by Sam Short
“Dolphins,” said Judith. “We have a resident population. People come from all over to watch them playing in the surf.”
Using a hand to shield her eyes from the bright sun, Millie stared out to sea. “I see them!” she said, pointing. “Look! A long way out, near that red boat — I saw one jump!”
Judith laughed. “Forgive me for not sharing in your enthusiasm,” she said, “but we’re pretty used to seeing dolphins in the bay. They’re exciting for the first fifty times, but then it gets a little… samey.”
Sergeant Spencer stepped out of the path of a woman pushing a pram. “Is it the first time you’ve seen dolphins in the wild, Millie?” he said.
“I think so,” said Millie, walking alongside Judith. “But I’m not sure. The more I watch them, the more I think I’ve been here before.”
“Been here?” said Sergeant Spencer. “Spellbinder Bay?”
“It’s just déjà vu,” said Millie, shaking her head. “I get it sometimes. I’ve never been here before, maybe my mother took me somewhere like it when I was little. Somewhere similar.”
“It’s a pretty standard seaside town,” said Judith. “They all look a little similar, especially the harbours.”
That was true, but as Millie looked up at Spellbinder Hall, perched high on the cliff to her left, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d seen that view before. A long time ago.
She stepped to the right, avoiding a collision with an elderly couple sharing a cone of chips, and shook her head. Of course she’d never been there before. Déjà vu could be very convincing, but ultimately it was a simple misunderstanding in the brain — a mix up of memories, probably brought on by smells, sights, and sounds.
“There’s Jim,” said Sergeant Spencer, interrupting Millie’s chain of thought. “And you don’t need to be a skilled policeman to come to the conclusion that he hasn’t got to the bottom of his missing lobster problems yet.”
Jim was still kicking lobster pots when they arrived at his boat. The tall man swore once or twice, and placed his hat back on his head when he saw them. “Finally,” he said, his eyes on Sergeant Spencer. “You’ve come to investigate what I reported a fortnight ago!” He looked at Millie and Judith, and his expression softened. “And you’ve brought back up, I see. Hello Judith.”
“Hi, Jim,” said Judith.
He turned to Millie, his weathered skin and sun-kissed complexion suggesting he’d been working outdoors for most of his life, and judging by the wrinkles beneath his eyes, and the slight stoop in his posture, Millie guessed it had been a long time. “We haven’t had the pleasure,” he said.
“This is Millie,” said Sergeant Spencer. “She’s new in town.”
“Welcome to Spellbinder Bay, Millie,” said Jim, with a friendly wink. “Are you part of Sergeant Spencer’s unorthodox investigative team?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” said Millie. “But thanks for the welcome. It’s a lovely town.”
This part of it, anyway. The part that wasn’t Spellbinder Hall.
Jim kicked another lobster pot, the empty cage rattling across the stone quayside. “I mean, not many towns have a police sergeant who more than occasionally takes his daughter to work with him. Are you a new member of the little family police team?”
“No, she’s not, Jim,” said Sergeant Spencer. “Not that it matters.”
“It doesn’t matter at all,” said Jim. “Quite the opposite. The townspeople like having such a small and friendly police force.” He crossed his arms across his chest and nodded towards the scattered lobster pots. “When they do their job properly. I hope you’ve come to tell me you’ve caught the bugger who’s been stealing my catch.”
Sergeant Spencer shook his head. “Not quite, Jim. I’m here concerning the death of Albert Salmon.”
Jim frowned. “We never saw eye to eye, me and Albert — ever since he came to this town — but I wouldn’t wish death on my worse enemy. Especially from a fall like that. He didn’t stand a chance. Lost his balance did he? That old wooden leg of his finally give up?”
Sergeant Spencer took a step closer to Jim. “Not quite. We believe he was pushed. We have a witness who says she saw somebody on the balcony with Albert, and we found finger marks on his wrists — as if he’d been in a struggle. He was murdered, Jim.”
“What? Murdered! And what’s that got to do with why you’re here?” He took a slow step backwards, realisation evident in his thin smile. “Oh, I see! You think it might be me! Some busybody told you I was up at the lighthouse arguing with him, did they? You think I murdered Albert!”
“I have to ask questions of anybody who was at the lighthouse, Jim,” said Sergeant Spencer. “You can understand that?”
Jim dropped his arms to his side. “Aye. Of course I can. I’ll do anything I can to help. I’m not proud that the last words I spoke to him were accusing him of something he never did. He died yesterday, and my pots were raided again last night. It wasn’t him, and I shouldn’t have gone accusing him without any proof.”
“Why did you think it was Albert?” asked Judith. “He could hardly get out of that lighthouse as he got older. People even had to take him supplies — why did you think he was capable of it?”
Jim shook his head. “I don’t know. I was irrational. My most productive pots have always been the ones I’ve dropped near the lighthouse. I began dropping all my pots in that area a year ago. The lobsters like the rocks, you see? They can hide away. All Albert needed to do was hop in that beat up old rowing boat of his and he’d have been on my pots in minutes. I didn’t think it through, but anger does that to a man, you know? It clouds his judgement. If I could apologise to him, I would.”
“Why was there bad blood between you and Albert?” asked Millie, uncertain whether she was overstepping the mark by asking a question.
Nobody seemed to mind, and Sergeant Spencer kept his eyes on Jim as he answered. “He was just one of those people, you know? He and Betty moved here about fifteen years ago. They bought the lighthouse for cheap just after it was decommissioned. I went up to see them a few times during the first year they lived there. They kept themselves to themselves, you see, and with Albert’s wooden leg, and Betty and her spine and balance problems, it seemed a daft place to live with all those stairs. They didn’t want my help though. They didn’t want anyone’s help back then. Albert would come into town on his boat when they needed anything, and Betty hardly left the place. Rapunzel, we called her — trapped in that tower like she was.”
“That was the extent of your argument with him?” said Judith. “The fact that he didn’t want any help?”
Jim looked at the floor. “Not really,” he said. “There was more to it than that. I interfered where I wasn’t needed. My wife worked for the council before she died. She worked in housing — helping people with disabilities and such like get adequate housing. I asked her if she could help, and she did. She found them a lovely bungalow, with a sea view and everything. A lovely garden — the works. They didn’t want it, though. Well, Albert didn’t.”
“What happened?“ said Millie.
“Betty was over the moon!” said Jim. “She wanted to move, but Albert was having none of it. He pushed me up against a wall and told me to keep my nose out of their business, said they liked the safety of the lighthouse, said they didn’t want people nosing around. I would have punched him if it wasn’t for poor Betty. She stood next to Albert, trying to pull him off me, telling him they’d stay in the lighthouse. Telling him she’d do what he wanted. That poor woman never liked it there, I’m sure.”
“I had no idea,” said Sergeant Spencer. “Poor Betty.”
“Not many people did know what was going on, Sergeant,” said Jim. “They kept themselves private since then, until Betty died and Albert’s health deteriorated. Only then did Albert start asking for help every now and again. He even put the lighthouse up for sale for a brief period, but decided against selling it when he got an offer. He went downhill after
that.”
“How sad,” said Millie.
“Sad indeed,” said Jim, staring out to sea. He ran a large finger beneath his eye, and glanced at the wedding ring on his finger. “Life can be very sad indeed.”
Millie stumbled, and Sergeant Spencer prevented her from falling with a hand on her back.
“Watch yourself, young Millie,” said Jim. “This is a harbour — plenty of trip hazards here.”
“Yes. Yes… I tripped on something,” said Millie, her eyes moist with tears. “Silly me.”
Sergeant Spencer took his note book from his pocket. “I’m sorry to have to ask this, Jim, but where were you yesterday, after you visited Albert?”
“Right here,” said Jim. “My boat engine needed a service. The young fella from the boatyard brought me out some filters and plugs and helped me fit them. We were here all afternoon, you can ask him.”
Millie heard Sergeant Spencer close his notebook, but she’d turned away, staring out to sea — a hot tear running down her cheek. She took a deep breath. What had just happened? When Jim had looked at his ring, Millie had been overcome with emotion. Emotion so intense it had caused her to stumble. Emotion so awfully sad that it had brought pain to her heart.
It hadn’t been her emotions, though. It had been Jim’s emotions. Jim’s thought.
It was true what she’d been told in Spellbinder Hall the night before. She could read people’s thoughts. She closed her eyes. The magic in Spellbinder Bay was real.
The last slivers of doubt left Millie. She did possess some sort of power. She had magic. She spoke quietly, allowing her whisper to blow out to sea on the wind. “I am a witch,” she said.
Chapter 14
Sergeant Spencer unlocked the door. “And you're certain you locked this door before you left?” he said, pocketing the key Millie had given him when she'd first reported Albert's fall to the police.
Millie nodded. "When Albert gave me the key he was insistent that I locked the door after me. Nobody could have got into the building after I'd left. Not without a key.”
Judith took a step backwards and gazed up at the tall building. “So, we've got a locked lighthouse mystery! It's like being in one of those cheesy television detective shows," she said. "And you’re sure there was nobody in the lighthouse apart from you, Albert, and George?”
“As sure as I can be," said Millie. “Me and George only went up as far as the second floor, but I'm sure Albert would have known if somebody had sneaked in. Anyway — he seemed serious about his security. Jim Grayson confirmed that much.”
Sergeant Spencer pushed the heavy steel door open. "Okay," he said. "I had a cursory look around when Millie reported seeing Albert falling, but not a proper look. To be honest, I thought Albert had just gone out somewhere, and Millie had imagined the whole thing.“ He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small packet of plastic gloves. He handed a pair each to Millie and Judith, and proceeded to put one on himself. "We'll do this properly. I'll start at the top — where he was pushed from, and work my way down. You two begin down here. If you find anything, try not to touch it, and let me know.”
"What are we looking for?" said Millie, struggling to coax her fingers into the tight latex.
"Nothing and everything," said Sergeant Spencer. "The best clues are always the most innocuous. If something seems out of place, then treat it as suspicious."
The three of them stepped into the building, and Judith wrinkled her nose. "It's a bit smelly in here," she said. “I wouldn’t like to live in a building with that sort of smell greeting me every time I came home.”
"It's an old building," said Sergeant Spencer, looking around. “Built right next to the sea. I'd be more surprised if it didn't smell a bit damp." He withdrew his notebook from his breast pocket and flicked it open. "Before we start searching, let's just refresh our memories." He looked at the page. “You and George came here to deliver Albert his supplies, Millie. You stayed for a few minutes. And then George left before you, on his motorbike. Is that right?“
"That's right," confirmed Millie.
"While you were here," Sergeant Spencer continued, "Albert told you he'd argued with Edna Brockett and Jim Grayson, and he'd thrown out a tradesman that morning for being too noisy?"
"Yes," said Millie. "I thought it was cute that he used the word tradesman. He didn’t elaborate on what sort of tradesman it was.“
"He was from a different generation," said Sergeant Spencer. "What else did he tell you?"
“He mentioned a blonde woman," said Millie. "He'd seen her skulking — his word, not mine — around the lighthouse."
Sergeant Spencer nodded, turning the page. "I was getting to that," he said. "It says here that Albert told you he didn't recognise her, so we can assume it's nobody he knows well, if at all.”
"That's what he said," said Millie. "As far as I can remember. I’d just arrived in town, though, for reasons I didn't understand. I wasn’t thinking straight. Maybe I didn’t listen to everything Albert said. George might remember more than I do.”
"I've already spoken to George," said Sergeant Spencer, closing his notebook and placing it back in his pocket. "He says the same as you, although he says he heard Albert call your name as you were leaving? He says Albert told you something, but George didn't want to eavesdrop on your conversation.”
"He told me not to go on George’s motorbike," said Millie. "That was all. Albert lost his leg in a motorbike accident, he was just trying to warn me of the dangers. I thought it was nice of him.”
"He told you that?" said Sergeant Spencer. "You should feel honoured. As far as I know nobody knows how he lost his leg. There’s been a lot of speculation and guesses, but nobody was certain of the real reason. Nobody I know of, anyway. Most people think it was down to a health problem — I heard rumours that he was a recovering alcoholic when he arrived in Spellbinder Bay."
"That makes sense," said Millie. "I promised him I'd bake for him. He was adamant I didn't add any alcohol to any of the cake mixes."
"Such a shame," said Judith, opening a cardboard box placed on a rickety table. "He was worried enough about his health to not want alcohol in his cakes, and he ends up being pushed off the top of his own lighthouse. It seems… unfair.“
"Sergeant Spencer took his hat off and hung it on a brass hook next to the door. "It is a shame," he said. “And very unfair. So, let's see what we can do to get him some justice. I'll head up to the light-room. You girls get started down here."
As Sergeant Spencer headed up the spiral staircase, his heavy boots clanking on metal, Millie helped Judith search the cluttered ground floor. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, although ordinary by Albert Salmon’s standards, may not have seemed ordinary to most people.
The first box Millie searched contained a carefully wrapped collection of glass paperweights, and an equally well protected collection of vintage cigarette lighters — one in the shape of a handgun, and another in the shape of an aeroplane.
Judith prised open an old tin biscuit container, to reveal a collection of postcards which would have been considered risqué when Albert was a young man. Millie laughed as Judith held up a card portraying a young brunette woman standing outside a greengrocer’s shop, holding two large pieces of fruit against her chest.
A short balding elderly man gazed on, his eyes wide open, commenting on the size of the young lady’s melons, as his wife prepared to hit him over his head with her rolled up umbrella.
It seemed that either Albert, Betty, or both, had been hoarders, and Millie quickly concluded that there was no point in searching through every box and pot in the room. Using the questionable skills she’d learnt from television detective shows, she scoured the floor — checking for giveaway footprints or discarded cigarette butts which, on television, always led to the villain.
Having found nothing of interest on the ground floor, Judith and Millie ascended the spiral staircase and began searching the cosy living room.
"He enjoyed readi
ng," noted Judith, running a finger over the book spines which lined the bookcase beneath the stairway.
"And art," said Millie, impressed by some of the framed watercolours which hung on the wall, depicting what Millie guessed were Scottish mountains and lochs.
It took a skilled artist to use watercolour well, and the pictures were unsigned, leading Millie to wonder whether perhaps they were the work of either Albert or Betty.
Judith sighed. "It's horrible, isn't it? To think that all these belongings were owned by an old man who was pushed to his death.”
Millie opened a drawer in a small oak sideboard. "Too horrible to think about," she said, flicking through a stack of business cards, the uppermost card crisp and new, and the rest of the pile dog-eared.
She placed the cards on top of the sideboard, and withdrew a well stuffed tatty old envelope which had been pushed towards the rear of the draw. Withdrawing the contents, she took a seat in a comfy armchair. "Look at these," she said, flicking through the sheets of paper. "Letters. And lots of them." She unfolded the bottommost letter in the stack. "This one's from nineteen-fifty-four. It's from Betty."
"A love letter?" said Judith, with a smile. "They’d been together for that long?"
Millie scanned the first few lines of the letter and folded it closed. "Yes," she said. "It's a love letter, but I’m not going to read it. It's private and it won't help us with what we’re looking for."
Judith sat down next to Millie. "Let's look through them all at least. Maybe we'll find a clue. There doesn’t seem to be anything else of interest in this room."
“A quick look won’t do any harm,” said Millie. She kept the top half of the stack to herself, and handed the rest of the letters to Judith. "This feels very intrusive," she said. "We’ll read the first few lines of each letter, and if they’re too personal, we’ll stop."
