A Dash Of Pepper

by Sam Short

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Pepper.

  Mary nodded. “Your bike,” she said. “It’s still in the allotments, and you haven’t got lights fitted to it. Dominic has a torch in the car. He said he’ll retrieve your bike and then we’ll take both you and your bike home. It will easily fit in the back of our car.”

  Wanting to get home to Ziggy, and not relishing the idea of cycling through dark country lanes, Pepper accepted the offer, and also accepted the fact that the first job of the next day would be to find somewhere that sold bicycle lights. “Thank you, Mary,” she said. “I appreciate it.”

  Mary moved closer to Pepper. “And please don’t repeat what I told you earlier to anybody. I don’t know why I told you. I made it sound worse than it is. Dominic is a good man really.”

  As if to prove his wife’s point, Dominic joined them on the steps of the hall. “We meet again,” he said, smiling at Pepper, and running a finger behind his white collar as if it was too tight “I was in the police station yesterday. You were seated next to me in the waiting room. ” His eyes suddenly widened. “Oh! Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything about you being at a police station. It’s a private thing, isn’t it!”

  “Mary knows I was there yesterday,” said Pepper. “Agnes told everybody. It’s fine. I was there for a trivial matter.”

  “Good,” said Dominic, his small eyes still as busy as they had been in the police station waiting room. “But aren’t police station waiting rooms funny places? They’re not like other waiting rooms, are they, where everybody chats? I mean, Agnes was seated right opposite me, and we hardly said a word to one another.”

  “I suppose people are nervous in such a place,” said Mary.

  “Yes, darling,” said Dominic, putting a hand on his wife’s back. “I suppose they are.” He smiled at Pepper. “I suppose I’d better get your bike for you and then take you home. I imagine you’ll be happy to get home and put your feet up after what’s happened today.”

  “Yes,” agreed Pepper. “I will.”

  Chapter 15

  As Pepper stopped the spell and allowed the branch to spring back into position, she slipped her wand into the pocket inside her jacket and looked out over the meadow. The hems of her jeans were wet with dew, and her back rubbed against the tree’s rough bark, but she was as content as she always was on her early morning visits to the oak.

  Watching a red kite in the distance as it circled lush green farmland in search of a meal, Pepper spoke to anything that would listen. The tree would listen, she was sure, and probably the grass. Some of the other plants she could see growing in the meadow might not though.

  The selfheal weed appeared far too busy to listen to the ramblings of a middle-aged witch, as it concentrated on colonising the meadow with lilac flowers and runners which spread for acres beneath the soil.

  The stinging nettles which had taken up residence on the west side of the oak tree’s wide trunk probably had no interest in her either. And the thistles which stood proud and tall, wearing their crowns of purple? She could forget about the thistles — they were far too prickly to think about beginning a conversation with. Pepper spoke, though, and she didn’t care that nothing would hear her. She enjoyed speaking when nobody was listening.

  “A man died yesterday,” she said. “I saw him. I touched his body, but there was no life left in him. A plant told me that it might not have been an accident, but nobody is going to believe me, and maybe the plant was wrong — it didn’t seem in the best of health. Perhaps it got its wires crossed.”

  A crow cawed from the tree line on her left, and Pepper gazed towards the hedgerow, watching as a group of song thrushes plucked at berries which hung from elderberry and blackberry plants. As she watched the birds feeding, she recalled what the grapevine had told her, and began to wonder just how accurately her magic had deciphered the vibes.

  The plant wasn’t conscious, after all. It had no memory, no hearing, no taste buds, no mouth through which to speak, and no eyes through which to see. It was a plant. Just a plant, and the information it had imparted to Pepper was only an interpretation of the vibrations in the soil and the changes in air pressure which it had experienced.

  Maybe Stan had fallen without being pushed. Perhaps the other footsteps the plant had sensed had been Stan’s footsteps all along, and Pepper had muddled up what the plant had been telling her.

  Sergeant Saxon was probably right, as were the rest of the gardening club and the young couple who’d been present. It had probably been an awful accident. But then, as Pepper tried to make her mind believe what she was force-feeding it, she shook her head. “No,” she said out loud. “Plants don’t lie. People lie.” She ran a hand over the bark of the oak. “I don’t think it was an accident.”

  As if invigorated by the sudden realisation that the grapevine had been correct, Pepper scrambled to her feet. She tossed the crusts of toast she hadn’t been able to eat into the grass, aware that the crow she’d heard cawing had flown the short distance from the hedgerow to the oak tree, and was watching her with inquisitive eyes.

  She smiled at it. “I hope you like Marmite,” she said. “Because I do, and I slap it on toast like there’s no tomorrow. If you don’t like it at first, stick with it, it’s one of those tastes which grows on people.” She smiled at the bird again. “And corvids, I’m sure.”

  She reattached the little silver cup which doubled as a lid to the flask, and began the walk back to her cottage. She’d known an hour beneath the oak tree would help her gather her thoughts, and the clear-minded journey back to the gate in her garden fence was a lot quicker than the outward journey she’d taken with a muddled mind.

  The difference was that now she knew what she must do. She must find out from Sergeant Saxon whether she’d followed through on her promise to investigate the men Pepper had seen Stan arguing with.

  If she had, and had found no evidence to suggest they’d harmed Stan, it was then Pepper’s job to discover what had happened to the poor man she’d found impaled on a rake in his shed, pushed by somebody, and tripped by a shoelace.

  When nature spoke to Pepper, helping her to decide on a course of action, the ideas came slowly at first, but when they arrived — they were as clear as the water which ran in the stream at the bottom of the meadow.

  It was with urgency and purpose that Pepper strode through the still sleepy rear garden of Meadow View Cottage, happy to see that a frog was using one of the lily pads in the pond. Sitting still with its huge eyes staring, the frog used the lily pad in the way frogs had done in every fairy-tale that Pepper had ever read.

  She pushed the kitchen door open and bent down to tickle Ziggy behind his one white ear. The mostly black cat gave a series of soft meows, before striding with its tail high towards its empty food bowl in the corner.

  “Of course I’ll feed you, Ziggy,” said Pepper. “And when I’ve done that, I shall take a bath, and cycle into town. I’m going to the police station. And this time I’m going because I want to, not because the police want me to.”

  Having taken a bath while gazing out across the back garden, the meadow, and the glorious view beyond, Pepper chose her clothes.

  She felt like it was a jeans day, so she picked a pair of fading Levi’s, which she matched with a simple black T-shirt. When she’d manipulated her hair into the spiky style she so loved, she trudged downstairs and chose her footwear – her chunky black boots, and then she decided which jacket she would wear.

  The three denim jackets all hung together in the little cupboard beneath the stairs, and Pepper took her time in choosing one. Finally, after painful deliberation, she opted for the jacket with the red rose patch above the left breast pocket and a Fender guitar patch on the right arm.

  As with all three of her jackets, there were more than just two patches adorning it, but Pepper had worked out a system of identification over the years. The jacket she slipped on was known as her Rose jacket. The jacket she’d worn the day before, with the
full-size Pink Floyd back patch, was known as her Floyd jacket, and the last jacket — the one with the Lita Ford and Girlschool patches was known as her Rock Chick jacket.

  Of course, it was only Pepper who used the identification system. Jas liked to refer to all three of the jackets as ‘scruffy reminders of the past,’ and had often attempted to get Pepper to wear something she referred to as more modern.

  Pepper didn’t need modern, though, and she didn’t need people telling her what she should and shouldn’t wear. She took her wand from the little table next to the front door and slid it into the small pocket inside her jacket, and before she opened the door, she took a deep breath before stepping out of her home to face the world yet again.

  She whistled as she cycled alongside the canal, returning the friendly wave offered by the lady steering her colourful narrowboat away from Picklebury. The breeze blowing off the waterway smelled of the sort of rain which was welcomed by even the most ardent of sun lovers after a summer drought, and ducks and geese foraged alongside the towpath for food, some of them lifting their heads to watch as Pepper cycled past.

  When she got to the bridge beneath which she’d heard Oswald Clementine telling his film crew that The Pilot and The Potato Picker was no longer going to be a film, she dismounted and carried her bike up the steps. It was a short ride to the police station, and she leaned her bike against the fence railings before running a hand through her spikes and climbing the four steps to the door.

  With it being so early in the day, the waiting room was devoid of criminals, and the reception desk was staffed by a young lady who displayed a confusing mix of boredom and interest in whatever it was she was looking at on her phone.

  She looked up as Pepper approached the desk, and closed the sheet of protective perspex which separated her from society. Putting her phone down, she gave what Pepper supposed could pass as a smile. “Good morning,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” said Pepper. “You can. I’d like to see Sergeant Saxon, please. Immediately.”

  The young police officer studied Pepper for a moment. “May I ask what it’s about, please?” she asked.

  “It’s about the death of Stan Wilmot. He died yesterday, at the allotments,” said Pepper.

  “Oh, I know about that,” said the young woman. “Everybody knows about that. It was such a shame. I didn’t know him, but from what I’ve heard it wasn’t a nice way to go. Imagine it, impaled on a rake. I wouldn’t like that to happen to me.”

  “No,” said Pepper, sensing the immaturity in the police officer. “I don’t suppose you do.”

  Taking her phone from the desk and slipping it into a trouser pocket, the policewoman indicated the seats in the waiting room with a nod of her head. “If you’ll take a seat for a moment, I’ll see if Sergeant Saxon is available.”

  “Tell her it’s Miss Grinder,” said Pepper.

  The policewoman nodded and stepped through the door behind her, which when opened released the sounds of conversation and ringing telephones.

  As Pepper settled into the same seat she’d sat in two days before, she immersed herself in the joyless pastime of reading the posters which reminded people of things, that in Pepper’s opinion, were common sense. Anyway, the posters would never work — if a person was capable of doing such things as drink-driving or carrying illegal knives, she doubted a poster was going to persuade them to change their behaviour.

  She fiddled with the peak of one of the spikes in her hair and sat up straight as the door next to the desk opened with a buzz and a click, and Sergeant Saxon stepped into the waiting room. She smiled at Pepper. “Miss Grinder,” she said. “Constable Davidson tells me you’d like to speak with me about the death of Stan Wilmot. How can I help?”

  Pepper stood up and returned the Sergeant’s smile. “I’m here to find out if you checked up on the information I gave your colleague last night. The information about the two arguments I witnessed Stan having.”

  Sergeant Saxon raised an eyebrow. “Miss Grinder,” she said. “This is a police matter. I’m not allowed to discuss anything to do with any current police investigation. Surely you must understand that?”

  “I only want to know if you found the men,” explained Pepper. “And if you’ve spoken to them. I’m not asking for details.”

  Sergeant Saxon remained silent for a few seconds and then looked over her shoulder towards the empty desk. She lowered her voice. “I went straight to the Country Bumpkin pub after I left the community hall last night, and found out the identity of the two men you witnessed Stan arguing with. I’m not going to tell you who they are, but I will tell you that they explained their whereabouts during the time window in which Stan’s accident occurred.”

  “You believe them?” asked Pepper.

  “I’m satisfied they were telling the truth,” replied the sergeant. She locked Pepper in a stare for a few seconds and then her eyes softened. She sat down and patted the seat next to her. “Take a seat for a moment, Miss Grinder,” she offered.

  Pepper did as the policewoman suggested, and sat with her arms crossed. “And the other two men?” she asked. “Harry and Percy — the men who were arguing with Stan about the size of his spuds. Did you find them?”

  “Of course we did,” said Sergeant Saxon. “The information you gave my colleague last night was comprehensive. We found out who they were within half an hour, and myself and another officer spoke to them last night. I can assure you that they have an alibi too.”

  “What was their alibi?” asked Pepper, “and did you check it out?”

  “Look, Miss Grinder,” said Sergeant Saxon. “You had a shock last night. A man died in a horrifying accident, and you saw his body. You touched his body when you felt for a pulse. It must’ve been a shock to the system. But you have to get any ideas of other people being involved in Stan’s death out of your mind.

  “The landlord of the Country Bumpkin told me that the two men you saw arguing with Stan argue with everybody. They’re young troublemakers. He also told me that Stan is quite a troublemaker in his own right. Very opinionated was how the landlord described him.”

  She opened her top button and loosened her tie. “Miss Grinder, I went back to the allotments first thing this morning, as soon as it was light enough, and had a good look around. There’s nothing that suggests that Stan’s death was more than an accident. I believe the shock of what you saw is affecting your thought process. Perhaps you should relax for a day or two — until the memories aren’t so fresh in your mind.”

  “Did you find any footprints near Stan’s shed?” asked Pepper, recalling how the plant had translated the vibrations of the footprints it had felt. It had described them as heavy footwear. “Any footprints made by a boot, for instance?”

  Sergeant Saxon sighed and gave a thin smile. “It’s an allotment, Miss Grinder, of course I found footprints made by a boot. There are footprints made by boots all over the allotments.”

  “Did you check for witnesses?” asked Pepper. “Somebody might have seen something suspicious.”

  Sergeant Saxon gave both thighs a gentle slap and stood up. “Miss Grinder,” she said. “I’ve told you everything that I’m going to tell you about the investigation into Stan Wilmot’s accident. You may not think it, but I’m very thorough at what I do. I’ve looked for witnesses, I’ve spoken with the four gentlemen who you described to my colleague, and I will investigate any evidence which suggests that Stan Wilmot’s death was caused by anything but an accident. Until you or anybody else comes forward with that evidence, you’re going to have to trust me when I say I’m doing my job. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy, as you can imagine.”

  Pepper stared at the Sergeant for a few seconds. She guessed Sergeant Saxon was approaching thirty years old, and she also suspected that behind the pretty face and hard exterior, was a keen police mind.

  She knew the policewoman would have done everything she could to discover what had happened to Stan, and she knew t
hat she couldn’t possibly understand why Pepper had the suspicions she did.

  Of course she couldn’t. Who could? Pepper suspected that if she told Sergeant Saxon that a grapevine had told her that Stan’s accident might not have been so straight forward, then instead of the day or two of relaxation which the policewoman had advocated, her recommendation might span to a few months in a hospital ward.

  Needing no more verification that Sergeant Saxon was not interested in hearing about Pepper’s gut feelings, she nodded. “I understand,” she said. She stood up. “Goodbye, Sergeant.”

  “There’s no need to be so abrupt, Miss Grinder,” said the sergeant, as Pepper turned her back. “I’m only doing my job. You know that.”

  Surprised, Pepper looked over her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to be abrupt. I’m sorry if I sounded that way.”

  A perplexed look on her face, Sergeant Saxon nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Goodbye, Miss Grinder.”

  Chapter 16

  The smells inside the shop known as The Bazaar stimulated Pepper’s senses, and she enjoyed picking up the cellophane bags of potpourri and smelling each one individually, before settling on one which smelled mostly of lavender.

  Popping the potpourri in her basket alongside a butterfly fridge magnet and a packet of chewy mints, Pepper headed towards the section of the shop dedicated to hardware.

  Happy that a shop which sold such an eclectic mix of goods could thrive in the modern economy of superstores and out-of-town shopping centres, Pepper found the shelf she was looking for and placed a front and a rear bicycle lamp in the basket. Studying the fitting instructions which came with the lamps, she added a set of spanners, a screwdriver, and a hammer for good measure, or as her father liked to call the latter — a fine adjustments tool, and then paid for her purchases and left the shop.

  Checking her watch after placing her bag in the bike’s basket, Pepper swung her leg over the seat and pedalled towards the Country Bumpkin pub, which opened long before other pubs in order to serve breakfast to the residents of, and visitors to, Picklebury.