by Sam Short
“I haven’t done anything!” said Millie. “And I told you — I’m sure I saw somebody else. On the balcony!”
The tall man in black put a gentle hand on Millie’s shoulder, and tucked his walking cane beneath his arm. “Sergeant Spencer knows you didn’t do anything, Millie. As do I. There was either an unfortunate accident or a suicide here today… or perhaps you did see someone on the balcony, and we’re looking for a murderer. We’ll get to the bottom of it, though. We always do in Spellbinder Bay.”
“Or perhaps Albert is alive and well,” said Sergeant Spencer. “Perhaps he went out. Perhaps Millie imagined what she thought she saw.”
“Sergeant Spencer, you trust my instincts, do you not?” said the tall man.
The Sergeant nodded. “I believe I do.”
“Then you’ll take Millie at her word. She speaks the truth. My instincts tell me as much. Treat the information she has gleaned us with as factual, and investigate in the manner required. You can ask her more questions when she’s had time to get over the shock of what she witnessed.”
“Understood,” said Sergeant Spencer.
Millie stared out to sea again. “Thank you… Detective?”
The tall man gave a strangled laugh, his thinning grey hair dancing in the breeze. “I’m not a detective, Millie Thorn. I’m Mister Dickinson. I’m a headmaster. The headmaster of the school I’d very much like you to attend with me when we leave this lighthouse. There are a few… people, eager to make your acquaintance.”
“I don’t understand,” said Millie.
“What do you not understand?” said Mister Dickinson.
Millie didn’t need to wrack her brains for too long. There were a lot of things she didn’t understand. “Firstly, I don’t understand why a policeman and a headmaster would turn up when I reported a possible crime. A possible murder. And secondly, I don’t understand why you want me to visit a school. There are plenty more things I don’t understand, too, but I’m not in the frame of mind to ask about them.”
“A trip to the school may put you in the frame of mind to ask questions, Millie. The board of governors welcome questions, and I think you are already familiar with one of the board. I believe he visited you just yesterday.”
“Henry Pinkerton,” said Millie.
“Indeed,” said Mister Dickinson.
Once again, Millie didn’t understand why she felt the way she did. She shouldn’t trust a stranger. Especially a tall thin one, dressed in black, who carried an ornate walking cane. He looked every part the villain in a children’s film. Trust him she did, though, and it pained her that she didn’t know why. “Where is this school?” asked Millie.
Mister Dickinson lifted his stick, and using it as a pointer, aimed it across the sea, indicating the large building built on the spit of land on the other side of the bay. “Over there,” he said. “On the cliff. That’s Spellbinder Hall, and waiting in that building are people who can answer all the questions you can think of, Millie Thorn. Will you come with me?”
Mister Dickinson walked towards the two vehicles parked alongside the lighthouse. Sergeant Spencer had arrived in a regular police car, but Mister Dickinson had pulled up in a large black four-by-four, complete with tinted windows.
Millie looked at Sergeant Spencer, as if for advice on what she should do. The policeman shrugged. “I don’t get involved in school matters,” he said. “Unless I’m asked to, but you can go. You’ll be perfectly safe. Probably.”
Needing, and urgently wanting answers, Millie shrugged, too. She watched Mister Dickinson bending his long body as he climbed into the black vehicle, and gave the policeman a wry smile. “Well, if I go missing, you know where I went, Sergeant Spencer.”
“Aye, young lady. I’ll know exactly where you went.”
Chapter 7
The fact that dusk was beginning to fall didn’t help the old building’s image. Spellbinder Hall reared from the clifftop, its numerous chimneys and ornate roof embellishments casting long shadows over the gravel driveway and car-park. The building was old, and constructed from what Millie guessed to be local stone, the rough edges smoothed by centuries of storms and salt air.
Stone gargoyles peered down at her as Millie followed Mister Dickinson up the steps, and two granite dragons guarded the tall door, one on either side, and both gazing inland.
“This way, please,” said Mister Dickinson as he pushed the door open. “Welcome to Spellbinder Hall, Miss Thorn.”
It was no less unnerving inside the building. As Mister Dickinson closed the heavy door behind himself, the sound echoed through the large entrance hall, making Millie shudder. If a film director ever approached Millie in the hope she could recommend a setting for a horror film, she had just the place in mind.
The chandeliers offered a dim light, which barely illuminated the wood panel walls, and the smell of old books, dust and leather hung in the air — reminding her of how Henry Pinkerton had smelt.
“There’ll be plenty of time to become acquainted with the building,” said Mister Dickinson. “If you decide to stay with us. For the time being, though, I’d ask that you follow me. There are people awaiting your presence.”
“Okay,” murmured Millie, giving a full-sized suit of armour a wide berth as she followed the headmaster. Half expecting the visor to snap open, she averted her eyes from the antique, and followed Mister Dickinson up the sweeping staircase — the metal tip of his walking cane clacking on hard wood.
He turned right at the top of the stairs, and Millie trailed dutifully behind him, under the watchful glass eyes of stuffed owls, their glass case tombs lining one long wall.
The lights were no brighter than they had been downstairs, and the hairs on Millie’s arms stood on end as she peered into dark crevices and corners, her eyes making sinister shapes out of simple shadows.
The homely scent of wood polish gave her a sense of safety, and as they passed a room with an open door, the Bunsen burners lining the classroom benches, and the blackboard on the wall provided her with even more security. It was a school after all. Not the secretive base for a murderous cult.
Mister Dickinson paused outside a closed door. “We’re here. Please have an open mind when you hear what must be said, Millie,” he urged. “You may find things hard to understand at first, but please know they are true.”
Millie swallowed, the lump in her throat refusing to leave. “What’s happening?” she asked.
Mister Dickinson chose not to answer, and opened the door, the glow from the light within the room bathing his face in orange. “This way, Miss Thorn. It gives me great pleasure to introduce you to the remainder of the Board of Directors.”
Millie stepped into the room, and blinked. She was happy to smell fresh coffee, but less happy to see the three people who lined one side of a long wooden table. Oak she presumed, but perhaps mahogany. She shook thoughts of wood from her head. What was wrong with her? Surely the species of wood used in the construction of an, admittedly beautiful, piece of furniture, was less important than the fact that one of the men’s eyes seemed completely black, and the stern woman seated at the end of the row had been transparent when Millie had first looked at her.
No. She couldn’t have been. It was the dim lighting arrangement playing tricks on her eyes. That was the only answer that made sense. The only answer her mind would accept.
Millie allowed her eyes to focus again. That was better. The man’s eyes were perfectly normal, and the woman was as solid as the ground Millie stood on.
She scolded herself for being so silly, aware that her body didn’t feel like her own. A little like the day she was forced to stand up in front of the whole school and read the poem she’d written. On that day, she was escorted from the stage by a concerned teacher and taken to the nurse, who explained Millie had probably suffered a panic attack. Millie wondered if this school had a nurse she could bother.
She took a deep breath — just as the nurse in the normal school had instructed all those
years ago, and shrieked as something hard pressed against the back of her knees.
“Please, sit down,” said Mister Dickinson from behind her.
A chair. It was a chair! How silly of her. She sat down slowly, her eyes flitting between each of the faces that stared at her. “Thank you,” she managed. “It was a chair!”
The man at the centre of the table peered at her over his spectacles. “Are you okay, Millie? You remember me, don’t you?”
Millie nodded enthusiastically. “Mister Pinkerton! Henry Pinkerton! I’m so happy to see you. I didn’t recognise you in the gloom. It was a chair!”
Mister Dickinson took a seat on the end of the row, and Henry spoke to him in a lowered tone. “Are you sure she’s under the influence? She seems very nervous. Too nervous, one might say.”
“She’s had a shock, Henry,” said Mister Dickinson. “She visited Albert Salmon today, with George —”
“My George?” enquired the man whose eyes Millie was almost certain had been black.
Mister Dickinson nodded. “Yes, Fredrick. Your George. It seems he was doing his bit for the community. He took Albert some supplies. Esmeralda used to do it, you see. Albert doesn’t get out much. He can’t.”
“How noble,” said Fredrick, the sallow skin of his cheeks covering a narrow face. “I knew he’d eventually mature. It’s taken him long enough, but he’s learning.”
“You mentioned a shock, Headmaster,” interrupted Henry. “Let’s keep the conversation on track, please.”
“Of course,” said the headmaster. “As I was saying, George and Miss Thorn visited Albert. Miss Thorn had just taken residence in the coven cottage, and it seems George invited her along with him to the lighthouse.”
“Coven cottage?” said Millie, her mouth dry, and a floating sensation in her arms.
The headmaster laughed. “I’m sorry, Miss Thorn. I mean Windy-dune Cottage, of course. What was I thinking?”
“Continue,” said Henry, “and please get to the point. Miss Thorn seems very agitated.”
“Well,” said the headmaster. “It would seem that George left the lighthouse before Millie, and young Miss Thorn was witness to a terrible incident. She saw poor Albert fall to his presumed death from the top of the lighthouse. Thinking she had seen somebody else with Albert before he fell — or was pushed, she rushed into the lighthouse with no thought for her own safety.”
“Because she was under the influence?” said Henry.
“Indeed,” said Mister Dickinson. “That would explain her heightened emotions at this moment in time. Some of the magic was wasted on giving her the courage to potentially confront a murderer.”
‘’I see,” said Henry. “And Albert… what’s happening there?”
“Sergeant Spencer is on it,” said the headmaster. “He’ll need to speak to Millie and George again, of course.”
Henry sighed. “Poor Albert. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”
The lady at the end of the table stood up. “Should I be expecting Albert?” she said. “Perhaps I should be ready to greet him if he decides to come back?”
“No, Florence,” said Mister Dickinson. “His body is yet to be recovered.”
Florence sat down again, and through tear filled eyes, Millie was certain she had witnessed her become briefly transparent again.
“I see,” said Florence. “Poor fellow.”
“What tune is that, Millie?” said Henry. “It’s nice.”
Millie concentrated on his face, watching his mouth move and hearing his words, but unable to respond.
“The tune?” said Henry. “What is it, Millie?”
Millie listened. It was a nice tune, but not one she recognised. She shrugged.
“Could you stop humming it, please Millie?” said Henry. “It’s nice, but very repetitive.”
Millie giggled. “I’m humming!”
“You have been for a minute or two,” said Henry.
“It was quite annoying,” said Fredrick. “You can’t carry a tune very well at all.”
Millie giggled once more. She pointed a trembling finger at Florence. “That woman was see-through! Like a misty window! Or a lacy bra!”
“How rude!” said Florence. “Bras should not be spoken of in the company of men, young lady! Such talk will make them giddy!”
“She’s in shock,” said Henry, reaching inside his jacket. He withdrew an object familiar to Millie, and walked around the table. “Here, Millie,” he said, holding it out. “Take a look at this.”
Millie took the photograph from his hand, and no sooner had the card made contact with her skin, than her mind calmed. “What’s happening?” she murmured.
Henry took his seat again, straightening his shirt as he made himself comfortable. “You hold onto that photograph, Millie. I want to let you into some secrets. You’ve already had a hard day, and I can see you’re struggling to cope, so I’ll give you the basic outline. If you choose to stay with us in Spellbinder Bay, all your questions will eventually be answered, and you’ll feel like a part of the community. I promise.”
Millie ran a finger over the photograph of Esmeralda, her heart beat slowing, and her breathing becoming regular. “Okay,” she said. “I’m ready to listen.”
Henry smiled. “Just promise me one thing, Millie. Wait until we’ve finished until you ask any questions. It’s better that way.”
“I’ll try my best,” said Millie, studying Florence with nervous suspicion. She’d been transparent.
Chapter 8
A hush fell over the room, and the four people at the table all turned their eyes to Millie.
“Millie,” began Henry. “You’re not human. Not in the way you think you are. None of us in this room are, and neither are a lot of the population of Spellbinder Bay.”
Millie sat upright. “What do you mean — I’m not human? Of course I’m human. Is this some sick joke? Is there a hidden camera? Will I be on Youtube?”
“Hold the photograph in both hands, Millie,” said Henry. “It will help to calm you.”
Subconsciously, she knew Henry was right, but she wasn’t sure how she knew. She did as Henry asked, a peaceful acceptance washing over her as she grasped the picture in both hands.
“There,” said Henry. “You look calmer.”
“I feel calmer,” murmured Millie. “Why?”
“The photograph is imbued with magic, Millie. Esmeralda’s magic. She was a witch, you see, and before she passed over she applied some of her magic to that photograph. The magic will only work on witches who are part of the same coven she belonged to. It works well on you, Millie. It proves beyond doubt that you are the right witch to take over Esmeralda’s cottage, and her place in our society.”
“The magic helped you accept things,” said Mister Dickinson. “Without questioning them too thoroughly.”
“Why else do you think you left everything behind, and jumped on a train to come to a place you’d never heard of before?” said Henry. “Only a fool would take the risks you have since yesterday… without magic guiding them along the way.”
“You’re under the influence,” said Florence. “That’s how we like to describe it.”
“That’s probably why you ran into the lighthouse when you thought there could be danger inside,” said Mister Dickinson. “Your inhibitions have been somewhat reduced since your first meeting with Henry.”
“How did you open the gate, Mister Pinkerton?” said Millie. It seemed like a sensible question, but the blank faces before her told her it probably wasn’t.
“Gate?” said Henry.
“The gate outside my flat. It was rusted shut.”
Fredrick gave a low laugh. “The foolish girl finds out she’s a witch, and is worried about rusted gates. Are we sure she’s of Esmeralda’s bloodline?”
“Quite sure,” snapped Henry. He smiled at Millie. “I used energy, Millie. Magic, if you will. The same magic I used on you to persuade you to allow me into your flat, and the same magic I used t
o change the words on the note I left for you.”
“Oh,” said Millie. “Magic, huh?”
Henry nodded. “The same energy you tapped into to make the light-shade swing and the crockery rattle, Millie. The energy is all around us, you see. Invisible, but accessible to those who know how to utilise it. You were able to utilise it in moments of heightened emotions.”
Millie looked at the ceiling. “So why isn’t the chandelier swinging now? I’d say my emotions are extremely heightened at this moment in time!”
“Magic can’t be used accidentally in Spellbinder Hall, Millie. This place is a school for the paranormal. Could you imagine the disasters we would experience if the magic of inexperienced pupils was allowed to run havoc? We have tight controls in place, and preventing subliminal magic is one of them.”
“Right,” said Millie. “So the swinging light-shades and rattling crockery in my flat was all down to my own subliminal magic. And the money you left for me? Is that magic, too?”
“That’s your money, Millie,” said Henry. “It’s part of your legacy. Your inheritance. You’ll never want for money again, Millie. If you choose to stay. You have access to bank accounts going back centuries, money accrued by generations of witches, and passed down the bloodline. I left that cash in case you decided not to come to Spellbinder bay. Just enough to help you through the hard times you were in.”
“Oh. I see,” said Millie. “I’m rich and a witch. It rhymes. A rich witch.”
Fredrick leaned over the table and looked deep into Millie’s eyes. “Are we absolutely sure, Henry. She seems very disinterested, and you did say she’d recently been conned. Surely one of Esmeralda’s bloodline couldn’t be conned? They’d see right through a person with ill intentions.”
“I found that curious,” said Henry, “but it is what it is. She’s a late developer, that’s all. Her powers are yet to manifest themselves. I’m sure she’ll be reading thoughts before the end of the month.”