by Sam Short
Pepper smiled. “I added a little of the correct compost and moved it to the spot in which it would get just the right amount of sun. That’s it. Plants are simple things.”
Mrs Hamilton kept her eyes on Pepper’s face for what felt to Pepper like a few seconds too long. Then she nodded. “I see,” she said. “So the azalea we’re talking about has grown at twice the speed I expected it to, and has greener leaves than any other plant in my garden, all because you gave it a little compost and moved it to a more shaded spot?”
“Yes,” said Pepper, placing her foot on a peddle, and twisting the handlebars to the right. “And it was nice meeting you. I’m sorry I trespassed on your property, but I really must be going.”
Pepper’s legs had only made four full rotations of the pedals before Mrs Hamilton called after her. “I’d have believed you if I hadn’t watched the footage from another camera. The camera which I thought had been switched off. It shows something quite odd. If I were a conspiracy theorist, I’d say that you used some sort of… magic, dare I say it, to help the plant grow.”
Pepper brought her bike to a halt. She looked over her shoulder at Mrs Hamilton. She trusted her instincts, and her instincts told her that Mrs Hamilton was an astute, intelligent woman who wouldn’t have the wool drawn over her eyes as easily as some people. Pepper also guessed that Mrs Hamilton was the type of woman who could cause a lot of problems for her if she so desired. She gave her a thin smile. “Magic?” she said.
Mrs Hamilton approached her, her eyes sparkling with what Pepper deciphered as excitement. “You heard me,” she said. “I know what I saw. I don’t want to cause any trouble for you — but I have to know.”
Pepper frowned. “Have to know if I used magic or not?” she asked. “Really?”
Mrs Hamilton’s eyes narrowed. “In my home, I have a recording of you pointing what I believe to be a wand at my azalea, while a stream of green energy flows from the tip. I may not be able to prove what I’m seeing on that film is magic, but I’m sure you don’t want the attention you’d receive if I were to share it with some of the more eccentric newspaper editors that are out there. And imagine what will happen if that video were to find its way onto the internet. People would call it fake, but you’d be famous. I trust my instincts, and you seem like the type of lady who enjoys her own company and would prefer to remain firmly outside of the limelight.”
So, it wasn’t only she who was good at judging other people, thought Pepper. She licked her lips. “You’re going to put the video on the internet?”
“I don’t want to,” said Mrs Hamilton. “And I promise it will never see the light of day if you do one thing for me.”
“Which is?” asked Pepper.
“Witches?” said Mrs Hamilton, her eyes wide. “Did you say witches?”
Pepper shook her head. “No,” she said. “I said which is? I was asking what the one thing you want me to do for you is.”
Mrs Hamilton bit her bottom lip and looked at Pepper with excited eyes. “I want you to come to my home and watch the video with me. I want to see your reaction when you watch it, and if you can convince me that what I see on that screen is not magic, then I promise I’ll destroy the recording. Likewise, if it transpires that you can’t convince me, yet you admit it was magic I saw, and you agree to show me how you do it in real life — then I’ll destroy the recording in that scenario too. You have my word. I’m not here to ruin your life. I have a good reason to be asking you these things, which I’ll explain after you’ve watched the recording with me.”
Knowing when not to argue, and trusting that fate had her best interests at heart, Pepper nodded her agreement. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll watch your nosy-parker-spy-film with you.”
As if not expecting the answer Pepper had given, Mrs Hamilton gasped. “Oh! Oh, how thrilling!” She peeled back the sleeve of her coat and glanced at the expensive looking watch on her wrist. “I have to be somewhere soon. Would you be able to make it to my house in an hour? I don’t need to ask you if you know where it is, but this time, please use the gate as a normal visitor would.”
Her wand pressing against her ribs as she leaned over her handlebars, Pepper agreed. “One hour. I’ll be there,” she promised.
“Oh,” said Mrs Hamilton. “I’ll need your name. What should I call you?”
“Pepper,” said Pepper. “My name is Pepper Grinder.”
“What a splendid name,” said Mrs Hamilton.
“Oh?” said Pepper.
Oh, yes, indeed,” replied Mrs Hamilton. “It suits you. It’s an unusual, yet strong name, for an unusual, yet strong character. I look forward to seeing you in one hour, Pepper Grinder.”
Chapter 28
Deciding that she didn’t have time to head home, drop her shopping off, and then cycle up the steep hill to Highridge House in less than an hour, Pepper decided to kill some time in the small café she’d seen on the high street. The Cup & Spoon was not only a café, but also a shop which sold fresh coffee beans from all over the world, along with equally well-travelled herbs and spices.
The mix of exotic aromas worked well for Pepper and helped ease the awful anxiety pangs she always experienced when she stepped into a public place she’d never been in before. She took a deep breath of the calming scents which poured out into the street and then stepped through the door.
Ordering, and paying for a coffee, advertised as being made from beans grown and harvested by a small farming family in Guatemala, Pepper settled into a rickety seat at a small round table next to the window and picked up the menu. She studied it intently, hoping her refusal to look up would fend off the woman sitting on the table near the doorway, who looked as if she was searching for a victim to begin a conversation with.
It appeared to work, and by the time Pepper had finished reading the sandwich section and had moved onto the ice-creams, the woman had engaged the young waitress in conversation and was explaining how it might be dangerous to drink grapefruit juice while taking the tablets the doctor had just prescribed her.
Silently congratulating the Guatemalan family on the quality of their beans, Pepper took another sip of the dark roast coffee, savouring the bitterness on her tongue.
Just as she was deciding whether to eat the little cinnamon biscuit which had come with her drink, she glanced out of the window and sat bolt upright when she saw who was walking from the police station door towards the blue estate car parked on the road outside.
Popping the biscuit in her mouth, and taking as large a sip of hot coffee as her burning tongue could handle, Pepper stood up and hurried out of the café, thanking the waitress as she brushed past her.
She hopped onto her bike and pedalled quickly across the road, shouting as the film director opened the driver’s door and prepared to climb inside the vehicle. “Mr Clementine!” she yelled. “You’re back in town! Wait there! Can I speak with you for a moment?”
Oswald brushed long blonde hair from his eyes and glanced upward as Pepper approached him. “Miss Grinder,” he said. “I don’t have any time to waste, I’m afraid. I have to be at Picklebury Airfield right away. Today is the day I film the final scene in The Pilot and The Potato Picker.”
“Oh,” said Pepper. “The last I heard, you were sacking all of your staff after telling them the film was no longer being made.”
“Yes, well,” said Oswald. “Things change. That phone call you witnessed me partaking in was as a result of a little misunderstanding. A hiccup, if you will. Things were back on track almost immediately, and I gave the crew some time off until today, when the Spitfire arrived.”
“I’m glad you got your plane,” said Pepper. “But do you mind if I ask you about something else?”
Oswald looked at his watch. “Please be quick,” he said. “I just wasted half an hour in the police station proving that I own the lights which were found in a cannabis farm beneath a vicarage of all places. You try proving you own a set of film lights when you have no serial numbers or receipt
s for them. Luckily, Sergeant Saxon was understanding in the end. I’ll be sending my son to pick them up later. I’m far too busy to be lugging heavy lights around, and I won’t be needing them for my final scene anyway.”
“Mr Clementine,” said Pepper. “I wanted to ask –”
“Oswald, please, Pepper,” he said. “You have a speaking part in my film, that gives you the right to call me by my christian name.”
“Okay, Oswald,” said Pepper. “I’d like to ask you about Stan Wilmot. I’d like to know what happened between you and him. Were –”
“I won’t answer another question about that,” snapped Oswald. “How could you even know about what went on between Stan and me? This is one of those towns, isn’t it? A town where everybody knows everybody else’s business. Well, Sergeant Saxon has just been asking me questions about that very same thing. Apparently, the drug lord vicar who had my lights in his possession mentioned the fact that he’d seen me in the allotments just before poor Stan died. I’ve told Sergeant Saxon that I regret what I did to Stan, but I meant him no malice, and that’s that. I’m sorry about my actions, and it must seem callous to the casual observer, but that’s that. It’s done, and I can’t take it back.”
As Oswald climbed into the car and slammed the door behind him, Pepper stared at him as he started the engine and drove quickly along High Street.
Bewildered, she attempted to piece together what Oswald Clementine had just told her. Had he just admitted to having hurt Stan in some way?
Had he just told her that the police had questioned him about it, and had let him walk out of the police station a free man? Oswald Clementine had pushed Stan, causing him to trip over his lace which had caused his death, and he’d spoken to Pepper about it as if he’d done nothing more than call Stan a rude name. That couldn’t be the case. Could it?
She glanced at her watch. She still had a full forty minutes before she had to be at Highridge House. She leaned her bike against the fence and bounded up the police station steps. When she barged her way into the waiting room, she was happy to see that Sergeant Saxon was standing behind the counter alongside the young male constable on desk duty.
Sergeant Saxon looked up as the door opened, and the smile slid from her face. “Miss Grinder,” she said. “What a pleasant surprise. How may the Picklebury Constabulary be of service to you today?”
“I’d like to know what you’ve just been talking to Oswald Clementine about,” said Pepper. “He’s just been talking about how much he regrets what he did to Stan. What did he do to Stan? Did he push him? I’d like to know please, Sergeant. I think that as a member of the public, I have a right to know.”
Sergeant Saxon shook her head. She placed both hands on her face and rubbed her eyes, before staring at Pepper. “I think I made it quite clear that I didn’t want you coming here again asking questions or making accusations. You do understand that police business is not for public consumption while an investigation is in progress? You have no right to know about the ins and outs of any investigation, Miss Grinder. Until the investigation is concluded, at least.”
“I think I have every right to know,” said Pepper. “A man died because he was pushed, and it’s your job to —”
“See Miss Grinder out, Constable Perkins,” ordered Sergeant Saxon. “I’ve just about had enough of listening to her trying to tell me how to do my job.” She looked at Pepper. “You could see yourself out of course, and save yourself the embarrassment of being escorted from the premises. I know how to do my job, Miss Grinder. I do not need you telling me how to do it. I’ve told you before, and I’m telling you again — please do not come here unless you wish to report a crime, or have valid information about a crime that has been committed. Goodbye, Miss Grinder.”
Pepper quickly ran through her options. Sergeant Saxon seemed very angry today, even for a woman prone to angry outbursts. Maybe it was hormonal, or perhaps it was just her genetic make-up, Pepper didn’t know. What she did know, was that she couldn’t stand there arguing with an angry policewoman all day — she had an appointment at Highridge House. She nodded. “I’ll see myself out, Sergeant Saxon,” she said. “Thank you for your time today. Good day.”
“I don’t know what to make of you, Miss Grinder,” said Sergeant Saxon, as Pepper hurried towards the door. “You’re certainly an enigma.”
As the doors swung closed behind her, Pepper took a breath of fresh air. An enigma? What did that even mean? There was nothing puzzling about her. She said things as they were, and expected the same from other people.
She shook her head as she walked to her bike and swung a leg over the seat. If anybody was an enigma, it was Sergeant Saxon — she seemed very reluctant to do the job of a police sergeant, yet wore the uniform quite proudly. If anything was puzzling, that was.
Pedalling quickly, Pepper put frustration from her mind and headed towards the lane which snaked its way up the hill towards Highridge House.
Leaving the small town behind her, she quickly cheered up as she navigated the small road sandwiched between dry stone walls. A red kite circled overhead, and hardy looking sheep grazed in the fields on either side of the lane.
She kept her eyes peeled as she puffed her way up the hill. The last time she’d followed the same road, when she’d been exploring her new home, and had happened upon Highridge House, she’d spotted a tiny weasel following a route along the top of a wall. She knew she’d be lucky to see one again, but she kept a lookout anyway as the hill steepened and it became harder to breathe.
As Highridge House came into view above her, Pepper decided that the names of some houses suited them, and the names of other houses were entirely inappropriate.
The name of Pepper’s cottage was completely appropriate, of course. It was, after all, a cottage with a glorious view of a meadow, so naming it Meadow View Cottage made complete sense. The name Highridge House also suited the home it was given to. It was, after all, a house built high on a ridge.
It was those little things that made perfect sense to Pepper, unlike the nonsensical things, like homes with inappropriate names — such as the little house named Rose View Cottage, which she’d passed as she was cycling out of town.
For a start, she wouldn’t have called the building a cottage, and even if it had been classed as such by an expert architect, there was certainly no view of any roses that Pepper had noticed. She’d even stood on tiptoe and looked over the tall wall into the back garden — to make sure no rose bushes were lurking back there.
She sighed as she pedalled. However hard she tried to put herself in the shoes of somebody willing to inappropriately name a building, she just couldn’t. The thought of misnaming a home sent shudders down her spine, and she shook the intrusive thoughts from her mind as the road levelled out and cycling became easier.
She slowed to a halt as she approached the tall gates of Highridge house. The last time she’d been there, she’d peered through the railings and had seen the struggling azalea which had been calling for help. This time, she saw Mrs Hamilton waving at her from outside the front door of the large house, at least seventy metres along a gravel driveway. “The gate’s open, Pepper Grinder!” she shouted. “I’m happy to see that you’re on time. I watched you from the window as you cycled up the hill. You must have quite a set of legs on you. That’s some hill to take at that speed!”
Pepper lifted the latch on the gate and pulled it. Then, she realised her mistake and pushed it instead. It swung open easily on maintained hinges, and Pepper made sure to secure the latch after closing it behind herself.
She crunched along the driveway, wheeling her bicycle, and paused for a moment to take a look at the azalea she’d replanted as she passed it. Mrs Hamilton had been correct — it did appear to be more healthy than the other plants in the garden, but that was what earth magic did to a plant. It made them healthy.
Mrs Hamilton gave Pepper a big smile as she leaned her bike against a wall at the base of the steps which led to the la
rge door. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I do appreciate it. I hope the way in which I got you here wasn’t too cruel. I didn’t mean to blackmail you, but I had to get you here. I have to know what’s on that video recording.”
Remembering that insurance companies always advised their customers never to admit liability in the case of an automobile accident, Pepper tried to maintain an air of innocence as she climbed the steps. “We’ll soon get to the bottom of what’s on that video recording,” she said. “And it won’t be what you think it is.”
Mrs Hamilton’s smile widened, and her eyes twinkled as she spoke to Pepper. “Most people would have thought I was mad if I’d accused them of using magic! You, on the other hand, seem to be taking it in your stride — as if speaking seriously about such a thing as magic is a normal part of your life. You don’t seem fazed at all. Why would that be?”
Pepper shrugged. “What can I say? Maybe I like unusual situations.”
“Well come on inside,” said Mrs Hamilton, standing aside to let Pepper pass. “Because I’ve got a fascinatingly unusual situation, captured on a computer hard drive, which I’d love you to look at.”
Mrs Hamilton slammed the door after Pepper and directed her towards an open door at the end of the long hallway. “Through there,” she said. “It’s my late husband’s study.”
That made sense. As soon as Pepper had entered the home, she’d sensed an emptiness within the walls. No television sounds came from a distant room, no radio boomed out upbeat tunes, and no cooking smells emanated from a busy family kitchen. Highridge house was quiet, and quite depressing if Pepper were honest. “You live on your own?” she asked, as she made her way towards the door, the thick carpet soft beneath her feet.
“I have friends!” said Mrs Hamilton.
“Oh,” said Pepper, taken aback. “I’m sure you do.”
