― M. Scott Peck
Cassandra Mitchell
Witchcraft at a girl's school—maybe my partner Lindsay had every reason to be apprehensive.
As far as I was concerned the jury was out on this one but I was open to all possibilities—even the supernatural.
But the first thing to do was to interview the girls involved in this bizarre cult and establish the facts.
The headmistress met us in her huge, book-lined office, overlooking a snowy ravine.
Lindsay was busy asking her questions and I was distracted by a bright red cardinal, perched on a cedar bough—looking for the world like a quaint Victorian Christmas postcard.
“The girls abhor each other,” Ms. Henderson was saying, “They can’t stand being in the same room. We’ve had to revise their timetables and make course changes to accommodate them.”
“Why not simply disbar them?” I asked foolishly.
Ms Henderson fixed me with a stern gaze. “That is not an option at Saint Dunstan’s.”
“Of course,” I whispered hoarsely.
Lindsay‘s eyes were dancing at my discomfort.
Could we meet with each of the girl’s separately?” I asked.
Ms. Henderson stood and shook our hands brusquely. “We will set you up in the Conference Room and call down each girl in turn.”
The secretary showed us into the Conference Room—a beautiful glass-windowed room that had once been a conservatory.
I sat at the head of the huge oak table and leaned back in the padded chair. Lindsay approached from behind and laid her hands on my shoulder and kneaded away knots of tension.
“Ahhh, that feels marvellous—thanks. I needed that after the headmistress’ sarcasm.”
She came and sat down beside me. “You’re welcome,” she smiled, “I was just checking.”
I looked at her, perplexed. “Checking what?”
“Well, that Ms. Henderson has a sharp tongue, so sharp, she could take your head off without your knowing. And she was being sarcastic. I was just checking to make sure she hadn’t cut you too badly.”
I was surprised but said nothing—I wasn’t quite expecting that level of compassion from her.
Before we could talk further, the door was opened and the secretary ushered a beautiful, young blonde-haired girl into the room.
“Cassandra Mitchell,” the woman announced and then exited, softly closing the door behind her.
Lindsay tried to reassure the girl
“Please sit down, Cassandra. I’m Detective Lambert and my colleague is Detective Wharton.”
The girl was wearing the traditional private school uniform consisting of a white blouse, tartan tie and matching kilt—although in Cassandra’s case the kilt was short enough to qualify as a cheerleader’s skirt.
The girl flashed me a malevolent look and then turned to Lindsay. "Why am I here?”
“We're here to investigate threats arising from claims of witchcraft.”
The girl turned back to face me. “What’s going on here is beyond your abilities." She spat out the words viciously. " You’re completely out of your depth.”
“Oh really?" I countered, " Then why don't you tell us what exactly is going on here, Cassandra?”
“A witches’ war—begun by the fat pig Darla who stole my grimoire.”
I was puzzled and looked at Lindsay .
“She’s referring to her Book of Shadows where she keeps her spells—it’s a type of witch’s journal.”
Cassandra rolled her eyes. “It’s a manual of black magic, actually—and I’m not a Wiccan like that wannabe Darla—I’m a traditional black witch.”
Lindsay interrupted her rant. “I thought witchcraft wasn’t evil—it was a kind of earth religion celebrating Mother Nature.”
“Maybe that’s what that pig Darla told you—she gets her information from Wikipedia. She wouldn’t know how to cast a spell if she tried.”
“But aren’t you under some kind of ethical code—sort of like an eastern religion?”
“Traditional Witchcraft has neither Wiccan Rede nor Threefold Law. We’re a law unto ourselves.”
“I see.” Lindsay looked back to me for support.
“What did Darla do with your grimoire?” I asked.
“She burned it—that stupid bitch. She has no idea how that will affect her.”
“The girls that are sick—are they all friends of Darla’s?
“Of course—that was a warning to them—before I found out she destroyed the book.”
She looked up suddenly and turned deathly pale. “Oh my God—I’ll kill that pig—I’ll see her burned by the same fire that destroyed my grimoire.”
“What’s the matter, Cassandra?”
She ignored me. “She must have copied some of my spells—she’s been bloody spying on us.”
Lindsay looked furtively around the room. “Spying—how? There’s no one here?”
“Are you blind? Look.” She pointed to the cardinal perched on the cedar bough near the widows.
As soon as she pointed her arm in the bird’s direction, it started up with fright and flew off with a terrified fluttering of wings and scattering of snow.
Birds as spies? This was either insane or a level of paranormal activity beyond which I couldn't even imagine.
Maybe Cassandra was right―I was out totally out of my depth in this matter.