by Sam Short
“That didn’t sound how I meant it to,” said Mrs Hamilton. “It’s just that I’m so used to being nagged about getting friends by my brother and his wife, that I’m automatically on my defence when somebody asks about my living arrangements. In answer to your question, yes — I live alone. I have my cats, of course — what else would a widow living in a large empty house do without a few cats around to keep her company?”
“Cats make the best company,” said Pepper, sensing any personal barriers that Mrs Hamilton may have had crumbling into dust around her. She’d never understood why, but it seemed that people found it quite easy to tell Pepper all manner of personal things after having only known her for a short period of time. Jasmine had said it was a gift, but Pepper was convinced it was a chore. A curse, even.
“I’d be very lonely without my kitties,” continued Mrs Hamilton, as Pepper entered the study. She indicated two seats set next to a walnut desk with a computer monitor on it. “Please take a seat,” she offered.
As Pepper sat down, Mrs Hamilton pressed a button on the computer tower beneath the desk, and the monitor flickered into life. She placed her hand over the mouse and looked Pepper directly in the eyes, her finger hovering over the button. “Shall we get straight to the main event? The film we both came to watch?”
Pepper played with one of the spikes in her hair and nodded. “Why not?” she said.
Mrs Hamilton smiled, and her long painted fingernail tapped the mouse button. A window hovered on the screen, and then Pepper gave a small gasp of astonishment as the recording began playing. Sergeant Saxon had told her that the CCTV at Highridge House had been top of the range, but Pepper wasn’t expecting it to be of such high quality.
She felt a shameful heat rising in her cheeks as she watched herself throwing a bag of compost over the fence surrounding Highridge house, before checking her surroundings, presumably for onlookers, and clambering over the fence after it. She looked at Mrs Hamilton. “Do we need to watch it all?” she asked.
“I suppose not,” said Mrs Hamilton. “The next few minutes is just footage of you digging up my azalea and replanting it. The part I want you to look at is at the six-minute-and-thirty-four-second mark… which is…” She dragged the play bar a few centimetres to the right until the correct timestamp appeared in the window. “… Right here. Right after you’d replanted the azalea, and had compressed the compost around it. This is the part I’d like you to explain. Please watch it.”
Amazed at the clarity of the picture, but squirming as she watched herself in such high definition detail, Pepper did as Mrs Hamilton asked. She watched herself looking left and right, before reaching into her denim jacket and withdrawing her wand. Then she watched herself casting a spell.
In glorious technicolour, the spell fizzed from the end of her wand, twisting its way around the stem of the azalea, before burrowing into the ground where Pepper knew it had made a beeline for the roots. Then, Pepper watched with embarrassment as apparently not happy with just a single spell, she’d cast two more quite unnecessary spells which flew across the garden of Highridge House, each of them finding a landing spot amongst the long grass which crept up the perimeter fence. Knowing that among the grass, would be a few very healthy wildflowers, Pepper looked at Mrs Hamilton. “I think I look fatter on screen than I do in real life, do you think so?”
Mrs Hamilton paused the video and turned her seat so that she was facing Pepper. “Look,” she said. “I realise how difficult the situation you’re in might be. I understand it must be hard to admit to a stranger that you’re a witch, but I’m not just a stranger — I’m a stranger who has lived her life hearing rumours about her grandmother. Rumours that had always seemed like silly stories told by even sillier people, until I found something amongst my mother’s belongings after she died. Something I can’t explain away.”
“Oh.” said Pepper. “I’m sorry to hear that both your mother and husband have died.”
“My mother died a long time ago,” said Mrs Hamilton. “And I’m coming to terms with the loss of my husband. Thank you, but there’s no need for condolences. I’d like you to look at something, Pepper,” she said, sliding open the drawer near her right elbow. She reached into the drawer and took a deep breath before withdrawing her hand. “I’d like you to tell me if this is what I think it is. I’d like you to tell me if this is a magic wand.”
Chapter 29
The short length of crooked wood which Mrs Hamilton held between finger and thumb, certainly looked like a wand to Pepper. Well worn and polished, the short piece of wood looked like a talented craftsperson had created it.
Had she been blind, Pepper guessed she would have still had no problem in identifying the piece of wood as a wand. Like any magical artefact, it was surrounded by what Pepper regarded to be a magical field. An aura, almost. An aura which tapped into Pepper’s deep-seated magical instincts.
She wondered for a moment whether she was being tested by some sort of magical committee, trying to establish if Pepper could be tempted into revealing she was a witch by a non-magical person. The idea was ludicrous on many levels, but just in case, she attempted to keep her face emotionless as she spoke to Mrs Hamilton. “You think that little piece of wood is a magic wand?” she asked.
“Please, Pepper,” said Mrs Hamilton. “Don’t play games. I’ve seen the video of you in my garden, and there was always a rumour in my family that my grandmother was blessed with what some people referred to as magic. My mother always laughed at the rumours, and when my grandmother died, this beautiful piece of wood in my hand was put away and lost until my mother passed. I remember seeing it in my grandmother’s hands when I was a little girl, but after my grandmother died, I forgot all about it until I found it at the bottom of the box in my mother’s wardrobe.” She leaned closer to Pepper, and gave her a peculiar smile. “When I reached into the box and touched this little stick, something strange happened. Something… magical happened.”
“What happened?” asked Pepper, curious despite her misgivings.
“A spark!” said Mrs Hamilton. “A spark glowed at the tip! Not a green spark like the ones I saw you producing with your wand. This one was red. Bright red. It was beautiful and scary, and I didn’t know what was happening, so I dropped it. And then I picked it up again, but nothing happened, I couldn’t make it produce a spark again. Then I started recalling the little anecdotes I’d heard about my grandmother. Just silly little stories, but stories that began making more sense after I saw that tiny spark.”
“What sort of stories?” asked Pepper, a sucker for a good tale herself.
“Stories like the one I heard from my grandfather before he died,” said Mrs Hamilton. “He told me that on one Christmas morning, their cooker stopped working. Grandad couldn’t mend it, and there was no chance of getting anybody to repair it on Christmas morning. Especially all those years ago. Grandad had resigned himself to sandwiches for lunch, but to his and his children’s surprise, my grandmother managed to produce a beautifully cooked Christmas dinner with all the trimmings, and all prepared within a few minutes, with the kitchen door closed and everybody with strict orders not to enter.
“Grandad told me that he’d seen her do things like that before, he said he’d seen her using her cooking stick. Her magic cooking stick, he called it.” Mrs Hamilton peered at the wand in her hand and rotated it between her finger and thumb. “This is what he meant. This is my grandmother’s magic cooking stick.”
Pepper gazed at the wand. If the cooking stories were true, it seemed that Mrs Hamilton’s grandmother had been a witch gifted in the use of fire magic. A witch with such skills would have had no problem in roasting a turkey and a few potatoes with a simple fire spell.
If it was true that Mrs Hamilton had produced a spark when she’d first touched the wand, it was quite evident that her grandmother’s magic had been passed down the family line. Before she gave Mrs Hamilton that information, though, she’d need more proof that she was indeed from a
magical family. “Do you have a candle?” she enquired.
“A candle?” said Mrs Hamilton. “Of course I have a candle. We’re in an area prone to electricity cuts during the winter. I have candles in every room. There’s one right there, on the shelf.”
“Would you light it, please?” asked Pepper.
Mrs Hamilton placed the wand on the desk and stood up. She hurried to the shelf laden with bric-a-brac. “Is the candle for a magical ceremony?” she asked, excitedly.
“Something like that,” said Pepper, watching as Mrs Hamilton picked up a box of matches from alongside the little glass jar containing the candle. Her hand trembled as she struck a match and held the flame to the wick.
“There, it’s lit.”
“Bring it here, please,” said Pepper. “Put it on the desk.”
Mrs Hamilton carried the candle carefully, shielding the flame with a cupped hand. She placed it on the desk and sat down. “What’s it for?” she whispered, her eyes like saucers.
“Hold your grandmother’s stick in your right hand, please, Mrs Hamilton,” instructed Pepper.
“Okay,” said Mrs Hamilton, holding the wand as instructed. “Now what?”
“Hold your left hand directly above the candle flame, please,” said Pepper.
“But it will burn!” protested Mrs Hamilton. She half closed her eyes and peered at Pepper from beneath eyelids that were painted green. “Won’t it?”
“Maybe,” said Pepper. “Maybe not. Why don’t you try?”
Mrs Hamilton nodded and moved her hand, palm down, towards the tall, dancing flame. Sure that if Mrs Hamilton had been telling the truth about producing a spark from the wand, she’d come to no harm from a simple candle flame, Pepper watched intently as the soft flesh of Mrs Hamilton’s palm rested directly at the tip of the flame.
“It doesn’t hurt!” said Mrs Hamilton after a few seconds. “Why doesn’t it hurt?”
Before Pepper could answer, the wand in Mrs Hamilton’s right hand quivered, and a flood of dazzling red lights spewed from the tip, dancing in the air before landing on the desk where they fizzed and bounced.
Mrs Hamilton dropped the wand in shock and immediately snatched her left hand away from the flame. She gave a gasp of pain and stared at the wand, which lay lifeless on the desk. “What just happened?” she mumbled. “What just happened, Pepper?”
Pepper raised an approving eyebrow. “Your magic channelled the power of the flame through your body and into the wand. When you dropped the wand, the flame had nowhere to go, so it burned you.” She put a smile on her face which she hoped conveyed the momentousness of the occasion. “Mrs Hamilton, you’re a witch. A fire witch.” Wondering if a small round of applause would be overkill, she clasped her hands tightly together instead and waited for Mrs Hamilton’s response.
“I’m a witch?” said Mrs Hamilton, her jaw dropping and her eyebrows heading in the opposite direction. “I’m a witch?”
“Oh yes,” said Pepper. “There’s no doubt. Congratulations.”
“I’m a witch! I’m a witch!” squealed Mrs Hamilton, her voice too shrill for Pepper’s ears.
Pepper nodded. “Yes. You are”
Mrs Hamilton stood up, her hand grazing the mouse button as she grabbed the wand from the desk. “I’m a witch! I’m a witch! Oh my! I never would have imagined it! I’m a witch! My husband was right, although he wasn’t being polite when he used that terminology to describe me. If he’s watching me now, he’ll be having a good old laugh! I’m a witch! What can I do? Can I fly? Can witches fly? Can I turn Mrs Webster from Birchwood Manor House into a frog? No — a toad!”
Pepper wasn’t being rude by not answering, and she would get around to answering any questions Mrs Hamilton had for her. Of course she would, but for the time being, her full concentration was on the computer screen.
When Mrs Hamilton had brushed the mouse button, the video of Pepper casting a spell in the garden had begun playing again, but this time, instead of watching herself, Pepper concentrated on the top of the screen — the portion of the screen which showed the view across the valley towards Upper Picklebury Community Centre and the allotment gardens opposite.
She watched in fascination as she was able to make out the dark shape of somebody walking along the pavement near the community hall, and was even able to make out the colour and shape of a car that passed by on the road. The CCTV cameras really were state of the art.
Grabbing the mouse and pushing it towards Mrs Hamilton, Pepper stared directly into her eyes. “I promise I’ll tell you everything you want to know, and I promise I’ll help you come to terms with being a witch, but for the time being, I need your attention right here with me. I’d like you to find me the recording which was taken by this camera last Thursday evening. The same evening that Stan Wilmot died. It could be very important.”
Chapter 30
“What part of the recording would you like me to find?” asked Mrs Hamilton, her left hand on the mouse and her right hand clutching her wand tightly. She dragged the cursor another few centimetres to the right. “That’s six o’clock,” she said.
“I’m not sure what time I’m looking for, can you press play and speed it up a little?” asked Pepper. “I’ll tell you when to stop.”
“And you say this might help prove that Stan’s death wasn’t an accident?” asked Mrs Hamilton, watching the screen. “Why on earth would you think it wasn’t an accident? I heard through the grapevine that he tripped on his shoelace and impaled himself on a rake in his shed.”
“And I heard from a different grapevine,” said Pepper, “that he was pushed, and it was the push that caused him to trip on his shoelace. So, although not a victim of murder, Stan might be the victim of manslaughter.”
Although the images the camera had captured of Highridge House garden were of high definition, the images it had recorded on the other side of the valley were pixelated and much harder to find detail in. Although Mrs Hamilton had enlarged the little window the video was playing in, and had zoomed in on the top portion of the screen, making everything larger, it was still difficult to discern details.
As the video time bar moved forward, Pepper pointed at the screen. “That’s me!” she said. “I’d just pushed my bike through Horseshoe Woods. Stan’s shed is hidden from view by the hedge, but you’ll see me cross the road in a moment and speak to him and two other men who were arguing.”
Mrs Hamilton moved her face closer to the screen. “Are you sure that’s you?” she asked. “It’s hard to make out any details, although I do believe I can see short hair.”
“It’s me,” said Pepper. “It’s definitely me. Can you speed the recording up, please?”
Mrs Hamilton clicked the mouse button, and the image of Pepper crossing the road moved faster. She watched herself pausing at the allotment fence, the place from which she’d shouted at Percy and Harry when she’d thought violence was about to erupt, and then she watched herself wheeling her bike towards the community hall. She pointed at the screen. “See those two people walking up the hill? That’s Harry and Percy. They’d just been arguing with Stan about potatoes, if what they said was true, we should see a blue car turning into the car park as they’re leaving.”
Mrs Hamilton nodded, concentrating on the screen. “Who’s that?” she asked, tapping the monitor with the tip of her wand. “Look, somebody in black clothing is sneaking around.”
“That will be Father Dominic,” said Pepper. “He must have come in through the back gate.”
“Oh,” said Mrs Hamilton. “I’ve heard all about what Father Dominic has been up to! Fancy that, growing cannabis beneath the old vicarage. His poor wife! What was he doing at the allotments, though? Getting tips on how to grow his cannabis?”
Pepper watched as the dark figure vanished from sight behind a hedge, presumably making his way to Stan’s shed. “If we’re to believe what Father Dominic told us, he was visiting Stan to pay him for some stolen property.”
“Stolen pr
operty and cannabis?” said Mrs Hamilton. “What an awful vicar.”
“He was also giving Stan his cannabis to sell for him,” explained Pepper. “Between them, they must have been making quite a bit of money.”
“You think you know somebody,” observed Mrs Hamilton. She paused and pointed to the top right of the screen. “Look, the blue car you said would be arriving. It almost crashed into the car which is leaving.”
“Harry and Percy’s car,” explained Pepper. “Now, if everything goes the way I’m expecting it to, we should see somebody walking toward Stan’s shed, and then we should see Father Dominic sneaking away. He didn’t want to be seen with Stan, you see. In case Stan was ever caught selling the cannabis Father Dominic had grown. He had a reputation to keep, didn’t he?”
Mrs Hamilton gave a short laugh laced with sarcasm. “His reputation is in tatters now,” she noted. She pointed at the top of the screen again. “Look, somebody is walking down the hill, just like you said they would.”
Pepper moved her face closer to the screen in an attempt to make out more details, but the shape she saw was just a blur of pixels. If she looked very carefully, she supposed she could make out that the person had long hair. Oswald Clementine, it had to be. “And there goes Father Dominic,” she said noticing movement at the bottom of the screen.
“He must have seen that person approaching,” said Mrs Hamilton. “He’s certainly doing his best to stay out of sight, he’s almost bent over double.”
“He had a lot to hide,” said Pepper, watching as Oswald Clementine hurried along the pathway which led to Stan’s shed. As the film director disappeared behind the hedge, Pepper set back in her seat and sighed. “I think this might be the moment in which Stan died. I believe that some sort of argument is going on out of view of the camera, and I believe that Stan was pushed as a result of that argument.”
Half a minute passed, and then Mrs Hamilton gasped. “Oh!” she said. “Look! Whoever it is is running away! You might be right! Why would that person be running away unless they’d done something terrible?”
