by Sam Short
Cuthbert jerked his head in Millie’s direction. “Who is this young lady, Julia?” he said. “Did you let her in?”
Julia mouthed an apology in Millie’s direction. “This is Miss Thorn, Dad,” she said. “She just very kindly brought you home in her car. You met her yesterday at Spellbinder Hall, too. She’s the cookery teacher, remember?”
“Oh?” said Cuthbert, his eyes lighting up. “You’re a cookery teacher? I knew a cookery teacher once! Won’t you come to my study with me? I’ve got some photographs you might like to see!”
“Miss Thorn doesn’t want to see your old school photos, Dad,” said Julia.
Seeing the excitement on Cuthbert’s face, Millie smiled at Julia. “I’d love to see his photographs,” she said.
Cuthbert began walking toward a corridor leading off the hall. “This way, then!” he said. “Let’s go!”
Julia gave a contented laugh. “Thank you,” she said to Millie. “He loves going through his photographs. It helps with his memory, too. You follow Dad. I’ll be along soon with some tea and cake.”
Cuthbert led Millie along a long corridor and down a flight of steps to a level below the building, the heavy bass of music becoming louder with each step they took. The smell of chlorine greeted Millie’s nose as they reached the bottom of the stairs, and she gazed in awe at the swimming pool beyond a set of large glass doors. Large potted plants and stylish furniture surrounded the pool and through another open door beyond the pool, she could make out gym equipment.
“Come on,” said Cuthbert. “Don’t dawdle! My study is just along here.”
Millie smiled to herself as she walked alongside the old man. With no natural light making its way into the basement, the harsh white light cast by the ceiling lights made Cuthbert appear older than he was, and Millie felt a pang of pity for him. She couldn’t begin to imagine what it must be like to suffer from an illness which affected the memory — especially from one which had been caused by a magical accident and not natural causes.
When Cuthbert reached an open door set below an archway, he smiled at Millie. “Here we are,” he said, speaking with enough volume to make himself heard over the powerful sound of Mick Jagger’s voice. “My study!” He hurried inside, making his way towards the stereo system perched on a shelf. He pressed a button, and the music stopped. He smiled at Millie. “It’s quite amazing,” he said, “this system is connected to the internet, and I can listen to any music I like for as long as I like without turning a record over or changing a CD. I miss some things about the old days, but having to keep turning records over is not one of them.”
“It’s a lovely room,” said Millie, admiring the book-laden shelves, the antique desk, and the seascapes hanging on the walls.
“It’s where I feel most at peace,” said Cuthbert, taking a thick leather-bound book from a shelf. “My photographs,” he explained, placing the album on the low coffee table situated in front of a small sofa. Sitting down, he gestured at Millie to take a seat, too. “That’s one thing I do miss about the old days,” he said, opening the photograph album. “Having real memories. Memories you can pick up and touch. Not like these days when everybody has thousands of photographs stored in those little phones they carry everywhere. It’s too easy to take pictures these days, so people have too many of them — I don’t think they mean as much to people as they used to.”
“There is something special about a photograph album,” agreed Millie, studying the fading photographs on the first page of the book. She pointed to one of them and smiled. “Is that Edna Brockett?” she asked.
“It certainly is,” said Cuthbert. “This is my album of school photographs. I had a habit of taking my Polaroid camera everywhere with me in those days, including to work. I remember the very day I took that picture of Edna. She’d just had her hair done, that’s why she looks so proud.”
“She looks very different than she does these days,” said Millie.
“That’s what age does to a person, young lady,” said Cuthbert. “Wait until you see a photograph of me back then! I was quite different, I can tell you! There aren’t many pictures of me in this album, as I was always behind the lens, but we’ll come across one soon.”
“I’d love to see one of you,” said Millie as Cuthbert flipped to the next page.
After that page he flipped to the next and then the next, smiling as he pointed at people, some of who Millie knew and some who were complete strangers. It was when Cuthbert flipped to a page in the last third of the book that the atmosphere in the room changed.
Noticing that Cuthbert had gone rigid next to her, and his hand trembled as it hovered over a group photograph in the book, Millie turned to look at the old man. “Are you okay?” she asked.
Cuthbert licked his lips and nodded. “This is a photograph of all the pupils and teachers in one of the years I taught. I lined us all up in the gym and had another teacher take the photograph.” His finger shook as he placed it below a man with a head of thick curly hair. His hair grew wildly in all directions and gave him the appearance of a man who didn’t have the time to focus on the trivial things in life; such as haircuts. Cuthbert cleared his throat. “That’s me,” he said.
“Never!” said Millie, widening her eyes at the bald man sitting next to her. “I would never have guessed!”
Cuthbert nodded slowly, his mood darkening by the moment. “Age has certainly changed me,” he said. “The kids used to call me Mister Mop back then... on account of my huge mop of hair.”
“Mister Mop,” murmured Millie. “I’ve heard that somewhere.” Half closing her eyes as she wracked her mind, she nodded as the answer came to her. “It was written in one of the old textbooks in my cookery class. One of the children read it out. There was more to it... I think it said something like Miss Everest loves Mister Mop.”
Cuthbert made a strangled sound in his throat and moved his finger left on the photograph, indicating an impressively tall woman who towered over everyone else in the picture. “The kids called her Miss Everest,” said Cuthbert, his voice faltering. “Because of her height. The children loved her... they used to ask her silly questions, like — how’s the weather up there? Those sort of things. It was innocent fun. She was my best friend at school, on account of us both being halflings, but the kids read more into it. They teased us about being in love, although I was happily married to my lovely wife. Miss Timkins was just a friend. A very good friend. A friend I miss dearly.”
A coldness suddenly brushed Millie’s skin, as if she were looking at a ghost on the page before her. “Miss Timkins the cookery teacher?” she asked. “Miss Timkins who was...”
Cuthbert gave a slow nod. “Miss Timkins who found herself in the oven. She was teaching the children how to make soufflé. Her favourite dish at the time, and one of mine, too. Cream of tartar and eggs — who’d have thought that such different ingredients would go together so well? I can still remember her showing me how to make a soufflé during a lunch break. I used to spend most lunchtimes in the cookery classroom with Miss Timkins, eating something she’d prepared and looking out of the window at the view over the cliffs and sea. They were wonderful times. People say that a man and a woman can’t have a platonic relationship, but Charlotte and I did. We were the best of friends... until that day. Until —”
Millie put a hand on Cuthbert’s wrist, steadying his shaking hand. “Are you okay?” she asked.
His demeanour changing from friendly and affable, Cuthbert stared at Millie, his sunken eyes glinting with anger. He slid a finger across the photograph, stopping as the tip of his nail sat below the smiling face of a young boy, his tie loose and his hair ruffled. “There he is,” snarled Cuthbert. “Evil thing! Like a fox which has learned mathematics, like a goose which dislikes the gander! Like a... like a —”
“Cuthbert?” said Millie, concerned. “Are you alright?”
Cuthbert’s voice rose in volume, and he span angrily in his seat to face Millie, his eyes now burning with r
age. “Who are you, young lady? You look like a farmer who has forgotten how to read, like a sailor who has stitched his last yarn! What are you looking at?”
Edging away from Cuthbert, Millie reminded herself that his anger was just a symptom of his so-called metaphorettes. Telling herself that didn’t make Cuthbert’s sudden anger any less unnerving, though, and Millie felt a flood of relief as Julia’s voice came from the doorway. “Dad! What’s wrong? What’s happened to set you off?”
“We were just looking at photos,” said Millie. “He was fine, and then...” She sighed. “I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to look at photographs with him.”
“Nonsense!” said Julia, setting down a tray of steaming mugs and slices of cake on Cuthbert’s desk. “It does him good to remember the old days. It’s nothing you’ve done; something always sets him off. A photo sometimes, music at other times... sometimes he can just be sitting still, and he’ll zone out into an episode.” She stood in front of her father with her hands on her hips. “I heard the way you spoke to Miss Thorn, Dad,” she said. “I think you owe her an apology!”
Cuthbert frowned, and then looked at Millie, offering her a conspiratorial wink. “This is my daughter,” he said. “She can be a real live wire sometimes. Please excuse her rude interruption. Now, where were we? You were telling me something about Trevor Giles, weren’t you? What’s he done now? He’s a naughty young fellow!”
“No,” said Millie, sitting straighter as she stared at Cuthbert Campion. “I never mentioned Trevor Giles. Why did you mention Trevor Giles?”
“Goodness me,” said Cuthbert. “You two ladies do like to talk, don’t you? You’re like a pair of sheep without rules. Like squirrels which have forgotten a birthday.”
“Dad,” said Julia, rolling her eyes at Millie. “Please don’t be rude.”
Millie gave Julia an enquiring look. “That name,” she said. “Trevor Giles... does it mean anything to you?”
Julia smiled. “It’s one of many names he rants about sometimes. It doesn’t mean anything to me.” She studied Millie’s face. “Why? Should it? You look concerned.”
“Do you remember the man your father argued with at the school yesterday?” said Millie. “The man in the doorway of my classroom —”
“The same horrible man who was in the refreshment tent,” said Julia. “Yes, I remember him. He was very rude indeed. He was horrible to my father.”
“That man was Trevor Giles,” said Millie. “And something happened to him last night. He was —”
“Did you say Trevor Giles?” roared Cuthbert. “An evil child. An awful boy!”
“You called him evil yesterday, too,” said Millie, “but why do you keep calling him a boy?”
Cuthbert pressed his finger hard onto the photograph, pointing out the same boy he’d been indicating a few minutes ago. “There!” he said. “Trevor Giles! The awful boy! I’ll never forgive him!”
“Forgive him for what?” asked Millie, staring at the young boy in the picture, and recognising a little of the adult Trevor Giles in him. “What did he do?”
“He... he.” Cuthbert looked at his daughter. “What did he do, Julia? I can’t quite recall.”
“I don’t know, Dad,” said Julia. She smiled at Millie. “I doubt he’s done anything. Dad’s probably just angry that he was rude to him yesterday.”
Staring at Cuthbert, and then at Julia, Millie stood up. She gestured at Julia to follow her towards the desk, and under the pretence of helping herself to a slice of cake, spoke quietly. “Julia,” she said. “Trevor Giles died last night. He was murdered.”
Putting a hand to her mouth, Julia gasped. “What?” she said. “He was murdered?”
Millie nodded. “Yes,” she said, recalling the bag of cakes which Julia had brought into the refreshments tent. The same bag which Trevor had stolen a cake from. A cake he had eaten. “He was poisoned,” she continued. “And we believe that the poison may have been put into a cake he’d eaten at some point during the day yesterday.”
Julia’s face remained expressionless for a few moments, but it was easy to see that she was thinking. Her lips drew together, and her body language took on a defensive stance, her arms closing across her chest and her shoulders tense. “Are you trying to suggest something, Miss Thorn?” she asked carefully. “Because I remember that Trevor Giles ate one of the cakes which I brought into that musty tent yesterday, and I also recall my father placing his hand in the bag, but if you think that either myself or my father had anything to do with that man being poisoned, then you’re very much mistaken. Neither of us had any reason to want to hurt him, and even if we did — we’re just not like that. Neither of us would hurt anybody, let alone kill somebody!”
“I’m not saying that,” said Millie. “I was just wondering if —”
“What are you two gossiping about?” asked Cuthbert, getting to his feet and ambling towards the desk. “Oh, I see, you brought cake and tea without telling me, Julia. Well, I’d very much like a slice and a cup.”
“I brought it in right in front of you, Dad,” said Julia. “You’d... drifted off again into one of your...”
“Funny turns?” said Cuthbert. “You can say it, my dear. Funnily enough, I was beginning to explain to Miss Thorn why the Board of Governors gave me all that money. Enough money to allow me to build this house after my wife died and live a life without financial strain. I know it was something to do with an accident, Julia. It was something to do with what causes me to have my funny turns, wasn’t it?”
Still eyeing Millie with suspicion, Julia nodded. “Yes, Dad. You had an accident involving a potion you’d made to help ease headaches. It seems that some of your halfling witch magic may have leaked into the potion, and when you took it, it did something inside your brain. You’d been teaching an English lesson not long before you took that potion. You were teaching metaphors and similes, and after taking the potion, something happened which made you begin shouting out metaphors that don’t make much sense.”
“Oh yes!” said Cuthbert, taking a mug of tea from the tray. “You quite comically call it my metaphorettes, don’t you, my dear?”
“Yes, Dad,” said Julia. “And it affected your memory, too. That’s why you can’t remember a lot of what happened on that day, or a lot of what’s happened since.”
“Ah, yes,” said Cuthbert. “And that’s why Henry Pinkerton made sure I was financially secure... because I’d had an accident while teaching at Spellbinder Hall! It’s all coming back now!”
“Yes,” said Julia. “That’s why they gave you the money. They were very kind to you.”
Cuthbert picked up a slice of cake and took a small bite. “I’ll show you some more photographs after our impromptu tea break, Miss Thorn,” he said.
“No, Dad,” said Julia, placing an arm on Millie’s back and guiding her towards the door. “Miss Thorn must be leaving now. She has other things to be doing.”
“She does? What do you have planned for the rest of the day that is more important than looking at my old photographs?” said Cuthbert, with a teasing wink.
“Miss Thorn must find out who has done something bad,” said Julia. “So that innocent people don’t get blamed.” She looked at Millie. “Isn’t that right, Miss Thorn?”
“Yes,” said Millie. “That’s right.”
“Well, you’d best be hurrying off then, Miss Thorn,” said Cuthbert. He waved a hand in his daughter’s direction. “See our guest out then, Julia. She’s got places to be.”
Chapter 27
As Millie followed the road towards Spellbinder Hall, she pondered over what had happened in the last two hours. She’d discovered that Beth Taylor had harboured a dislike for Trevor Giles, stemming all the way back to her school days. While not proof that Beth had poisoned Trevor Giles, Beth had also been in the position, while serving on the cake stall, to have tampered with the cakes which she and her daughter had sold to Norman. Beth was undoubtedly capable of being able to cast the m
agic spell which had been in the poison, too. Her house had been full of magical literature and pieces of interest, and she was a witch who practised moon magic.
Millie turned left almost half a mile past the harbour, taking the steep lane which led to the cliffs on which Spellbinder Hall was built. As she flicked the indicator off and glanced in her rearview mirror, she spotted the gleam of chrome. She looked in the side mirror and smiled. She’d know the shape of the rider’s upper body anywhere, and the open-faced helmet was a dead giveaway, too. There was no doubt that the motorcyclist attempting to keep a respectable distance from Millie’s car, was George. But why was he following her? She looked at the road in front of the car again and concentrated. She had more important things to focus on than a vampire following her on a motorbike.
She thought about what she was going to say to Fredrick when she got to the hall. She was going to explain what she’d learned at Beth’s house, and then she was going to relive the strange conversation she’d had with Cuthbert Campion. Cuthbert had seemed very angry at Trevor Giles for some unknown reason, and he’d also been around cakes which Trevor Giles had eaten, as had his daughter.
Millie had concluded that perhaps it was better to wait until Henry Pinkerton returned to Spellbinder Bay before pursuing the murder case any further. After all, the first person on the list of potential suspects she’d interviewed had turned out to have motive and opportunity, and then on the way to talk to more people on the list, she’d happened upon Cuthbert Campion, who also appeared to hold a grievance against the murdered man. Perhaps it would just be better to wait until Henry could utilise the stone of integrity before speaking to any further suspects. It seemed that suspects were stacking up fast. Too fast to continue an investigation without being able to clear people’s names along the way. Henry could do just that with the stone, and Millie hoped Fredrick would agree — she’d begun to realise just how difficult finding the killer would be without magical intervention.