by Sam Short
Aware that all eyes were on her, Millie shifted her weight between both feet, already conscious of the stifling guilt that always followed a loss of temper. No, not guilt. Shame. Shame that burned in her face, and shame that would linger within her for days. She dropped her eyes from Fredrick’s face. “I didn’t mean to be so angry,” she said, in way of an apology. “It’s been a long day.”
“That’s fine,” said Fredrick, his expression indecipherable. He looked towards Judith. “Of course you may attend the autopsy. Millie may, too, if she desires. We all wish to find out what happened to Trevor.” He turned his head towards Sergeant Spencer and gave the policeman a dry smile. “We all share the opinion that your father isn’t capable of murder, Judith, but we must gather the proof to present to the small-minded people who might believe otherwise when the news about what happened becomes common knowledge. It would be unwise to involve your father in that process. I hope you understand, Judith.”
Judith nodded. “I understand. I just want to get on with finding out what happened to Trevor.”
“You won’t find anything out standing around here,” noted Sergeant Spencer. “You’d all better go. Get the autopsy done. I’ll lock up and go home. The police station is a murder scene now, anyway, and I think it’s best that I remove myself from duty for the time being.”
“You’re a good man, Sergeant,” said Timothy, thrusting a chubby hand towards the policeman. “And you’ll be back at work in no time at all, when we find out what really happened here tonight!”
Smiling, Sergeant Spencer took Timothy’s hand in his, shaking it vigorously. “Thank you, Timothy,” he said. “I have every confidence in each of you to discover how Trevor Giles ended up dead on the floor of my cell.”
“Rest assured, we’ll have an answer about what exactly happened to Trevor soon enough,” said Timothy, releasing Sergeant Spencer’s hand and pushing his glasses along his nose. His face suddenly changed and he sniffed the air, his eyes narrowing. “Hmmm, peculiar,” he said, putting his hand to his nose and smelling his fingers.
“What’s peculiar?” asked Judith.
Timothy sniffed his hand again, looking at Sergeant Spencer as he did so. “There’s a smell on my hand,” he said. “The same smell I picked up on Trevor’s body… the scent of herbs. Only this time it’s stronger.”
“The smell which you thought might be poison?” asked Fredrick, his face darkening.
“Yes,” murmured Timothy. “The smell coming from Trevor’s mouth, but strangely, the scent on my hand is even stronger than it was on Trevor.”
“Did you pick it up from Trevor?” asked Judith.
“I hardly touched his body,” said Timothy, “and the smell was emanating from Trevor’s mouth... rising from his stomach. The smell on my hand is stronger, more potent. As if I’d touched the source of the smell.”
“So where did it come from?” asked Judith.
Timothy gave Sergeant Spencer a searching look. “May I smell your right hand, please?” he asked. “In fact, may I smell both of your hands?”
Chapter 13
“What’s wrong?” said Judith. “Why do you want to smell my father’s hands, Timothy?”
Judith may not have understood, but Millie did, and she also understood why Timothy had suddenly become rigid, the muscles beneath the plump folds of his neck visibly tense. He was suspicious. Suspicious of Sergeant Spencer. Suspicious of her father.
Politely ignoring Judith, Timothy took a step closer to the policeman. “Would you mind, Sergeant?” he asked.
“What’s going on?” demanded Judith. She paused, her mouth suddenly opening in a gasp. “You think my dad has the poison... or whatever it is, on his hands, don’t you?”
Holding up his right hand, Sergeant Spencer smiled at Judith. “If I have got traces of whatever it is that killed Trevor on my hands, then I’d like to know.” He smiled at Timothy, holding his hand higher. “Smell away, Timothy, but if you have traces of a poison that killed another werewolf on your hand, shouldn’t you be worried?”
“If it is poison, I’d be dead already if it could kill through contact with the skin, and I don’t intend on putting my hands anywhere near my mouth until they’ve been thoroughly washed,” said Timothy, moving his face toward Sergeant Spencer’s raised hand, his nostrils flared.
As Timothy sniffed, Sergeant Spencer turned his hand slowly, allowing Timothy to smell his fingers and palm. “Well?” he said, as Timothy drew away from him.
Timothy turned to face Fredrick, confusion on his face. “The scent is very strong on the sergeant’s hand,” he said. “I believe that if it is the scent of a poison which killed Trevor, then Sergeant Spencer definitely had some form of contact with it.”
“What are you saying?” said Judith. “What are you insinuating?”
“I’m not insinuating anything,” promised Timothy. “I’m just stating facts. I can smell the same mixture of herbs that emanated from Trevor’s mouth, on Sergeant Spencer’s hands.”
“Can you explain this turn of events Sergeant Spencer?” asked Fredrick, the skin around his mouth taut. “Maybe there is a logical explanation.”
Sergeant Spencer looked at his hands. “I did put my fingers in Trevor’s throat when I found him on the cell floor. I thought he’d choked on some food, so I looked for an obstruction. Maybe the smell got on my hands then? I washed them afterwards, but maybe it’s one of those scents that washing doesn’t remove? Other than that possibility, I have no idea how it got there.”
An expression of contemplation on his face, Fredrick nodded. “Okay, Sergeant,” he said. “That would make sense.” He gave Timothy an enquiring look. “What do you think, Timothy? Does that explanation make sense to you?”
“I suppose so,” said Timothy, his eyes flitting from Fredrick to Sergeant Spencer. “There’s no other logical explanation. At the moment.”
“What about me?” said Judith, thrusting her hand towards Timothy’s face. “Have I got the scent on my skin? I handled the cakes as well. I even ate some of the muffin.”
“You did?” said Sergeant Spencer.
“Yes,” said Judith, as Timothy sniffed her fingers. “When you weren’t looking. I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t think Trevor deserved a plate of cakes — but he didn’t like cream cakes, so I knew he’d only eat the muffin. So, I took a bite, just to be… childish, I suppose.”
Sergeant Spencer hurried toward his daughter, his eyes frightened. “Do you feel okay? You think that muffin had poison in it, and you’ve taken a bite of it!”
“I’m fine, Dad,” said Judith. “Timothy thinks the poison could have been designed purely to target werewolves.”
“But I don’t think Judith need worry anyway,” said Timothy. “There’s no scent of any herbs on her hands, and the smell was so potent I’d smell it on her breath when she spoke if she’d ingested any. I don’t think the muffin had any poison in it when Judith took a bite.”
Sergeant Spencer looked at his hands. “Then if the muffin was poisoned, the poison was added after Judith had left the police station, and the scent of whatever it was is on my hands.” He looked up. “I don’t understand.”
“You didn’t see Judith take a bite of the muffin,” said Millie, “so it goes to say that maybe you wouldn’t have seen somebody sneak into the police station and poison the cake.”
“I don’t see how,” said Sergeant Spencer. “There were only a few minutes between Judith leaving and me giving the cakes to Trevor. Nobody could have sneaked into the police station and poisoned the muffin in such a short space of time. I didn’t leave the plate unattended, anyway.” He shook his head. “It’s impossible.”
“Impossible for a human,” suggested Millie. “But not for somebody with paranormal qualities. Think about it… a vampire can move very quickly and very quietly, and some witches are very good at invisibility spells.”
“Not to mention ghosts,” added Judith.
“It’s worth considering the fact
that a vampire or witch may have sneaked into the building,” admitted Timothy. “But it would take a ghost with tremendous willpower to carry off such a feat. Ghosts can manipulate solid objects if they try hard enough, but to transport a vial of poison would be an almost impossible feat for most ghosts. Any apparition attempting to transport an object would need to be highly motivated. It’s very difficult for a spirit to make itself felt in our dimension — either through touch, or manipulation of objects.”
“But anything is worth considering at the moment,” said Millie. “However fanciful it may sound.”
“I agree,” said Frederick. “We must consider all possibilities.” He cast a surreptitious glance in Sergeant Spencer’s direction, unseen by Judith or her father, but spotted by Millie. “Although I think it would be foolish to stray too far from logic.”
“None of what has happened sounds logical to me,” protested Judith. “There has to be an explanation which isn’t logical.”
“Might I suggest we save conversations such as this for after an autopsy has been performed on Mister Giles,” said Fredrick, sliding a hand into a glove. “We are speculating, without understanding what it is we are speculating about.” He looked towards the door. “I have the body of a man in my vehicle. I think it’s about time I got it back to Spellbinder Hall.”
Stepping out of the police station, Millie gave an involuntary shiver. She’d rushed from her cottage without a coat when Judith had phoned her, and with no cloud cover to trap the warmth of the day, the night air had a crisp edge as sharp as a knife.
As Timothy stepped onto the pavement, he gazed up at the moon and rolled his shoulders. He took a deep breath, expelling it slowly. “That’s a feeling none of you will ever experience,” he said, his words making smoky shapes in the cool air and his glasses magnifying the sparkle in his eyes. “The feeling of standing beneath a bright moon after being trapped under fluorescent lighting for so long. It really gets the blood pumping... and the wolf roaring.”
“No roaring please, Timothy,” said Fredrick, striding towards the Range Rover parked in front of Millie’s car, dwarfing the little Triumph. “This is a residential area.”
“I didn’t mean it literally,” retorted Timothy. “As you well know, Fredrick.”
The thud of the police station door being slammed shut and the jangle of keys as Sergeant Spencer locked it echoed along the quiet street, drawing the attention of a nearby black cat which hurried into the shadows of an alleyway between two shops. The policeman pocketed the large bunch of keys. “It feels good to be locking the door and knowing I’ve got some time off from work, while you good folk do my job for me!” he said, his voice edged again with the humour that had been absent for most of the night. He looked at his watch. “Anybody fancy a nightcap back at mine?” he asked, cheerfully. “Judith has a few bottles of wine in the fridge, and I’ve got plenty of beers under the stairs for us men — or women, if they so wish. I’m not a sexist!”
“Dad,” said Judith, looking uncomfortable. “We’re just about to take a dead body to have an autopsy performed on it. I don’t think going home for a nightcap is very appropriate.”
“Nonsense!” said Sergeant Spencer. “A nightcap is always appropriate! I don’t know about anybody else, but I’m feeling highly optimistic about life, and I’d like to celebrate with a few beers and some good music!”
“Dad!” said Judith. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” remarked Sergeant Spencer. “In fact, everything is just perfect.”
“Sergeant Spencer,” said Fredrick, standing alongside his vehicle. “What on earth has got into you?”
Hopping down the three steps below the police station door, Sergeant Spencer stood alongside Timothy on the pavement, a wide grin on his face. He nudged Timothy playfully in his ribs with an elbow. “What about you, wolf-man? Do you fancy a beer?”
“Dad!” said Judith. “A man has died! What is wrong with you?”
Sergeant Spencer stared at his daughter, his brow furrowed in confusion. He took a step backwards, almost stumbling, but regaining his balance before he fell. He put a hand to his head. “I— I’m not sure what just happened to me. I’m so sorry,” he said, putting his face in his hands. “I don’t feel so good.”
“Shock,” mouthed Timothy, to Judith and Millie. He put a hand on Sergeant Spencer’s shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “I think we should get you home and make you a nice cup of tea.” He looked at Fredrick. “You go ahead with Trevor’s body. I’ll help Judith and Millie take the sergeant home. He’s had a long night.”
Giving Sergeant Spencer a puzzled look, Fredrick nodded. “I won’t wait for you. I’ll order the autopsy to be performed as soon as I get the body to the hall.”
Timothy nodded. “We won’t be long.”
“Dad?” said Judith, as the Range Rover engine roared to life behind her. “Are you okay?”
Leaning against the wall of the station, Sergeant Spencer nodded, his head in his hands. “I don’t know what happened,” he admitted. “I’ve seen far worse sights than Trevor’s body during my time as a policeman.” He gave a sheepish grin. “But I can promise you that the last thing on my mind is having a knees-up.”
“A lot has happened today, Dad,” said Judith. “You’ve never lost one of your prisoners before. Especially in the circumstances under which Trevor… died. Stepping out of the police station and into the fresh air must have sent you into some sort of delayed shock.”
“I agree,” said Millie, her heart aching for the man who was normally so unshakeable. She’d never expected a man as stoic as he was to seem so... unnerved, but everybody had a breaking point at which stoicism gave way to shock, and it seemed that Sergeant Spencer’s breaking point was finding a dead man in his cell moments after feeding him the meal that had apparently killed him. She took her car keys from her pocket and looked at him with gentle concern. “You’ve turned white. Come on, let’s get you home.”
Chapter 14
Having taken Sergeant Spencer home and made sure he was okay, leaving him with a pot of tea and the radio tuned in to his favourite night-time talk show, the two witches headed to Spellbinder Hall in Millie’s Triumph.
Following the rear lights of Timothy’s car along narrow country lanes, it wasn’t long before the angular silhouettes of Spellbinder Hall’s many chimneys broke the moonlit skyline.
“I shouldn’t have left him on his own,” said Judith, as the car lurched around a bend. “He didn’t seem right.”
“He insisted you came here,” said Millie, guiding the car through the tall iron gates that marked the boundary of Spellbinder Hall’s large grounds. “He wants to make sure we find out what happened to Trevor, and having both of us present for the autopsy equals two sets of eyes. Two sets of eyes that he can trust.”
“You don’t think he trusts Fredrick either?” asked Judith. “I know I don’t. Not fully, anyway. Did you see how Fredrick looked at Dad when Timothy detected that scent on his hands? He looked at Dad like he was looking at a murderer.”
Millie hadn’t. She’d been watching Timothy and had seen the flicker of doubt in his eyes when he’d smelled Sergeant Spencer’s hands. It wasn’t just Fredrick who had displayed his scepticism at Sergeant Spencer’s innocence. But who could blame either the vampire or werewolf for being taken off guard when a potential poison was detected on the policeman’s hands?
Considering events as rationally as possible, Millie parked the car alongside Timothy’s and turned the engine off. “You can’t blame Fredrick for wondering why your father’s hands smelled of the stuff that we think killed Trevor,” said Millie, gently. “You have to admit — it’s weird.”
“Yes,” said Judith. “But you and I don’t think for one moment that my father is guilty. I could see on Fredrick’s face that he did. Even if the look was fleeting.”
“We wouldn’t, though,” said Millie, applying the handbrake. “We’re —” She hesitated, struggling to find the words to c
onvey her feelings. “We’re emotionally invested in his wellbeing, I guess.”
Judith gave a cold laugh, which Millie put down to heightened emotions and not intentional cruelty on her friend’s behalf. “You’re emotionally invested in his wellbeing?” she said, frowning. She looked down at the footwell, shaking her head. “Yes, you’ve known him for almost a year. And yes, you like him, and he likes you. But if you think you’re emotionally invested in his wellbeing, imagine how invested I am. He’s my father, Millie. I love him more than anything or anyone. I appreciate you caring for him, but you’ll never know what it felt like to see Fredrick look at him like he thought he’d murdered a man. You could never know the hurt and anger I felt when I saw that look on Fredrick’s face. Even if it was just for a split second. How can you know?”
Millie gripped the steering wheel tight, twisting it hard as she applied the steering lock. Angry at herself for keeping her secret locked up, and angry at her mother for having lied about her father for all those years, she bit her bottom lip, trapping her words inside her like angry bees imprisoned inside a glass jar. She took a deep breath and allowed three sentences to crawl out, hoping they wouldn’t sting. “I can empathise, Judith,” she said. “I’m hurt that you don’t understand that. I do have feelings, you know?”
Placing her hand on Millie’s forearm, Judith bridged the gap between the two seats, one half of her face in shadow, the other half illuminated softly by the moon. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I never think before I speak. Of course you have feelings, and I know you care for my father. Especially because —” Judith bit off the remainder of her sentence with a quick shake of her head, her hand sliding from Millie’s arm. She gave a smile. “Anyway. I’m sorry for what I said.”
“What were you going to say?” asked Millie. “You know I care for your father... especially because what, Judith?”
Judith sighed. “It sounds so cruel to say,” she answered, quietly. “But I was going to say that you care so much for my father because you have no parents of your own. It’s natural to feel that way, especially as you and he have been so close over the last year. You have no mother or father of your own to love, so you project your emotions onto my father. I understand that. It’s natural. Everybody wants a family.”
