by Sam Short
Henry pocketed the stone and nodded. “Then tell us your story, Miss Timkins,” he said. “And do not mistake my haste for discourtesy. I am relieved to see you after all these years, but discovering the truth about Trevor’s murder is the most important task at hand if I am to save Sergeant Spencer’s memories.”
“I understand,” said Miss Timkins, her hood hanging low. “I’ll tell it with urgency.” She rose a few inches above the ground, and her robes flickered briefly as she glided across the room and took up a position next to the window. Then she began talking. “It was a normal day,” she said. “I was a little excited because it was the day before the big announcement.”
“I remember,” said Henry. “I was about to announce who was to be the new headteacher after the old one had left. It was between yourself and Mister Dickinson, and if it’s any consolation, I was going to name you as headmistress, Miss Timkins.”
“I know,” said Miss Timkins. “Most people knew. I had more experience, and the general feeling throughout the school was that I would be given the position. I was very excited. I was to be on the Board of Governors!”
“Yes,” said Henry. “Poor Mister Dickinson was quite distraught after what happened to you. He always said it was you who had deserved the job. He promised to always uphold your values of fairness and kindness in all of his dealings with the pupils. I think he’s done that well, Miss Timkins. I think he’s honoured your memory.”
“Yet his first job as headmaster was to close down the cookery classroom,” said Miss Timkins.
“A terrible tragedy had occurred in there,” said Henry. “It was the right thing to do.”
“The truth is that he wanted my memory wiped from Spellbinder Hall,” said Miss Timkins.
“Pardon?” said Henry. “What do you mean by that?”
“As I was saying,” said the tall ghost. “It was a normal day. I was excited about possibly becoming the new headteacher, and the sun was shining outside. I was happy. I was teaching the children how to make soufflés when there was a knock on the door. It was Mister Dickinson.”
“Go on,” said Henry, as Miss Timkins paused.
“I called him in, and he told me that he’d like a word with me. He said he’d wait until I’d finished what I was doing, and then it happened,” said Miss Timkins.
“What happened?” asked Edna.
“One moment I was explaining how to pour a soufflé mix into a baking dish,” said Miss Timkins. “And the next moment I felt a terrible pain, and I was that soufflé mix.”
“Yes,” said Henry. “You’d been suffering from witch dementia, had you not? I believe it’s quite prevalent in the halfling community. All that suppressed magic can sometimes cause problems. You accidentally cast the spell which transformed you into a soufflé mix.”
“No,” said Miss Timkins. “That’s not what happened. Yes, I had some problems with my magic. All halflings do. The wolf and the witch both wish to be released, and sometimes one manages to make itself known, but that is not what happened on that day. It was Mister Dickinson. He cast the spell which turned me into that soufflé.”
Edna gasped, and Millie put a hand to her mouth.
“Mister Dickinson?” said Henry, his face white. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Are you sure? Why would he do such a thing?”
“It seems that being headmaster was very important to him,” said Miss Timkins. “So important that he would commit the most terrible crimes to guarantee himself the position.”
“He wanted the position that badly?” said Henry.
“Yes, and after he cast the spell, I could still see and hear,” said Miss Timkins. “It was the most awful experience. My vision was blurred, and my hearing was muffled, but I saw him cast another spell, this time over the children, and then he spoke to Trevor Giles. He chose Trevor because he was easily manipulated, it wouldn’t take much magic to persuade him to place me in the oven. And he did it. He laughed while he did it. He seemed to enjoy doing it, but I know he was under a spell. And then, as the heat began to hurt and I knew my days were ended, I saw Florence appear. I heard her shout, and then I became aware that Mister Dickinson had cast another spell.”
“He prevented me from moving or making a sound,” said Florence. “It was quite awful. I was forced to watch as he used magic to manipulate the children’s minds. Telling them that they would remember the incident as an accident, that they would never quite be able to remember exactly what had happened, but that they would have recollections that it had been Trevor who had put Miss Timkins in the oven.”
“And then,” said Miss Timkins. “As the pain became too great to bear, and I was about to let myself go, the classroom door opened, and there was my most dearest of friends, Cuthbert Campion. The children called him Mister Mop because of the mass of curls on his head, and they teased us about being in love with one another, but we weren’t. Not in that way. He was married, and I loved him as a friend. He was the only fellow halfling I had ever met, so we had much in common, and a solid bond between us. So strong was the bond, that as the pain grew, my energy reached out to him — like an identical twin reaches out to a sibling. As the witch part of me died, my energy left my body, and found Cuthbert, telling him what was happening to me. My last memory is of Cuthbert storming into the classroom, and the last sound I heard was him shouting. ‘She’s burning! Get her out!’ And then, everything went black.”
“My goodness,” said Henry, lowering himself onto the bed, next to Sergeant Spencer. “My goodness.”
“Then he ruined another life,” said Florence. “The children were still under the influence of magic, and I was immobilised. Mister Dickinson appeared shocked when Cuthbert stormed into the classroom, and cast a hasty spell at him. It only took a few seconds before Cuthbert stopped shouting, looked a little confused, and sat down. He asked Mister Dickinson what was happening, and Mister Dickinson simply told him to go back to his classroom and forget everything he’d seen. Cuthbert did as he was told. It was two weeks later before the spell finished its work, and Cuthbert was left with muddled memories and no job.”
“But Cuthbert had an accident,” said Henry. “With a headache potion, he’d made. It affected us deeply, especially after what had recently happened to Miss Timkins. Mister Dickinson suggested we took his job from him for the safety of the children and that we compensated him handsomely, so he would never be without. Which we did.”
“That is what Mister Dickinson told you,” said Florence. “He made up the story about the headache potion. It was true that he’d made a potion, but that wasn’t the cause of his confusion. It was the short-circuiting of his mind, which Mister Dickinson’s evil spell had caused.”
“The awful man!” said Henry, his face reddening. “But what about you, Florence? Why did you never speak of this? Why has this remained a secret for all these years?”
“Mister Dickinson was always very powerful,” said Florence. “Very powerful indeed, was he not?”
“Yes,” said Henry. “He is a formidable man.”
“And it was with little effort that he was able to prevent me speaking about what I had witnessed,” said Florence. “After Cuthbert had vacated the classroom, in a daze, Mister Dickinson cast a spell which secured my silence. If I were ever to utter a word to anybody about what had happened, I would be dragged from this world and back to the darkness of the world of wandering spirits. I did, of course, consider sacrificing myself so that I might have brought Mister Dickinson to justice, but that seemed foolish. He had done what he’d done, I couldn’t change that, and I knew that one day his spell over me would weaken, and he would be exposed. That day has come. His spell is weak.”
“It’s weakened because he’s no longer in this dimension,” said Millie.
“Yes,” said Florence. “And it will remain weak until he returns.”
“If what you have told me is true,” said Henry. “He will not be returning. He cannot travel here without my help, and I will not h
elp him. I will contact Ammon and ask that Mister Dickinson be kept a prisoner. He will stand trial in time.”
“Why now, Miss Timkins?” asked Millie. “Why did you wait all these years until you came back as a ghost, and then only when Trevor Giles arrived at the school?”
“I’ve been trying, Miss Thorn,” said Miss Timkins. “Oh, I’ve been trying. As you know, witches cannot become ghosts, their energy leaves them and resides in a different dimension, but they are not ghosts.”
“Yes,” said Millie. “I know.”
“Because I am a halfling,” said Miss Timkins. “I believe that Mister Dickinson was under the impression that the same rules applied to me. I think he believed that I could never return as a ghost. But he was wrong. It took a long time. So long, in fact, that when I became aware of a consciousness again, and was able to peer from the shadows, the school had changed drastically. Teachers who weren’t vampires had aged, and none of the children I remembered remained. It was a strange experience, like being in a dream, but with time I was able to bring myself closer to this world again, as if I was pushing through a barrier, but unable to break through. And then, just the other day as I watched you preparing to speak to the parents at the school open day, Millie, it happened.”
“You were there the whole time?” asked Millie.
“I’ve been present since you began teaching here at Spellbinder Hall, Millie,” said Miss Timkins. “I’ve enjoyed watching you. I was never able to make myself known to you, though. However hard I tried.”
“Then why on the day of the fete?” asked Millie. “What was different?”
“I was so close to being able to make myself known,” said Miss Timkins. “But I could never quite find the energy to do so, and then, during your presentation to the parents, I glanced out of the window and saw him climbing out of a taxi cab -- Trevor Giles. Much older of course, but unmistakable in his appearance. Seeing him after all that time, shocked me, and suddenly, I knew I could make myself seen. It was as if the shock was the fuel I’d required to make that last push. I stood quietly in that room watching you all as you watched me. I didn’t know what to do. I was as scared as you were.”
“And then you tried to attack Trevor,” said Millie. “When he barged into the classroom.”
“No,” said Miss Timkins. “I was angry when I saw him. Very angry, but I had long accepted that Trevor Giles had put me into the oven while under the influence of magic. But when that door slammed open, and he barged into the room, it was like being in the oven again with the door being pushed shut, trapping me, with Trevor’s laughing face on the other side of the glass. I panicked and rushed for the doorway. Trevor was in my path, and I felt him as I pushed through him. I felt his pain, and I felt his misery, and I felt his sorrow, and then I was gone. I didn’t kill Trevor Giles. I wanted no revenge for what he had done, and anyway, the feelings of his which I experienced when I passed through his body, make me think his life was ruined by what Mister Dickinson had made him do. All those children will have muddled memories about what happened, but imagine what Trevor’s memories would have consisted of? The knowledge that he’d put me into that oven.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Henry. “I’m so, so sorry. I never knew.”
“You couldn’t have known,” said Florence. “And then Mister Dickinson got rid of the last chink in his armour. He persuaded you to expel Trevor for what he’d done to Miss Timkins, even though you had accepted Trevor’s explanation that is was an accident, that he didn’t know what he was doing.”
“Yes,” said Henry. “I expelled him with a heavy heart, but I insisted he was not expelled for what I thought had been an accident. I instead, insisted he was expelled for the bullying he’d always been guilty of. He’d always had a nasty streak, and to be completely honest, a child like him shouldn’t have been a pupil here at the hall. So yes, I expelled him and warned him never to step foot on Spellbinder Hall grounds again.”
“An instruction he followed until he knew you were away on business,” said Edna.
Henry frowned. “And look where the decision to visit the school got him. He’s dead.”
“Yes,” said Millie, “and we need to find out who killed him.” She looked at Sergeant Spencer and gave him a reassuring smile. “Before somebody else’s life is ruined.”
“Then go and bring me some suspects, Miss Thorn,” said Henry. “The stone of integrity will demand the truth from them, and then maybe we will be able to prove Sergeant Spencer’s innocence.”
“Wait!” said Sergeant Spencer. He propped himself up in the bed and stared at Millie. “You can read minds.”
“Yes,” she said, “but the stone of integrity is far more accurate. Sometimes it’s hard to see what people are thinking.”
“No!” said Sergeant Spencer. “That’s not what I mean. I mean you could read my mind. You could ask me if I killed Trevor, then read my mind, and then Henry could use the stone on you. He can ask you if my answer is true or not. If the stone says you’re telling the truth, then perhaps the concealment spell will accept my innocence?”
“Yes!” said Henry. “That may work! We may have found a way of saving Sergeant Spencer!”
“Please excuse me,” said Miss Timkins. “I’ll leave you to your important work. I have something equally important to do. I hope you won’t mind me using your classroom, Miss Thorn. I need to make a soufflé.”
Millie smiled as she shook her head. “Of course I don’t mind,” she said. “You already made one soufflé, though. I left it in the classroom. I turned the oven off to stop it from burning.”
“That soufflé won’t do the job,” said Miss Timkins. “That was a practice recipe. My halfling magic was still weak after becoming a ghost, but since telling you all my story, I feel invigorated. I feel as if I have enough magic within me to be able to add enough to the soufflé. The soufflé which will cure Cuthbert.”
“Cure Cuthbert?” asked Millie, sure that the shadow beneath Miss Timkins’s hood was beginning to glow. “You can do that?”
“Of course,” said Miss Timkins. “We are both halflings. When I saw him with you and his daughter in your classroom, Miss Thorn, my heart broke. Not only had he aged, and his wonderful head of hair been lost to time, but hearing him speak in such confused terms broke my heart. Cuthbert was a clever, articulate man — not a man who struggled to make himself understood. I am certain that if I donate some of my magic to Cuthbert, his mind will heal. And what better way to deliver the medicine which will help him, than by placing it in what was once his favourite food.”
“What a wonderful idea,” said Millie, now absolutely sure that something was happening beneath Miss Timkins’s hood.
“I must give credit for the idea to one of the young ladies in your class,” said Miss Timkins. “Emma Taylor. I’ve been watching you teach your class for a long time, and young Emma always adds her mother’s medicine to the cakes she bakes for her. I hear her talking to herself as she does it, happy that it will help mend her mother’s mind. I want to do the same for Cuthbert.”
“Medicine?” said Millie. “What medicine does Emma add to the cakes she cooks?”
Miss Timkins didn’t answer, though, and Millie stepped away from her as a flash of light erupted from beneath her hood. “What’s happening?” she said, raising an arm to shield her eyes.
“A transformation,” said Florence. “She’s unburdened herself of the awful tale of her death, so now she may appear as she was before she died.”
A breeze swept through the room, ruffling papers on a shelf and making the leaves of a potted plant dance. And then, the robe Miss Timkins wore dropped to her feet and dissolved in a cloud of black smoke and soot.
“The poor woman,” said Millie, staring in horror at the scars which covered every centimetre of her tall, slender frame.
“Don’t be sad for her,” said Florence. “Watch.”
As Millie watched, the burned skin which stretched over Miss Timkins’s hairless head beg
an to shift, and tiny blonde hairs grew slowly, erupting suddenly into a waterfall of gold which flowed over her shoulders and framed the pretty face which formed, as scars fell away like the scales of a fish beneath a fishmonger’s knife.
More scars fell, and as they did, the black robe she’d been wearing was replaced by a bright flowery dress, covered by an apron emblazoned with the Spellbinder Hall coat of arms. And then, the transformation was complete, and Miss Timkins stood proudly tall, her elegant neck long, and her eyes a bright seascape blue.
“Miss Timkins,” said Millie. “You’re beautiful.”
Miss Timkins’s shapely lips formed a smile, and she gazed happily at Millie. “Call me Charlotte, please. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a soufflé to prepare.”
With that, she strode gracefully past Edna and Henry, and straight through the door, leaving a small cloud of what Millie suspected was flour hanging in the air behind her.
Chapter 42
“Are you ready, Millie?” asked Henry, the stone of integrity in his hand.
Millie nodded, and smiled at Sergeant Spencer. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It won’t hurt.”
“I’m sure it won’t,” he replied, sitting up on the bed and swinging his legs over the side.
“You should remain lying down,” said Edna, placing her hand on his arm.
“No,” said the policeman. “I want to be in this position so that when my innocence is proved, I can stand up, run from this room, and find Judith.”
“We should begin,” said Henry. “The concealment spell is working quickly. If this doesn’t work we still have to use the stone on the suspects you spoke about, Millie.” He looked at Sergeant Spencer. “Are you ready?”
The policeman nodded.
“Good,” said Henry. He cleared his throat. “Sergeant Spencer, did you or did you not murder Trevor Giles, and if you did not, do you know who did?”