Dust clouds rose around Avery as she lifted the lid on a wooden chest and peered inside.
“Bloody hell, Reuben. I take it your cleaner doesn’t come up here.”
“Of course not. It’s the attic.”
Avery coughed, summoned air, and sent it spinning around them both in a gently revolving circle, carrying the dust away. “That’s better.”
“You’re very practical with your magic,” Reuben observed. He was a short distance away, opening up more boxes.
“It’s meant to be practical. I use mine everyday for all sorts of things.” She lifted a bundle of papers out of the box, setting them on the floor, and then sat cross-legged on an old, dusty rug that was probably worth a small fortune, and proceeded to sort through them, talking as she did so. “I use it for protection. I have a spell on my shop to help customers find their perfect book. I warm my tea with it when it gets cold. I use it to prepare herbal drinks depending on my mood. It helps to bolster my garden. I use it to gather herb bundles, pick my plants at the optimum times, and loads of other things.” She shrugged. “I can’t imagine not using it daily, and it certainly doesn’t need to be showy.” She looked up at him, and found that he was watching her, frowning. “It’s like breathing to me.”
Reuben shuffled to the floor and started emptying another box. “Maybe that’s where I’m going wrong. I don’t use it like that.”
“What about in the nursery? You said you’d spelled the hanging baskets for Beltane.”
“Yeah, I did that. And I head to the greenhouses on occasions at night to spell the plants, so I don’t freak out the employees. Gil had a timetable. I just follow that.”
Avery smiled. “Well, there you go then.” She knew he wasn’t as comfortable with his magic as she was, and didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. “Try doing the same things around the house. Little things. Spells in your cooking, enhancing your space, that kind of thing.”
“Not showy, you say?” He looked puzzled.
“No. Magic is sometimes the gentlest of things. Like when El weaves her magic into her jewellery, or Briar sprinkles it into her candles and lotions. They are both subtle, like a caress.” If Reuben was puzzled, Avery was doubly so. Surely Reuben knew that. She tried to explain it better, leaving the papers she’d found resting in her lap. “The big spells we do—throwing fire and energy balls, me commanding air and making mini tornados, huge protection spells, the cleansing of White Haven—they’re unusual. Until this last year, when we’ve been practically forced to because of everything that’s happened, I hardly ever did those showy things. Personally, I feel that magic is more effective when it’s subtle.” She tried to make him laugh. “Sneaky, I know. And also far more dangerous, potentially, because you can do things to people and they have no idea. Which is why we don’t, obviously. Blessed be, and harm none.”
Reuben’s expression seemed to clear, and he smiled. “I haven’t thought about magic like that for a long time, but you’re right. That’s exactly how it should be. It’s become this big thing in my head, and I don’t think it needs to be.”
“No, it shouldn’t. But having said that, we also shouldn’t forget how lucky we are. We’re gifted, and we shouldn’t squander that, or neglect it. Anyway,” she said, not wanting to lecture him, “you have a huge collection of private papers here.” She gestured to the boxes and wooden chests littered around them. The attic was huge, running the length of the main area of the house, with a proper set of stairs leading up to it. The far end had been opened up to reveal Reuben and Gil’s previously hidden spell room. The rafters were high, with narrow windows set under the eaves, and lots of old heavy furniture was stored there. The place was an antique dealer’s dream. “It’s a good job it’s so dry up here.”
“Yes, it is. It’s odd that these papers aren’t in the library.”
“Maybe they were deemed too personal.” She winked. “I guess we’ll soon find out.”
An hour of searching had gone by when Avery finally found a name she wasn’t expecting. Both she and Reuben were now surrounded with bundles of letters, old diaries, estate accounts, invoices going back decades, and more personal things, like party invitations. It was a fascinating insight into life at Greenlane Manor. They had called back and forth, shouting out what they’d found, and Avery was itching to start cataloguing it, wishing she had family archives this extensive.
The years were completely jumbled up, letters from the nineteenth century mixed up with those from the eighteenth, and before. Some family members seemed to have saved lots of things, and yet there were big gaps in time periods, too. But now, she suspected she’d found something useful.
“Reuben, this letter is from a Serephina Faversham.”
He looked up, startled, a smear of dust across his cheek. “What? Are you kidding?”
“No. It’s to someone called Virginia.”
“Serephina?” He looked horrified. “What kind of a bloody name is that?”
“The posh kind. Any idea who Virginia is?”
“Hold on.” He dug into his jeans pocket with his left hand, his right he was still hardly using, and extracted a crumpled piece of paper. “I noted down a few names from my grimoire and family tree.”
“Blimey,” Avery said, surprised. “That’s organised of you.”
“How dare you! I do take some things seriously. Like getting stabbed.” He scanned the paper. “Yes! I have a Virginia listed, as well as Jerome, Adele, Talwyn, and Lowen. They are names across about a 70-year period—just in case. Virginia, Talwyn, and Lowen are also in my grimoire.”
“Super cool names,” Avery observed. “Well, this is just one letter. Hopefully there are more in this bundle.”
The paper was creased and brittle, and before she handled it any further, Avery said a quick spell to preserve the paper, satisfied when she felt its effects.
“What’s it say?” Reuben asked impatiently.
Avery frowned as she read the contents, and then looked up at Reuben triumphantly. “Essentially, after much polite dithering, Serephina has asked for help dealing with the troublesome Dane and she suggests a meeting. ‘Despite our differences, we have much to gain.’” She picked up a couple of letters from the same bundle and passed them to Reuben. “I think it’s pretty clear who the Dane is. Check these out. I think we’re on to something.”
It was a triumphant group that met that night in The Wayward Son, and Reuben settled back in his chair, comforted by the reassuring presence of his friends after what had been a stressful day.
All five witches and Newton were seated around a table in the back room, empty plates pushed aside and drinks topped up, as they continued to share their news. Briar had told them about Shadow’s plan to investigate spriggans, and Alex and El had updated them about their museum visit.
El placed a couple of leaflets on the table. “Unfortunately, these don’t tell us much. They’ve kept the contents of the exhibition very vague.”
Reuben watched as Avery picked one up. He’d read it earlier. It was a single-page flyer, basically saying the exhibition would highlight the complicated smuggling history in the region, and focus on some colourful characters.
“You’re right,” she said as she scanned it. “I doubt it can differ that much from the one we saw in Bodmin.”
“I think it will be smaller,” El told her. “But it will be more localised, too. They might mention the local beaches and caves that would have been used, that sort of thing.”
Reuben laughed. “Maybe my family’s smuggling history will be revealed. Although, I would have thought I’d be contacted if that was their plan.” It wasn’t something he was worried about, but he was curious to know if the tunnel to Gull Island was recorded elsewhere. “I think what’s more interesting is the stuff they found in the museum basement.”
“Absolutely,” Briar said, agreeing with him. “Perhaps Ethan found directions that led to buried treasure…potentially Coppinger’s treasure. Perhaps he’s aiming to keep it for himself.”
Avery looked sceptical. “A highly respected museum curator? I doubt it!”
“I guess we’ll just have to do more digging,” El said.
“I’ll look into him,” Newton said. He’d recovered his composure from the previous night, although a grim determination had settled over his hard features. He’d listened more than chatted, so far. “You’d be surprised what disgruntled employees can get up to.”
“You two are looking very smug,” Alex told Reuben and Avery. “Like you’ve found something exciting.”
Reuben grinned. “We have. My stash of paperwork in the attic revealed that Virginia Jackson was approached by Serephina Faversham to help tackle ‘the Dane.’” He said it ominously, like it was a pantomime.
“Really?” Newton asked. “Did she say yes?”
“It seems Virginia agreed, because the next letter detailed a time to meet—neutral ground in West Haven, the coastal path—and there was one more letter after that. Serephina thanked Virginia for her ideas, and suggested another meeting.” Reuben sipped his beer. “That was it. No details.”
“Sensible, really,” Newton said. “Anything that is written can be incriminating.”
Alex tapped his glass, impatient. “So, there’s no suggestion of what they actually did?”
“No,” Avery answered. “We searched lots of other letters, but nothing gave us any clues. And essentially, we have no idea if they were successful or not.”
“Did you tell Caspian?” Briar asked.
Reuben shook his head. “Not yet. We thought we’d tell him tomorrow. I’ve decided to go to his place.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” El asked. She was sitting next to him, and she nudged him gently, her gaze searching his face.
He knew why she was worried. He’d been furious about Caspian when he reflected on Gil’s death, but he’d since pushed it aside—with difficulty. “Our families are linked together with this. We were then, and we are now. I’ll show him the letters. Hopefully, he’ll have family records, too.”
Newton nodded. “Let’s hope he has. Your old families and massive attics have probably got all sorts of secrets stored in them.”
“I haven’t found any others,” Reuben protested. “Although, I must admit that I haven’t searched all that stuff up there. I will keep looking.”
El nodded, but she still looked concerned. “Do you have any idea about Virginia’s magic?”
“No. Her name is in my grimoire, but I can’t identify any spells that are written by her; I’ll keep looking.” As much as Reuben was struggling with Gil’s death, he had to admit that this mystery was giving him something positive to focus on.
“Well,” Newton said, clearing his throat. “I have heard from Cassie. They’ve started investigating Fowey and Looe, but I’ve told them to be very careful. I can’t have another death on my conscience.”
“You shouldn’t even have one on it,” Briar said firmly. “Inez’s death is not your fault.”
He shrugged, but it was pretty clear Newton wasn’t letting go of his guilt that easily. Reuben also thought that Cassie, Ben, and Dylan would keep digging, regardless of Newton’s advice.
“Have they found anything supernatural yet?” Alex asked.
“A few heightened readings, but nothing conclusive.”
El said, “We found a local artist who painted smuggling scenes.” She turned to Alex. “Do you still think it’s worthwhile contacting him?”
“Yes, actually. I’ve looked him up. He has a small studio on the road to West Haven. It’s open tomorrow, so we could go if you want to. I’ll go alone, if not?”
“The shop is covered, so I can manage it.” El looked at Reuben. “If you’re happy to see Caspian without me?”
“I’ll be fine,” he assured her. And besides, it would be good to be alone for a while. He’d have time to think over the recent events. Right now, he needed space from everyone’s worry. He could see it in their eyes. Not that he really wanted them to know that. He smiled and drained his pint. “I’ll get another round.”
Newton sighed as he looked at the body at his feet, her eyes glassy as she stared up at the cloudy night sky above. He crouched next to her and gently shut her eyes.
It was a little past three in the morning when he had been summoned from his bed, and it was now just after four. Dawn was close. He could feel the subtle change in the air, and that intense silence that seemed to fall just before the sky started to lighten.
He looked at Moore, who crouched next to him. “Tell me again who found her.”
“A guy walking home from his girlfriend’s place.” Moore stood and pointed. Newton followed suit, staring in the direction of Moore’s outstretched arm. “His girlfriend works in the caravan park, staying on site, and he lives,” Moore swung around, pointing to the outskirts of Perranporth, “over there. He’s a baker and has an early start. He decided to walk across the sand. It’s the easiest route. Not that he’ll get there on time now, poor bugger.”
They were standing on the edge of Perranporth Beach, close to the Rock Bridge. The girl’s crumpled figure was almost lost in the darkness at the base of the cliff face, not far from the path that led to the town. That was the only reason the man had seen her.
“Her face is completely battered,” Moore observed, shaking his head. “It’s almost impossible to make out her features. Who would do this?”
“Or what? And her body is battered, too. It’s like she’s been put through a mangle,” Newton added. “Where’s the bloke?”
“At the top, giving his statement. He’s pretty shaken up. He thought he’d be accused.”
Newton stared at the cliff face towering over them, and the holes scattered across the surface; adits. Relics from the mining industry. “Bollocks,” he said, as recognition dawned. “They’ll lead away from the mines, won’t they?”
Moore turned to see what Newton was talking about, and then nodded. “Yeah. The tin mining was extensive here. There’ll be miles of tunnels.”
Newton flashed his torch across the ground, and spotted some crumpled metal. He carefully made his way towards it, and realised it was the remnants of a grill. “Moore! This has come from one of those adits. She must have come through one of them!” He groaned and rubbed his face, horribly weary.
Moore looked horrified. “Why would a young woman be poking about in those mines? They’d be dangerous, especially if you didn’t know your way. I bloody wouldn’t risk it!”
A thought struck Newton, and he marched back to the victim again, crouching next to her. “That reminds me,” he said, pulling some gloves on and gently opening the victim’s mouth. His torch picked out a dull gleam. “Well, this confirms it.” He extracted a gold coin and stood up. “Another one.”
“She is linked to the other deaths!”
“The lure of bloody treasure!” Newton said, infuriated at what people did for greed.
Moore watched him slip the coin into an evidence bag. “Is this her retribution for discovering gold? And is she part of a larger group?”
“Fuck knows,” Newton said angrily.
“Someone has found some kind of map,” Moore said. “That’s the only conclusion!”
“Unless there’s a serial killer around here with a gold coin fixation.”
“I think we both know this is something else! Your supernatural encounter still hasn’t been explained. And something forced that grill and this victim out of the adit!” Moore’s head jerked upwards. “Someone has been in the mines, looking for smuggler’s treasure—and maybe found it. They must have disturbed something.”
“More treasure, you mean.”
“We’ve only found a few coins so far, and some empty wooden chests,” Moore pointed out. “That doesn’t really tell us anything.”
Newton handed Moore the evidence bag, frustrated with the amount they still didn’t know. “Make sure that gets to the lab early. We’re presuming this is a supernatural death, but what if she stumbled across the thieves and was killed? Are there more dead bodies in the mine?”
“Why highlight that her death has to do with gold at all? Wouldn’t it be better to keep that a secret?”
Newton groaned. “None of this makes sense!”
Movement up above caught Newton’s eye, and he realised the coroner had arrived. He watched him descend the steps, a precise but slightly shabby man, called Arthur Davidson.
He nodded at Newton and Moore. “Morning, gentlemen.” He didn’t waste time with pleasantries, immediately crouching to examine the girl. He swore under his breath. “She looks like she’s been through a mangle.”
“I know, and I can’t explain why,” Newton said, frowning at the horribly unnatural angles the girl’s body was in.
Davidson spent a few moments examining her, and then straightened. “Hard to say right now, but the broken neck was most likely the cause of death, though obviously she’s suffered severe trauma. She’s covered in scratches and contusions, too. I can tell you more later, of course. What was she doing here at such an early hour?” He looked at the cliff top. “A fall, I suppose.”
“Maybe,” Newton said, uncertainly. “We think she came through an adit.”
“Really?” Davidson looked alarmed. “She was in the mine?”
“Just a theory, so far.”
“Any ID?”
“None.”
“Well, I need to remove the body now,” Davidson said, all business. He frowned and then added, “I’m sorry about your colleague. I’ll be doing her PM today. I presume you’ll be there?”
Newton closed his eyes briefly, wishing he could turn back the clock. “Yes. I’ll be there.”
“In the meantime, Guv,” Moore said, checking his watch. “Let’s grab an early coffee while SOCO does their thing.” He gestured across the sand to where a café was already opening, ready to serve the surfers who were arriving in the dawn light.
Newton had forgotten this was a surfing beach. He nodded, knowing he needed something to fortify him for the day ahead. “Sounds good.”
Ten minutes later, Newton had a steaming hot coffee and a bacon and egg sandwich in front of him. A green wash of colour lined the horizon, of which they had a perfect view. He and Moore sat in a window seat in the nearly deserted café, watching the surfers prepare themselves. Although clouds were rolling in, and the warm weather of the previous few days was cooling, it wouldn’t stop them from surfing.
Newton took a bite of his sandwich and tried to organise his jumbled thoughts, but it was Moore who started the conversation.
“We need to find the connection between these deaths. A firm one. Not vague conjecture about something supernatural.”
“But I did see something supernatural in that tunnel.”
“I know, and I don’t doubt you. But other than gold coins, empty wooden chests, and old bones, we have nothing that really indicates buried treasure, and nothing that suggests a supernatural creature killed the other three victims.”
“What about the mangled mess of the first guy, Miles Anderson?” Newton asked through a mouthful of food.
“But the second? Although he looked horrified, it wasn’t a particularly supernatural death.”
“Maybe not, but Inez’s was, and this could be.” Newton frowned at the rock face, the early morning light illuminating the adits. “What the hell happened in there? Bloody hell. We’re going to have to go in.”
Moore paused, his bacon butty halfway to his mouth. “Can’t we just investigate the adits from this side?”
“We will, but that won’t tell us what happened inside.” He could see Moore’s reluctance. “Sorry. I don’t want to go in either, but we need to know where she died. There’ll be more evidence in there, even though we risk a supernatural attack.”
Moore nodded. “I know. What are your friends suggesting it could be?”
“Spriggans. They’re very strong, ghosts of giants that guard buried treasure. And perhaps some very agitated spirits. My friends have been attacked and injured by ghosts. I suppose they could be responsible for these deaths, too.” He frowned as another thought struck him. “That girl was young. Mid-twenties, I reckon. You?”
“Agreed.”
“I know her features are badly smashed, but she’s dark-haired, like Miles Anderson’s girlfriend.” They had been looking for her for the last few days, and she had remained stubbornly elusive. “Let’s check—just in case.”