure enough, something bad always happens here around Christmastime.” She folded her arms with satisfaction. “You mark my words. It’s the Lovey Curse, all right.”