by T. H. Hunter
Though I had no illusions about the murderer lingering for very long, I kept my wand at the ready as I opened the door.
The next room was dimly lit by a burning oil lamp. The wallpaper had a floral design, such as popularised by William Morris. There was a bed in the centre of the room. This, I supposed, must have been the bedroom of Lord Pembroke’s wife.
Everything in the room had been perfectly kept, even to the smallest detail. Even an old-fashioned woman’s nightgown had been folded carefully and placed on the pillow. A book with an old binding and yellow pages lay on the nightstand.
There was a bathroom through one door, while another led onto another, much smaller landing, with a narrow, winding staircase leading down. This, clearly, had been the murderer’s route of escape.
Stepping back into the bedroom of Lord Pembroke’s deceased wife, I made sure to lock the door to the landing. I didn’t think for a minute, of course, that it would prevent a magic-wielder from entering, though the distinctive clicking noise of the unlocking spell would serve as a useful warning to us while we were searching for clues in Lord Pembroke’s chambers.
As I returned, Barry was examining Lord Pembroke’s head wounds more closely. It was a peculiar, almost sacrilegious feeling to be going through his things while he lay there, but I kept telling myself that, after all, it served the purpose of catching his killer. Returning to our room or leaving the estate would simply provide the murderer with an opportunity to get rid of any clues.
Next, I sat down at the small secretary. It seemed as though Lord Pembroke corresponded only occasionally, with the latest private letters he had received dating from over three months ago. Most of the more recent letters were bills, sent by a specialist company called The Edinburgh Spellcasting Engineers Inc. Their services had been rendered mainly for repairs to the magical field system.
After I had gone through all of Lord Pembroke’s correspondence that I could find, I turned to the library next door.
Under different circumstances, I think I would have been able to appreciate its beauty, from the expertly carved oak panelling that went so well with the green leather of the sofa and armchairs.
Although there were several personal items, including a pipe, strong tobacco, several ornaments, and a newspaper article on age preservation that Lord Pembroke had evidently been working on, I could find nothing that pointed to any of the suspects.
Above the mantelpiece was a portrait of Lord Pembroke, though it was much smaller and less forbidding than the painting of his father that had hung in the hall. The photographs on the shelves were mostly of his deceased wife. She had been a very beautiful woman, albeit in a somewhat detached, almost cold sort of way. She hardly ever smiled in any of the pictures.
I was just about to turn around and see how Barry was getting on when a small object at the foot of one of the armchairs near the fireplace caught my eye. It had the length of a pocket notebook, though it had an elaborately designed cover made of sturdy leather and was much thicker than might be expected.
I opened it. To my excitement, it read Diary of Lord Pembroke, followed by the current year.
I quickly skipped a few pages. Lord Pembroke’s writing was tiny, so I had to hold it closer to the light. Most of the entries dealt with rather mundane matters, such as various tasks that still had to be performed, though every so often, Lord Pembroke’s thoughts on other matters had been recorded.
March 1st
Steven insists on yet another one of those ghastly parties of his. Wish he would stop, though Beatrice is firmly on his side in this. Have asked Carew to make my excuses.
I eagerly read on, until I came across an interesting passage further along:
May 23rd
Have alerted the authorities to the anonymous letters I have been receiving. Didn’t seem to take it very seriously, so I have also tasked a private investigator to get to the bottom of this.
Soon enough, as early summer progressed, Lord Pembroke’s entries on the subject became a lot more frequent.
June 3rd
More letters arrive almost every week. Everyone worried. Don’t know whom to trust anymore. New maid, a girl called Emma, has been making a nuisance of herself. Beatrice believes she has somehow ensnared Steven, though that has not proven to be all that difficult in the past. Have asked Carew to keep an eye on the situation for me.
Soon, however, other woes seemed to be drifting into focus.
June 14th
The magic field generator has been causing a lot of problems of late. Dysfunctions that haven’t occurred before. Edinburgh engineers don’t know what to do, so I have brought in someone to monitor the situation on a permanent basis.
June 17th
Sarah informs me that problems are a lot more serious than I thought. Generator is running out of energy, despite regular infusions. Unclear as to what is causing it, but time is running against us. Have not informed Beatrice and the others yet. Won’t do so unless absolutely necessary, as not to cause too much alarm.
June 28th
The new maid has been caught snooping around the generator again. Have had a talk with Steven, who remains stubborn on the matter.
Sarah really has been a godsend these last few days. Magical field might have destabilised without her. She has also been extraordinarily sympathetic to the family’s plight, as well as my own. At least one person I can trust in this place, though Carew does his best, I suppose.
June 30th
Carew has discovered notes on all sorts of family affairs, including delicate information on the construction of the generator, in Emma’s room. She must be dismissed immediately from our service. Have let the Spellcasters’ Ministry of Justice know that I wish to have a gagging spell enacted, preventing Emma from revealing anything important. Will await their answer before formally dismissing her. Beatrice and Steven have been informed. Steven promised to discuss the matter with Emma. A futile attempt. Though why she has done all of this remains a mystery.
The next few diary entries were concerned with the technical aspects of repairing the magical field and the generator that had powered it for such a long time. Lord Pembroke’s writing on the matter was becoming more and more desperate. Despite his and Sarah’s best efforts, the problems only kept mounting.
July 1st
Essence coils have broken down yet again, despite our repairs from last Friday. I’m beginning to wonder whether all of this is more than just pure accident.
Steven claims that he has found the reason for Emma’s snooping. On confronting her with the evidence, she admitted that she works for one of the national newspapers. They have promised to pay her handsomely for a series of anonymous articles on the magical field generator. A fine taste in women Steven has there, I must say.
July 3rd
Emma tragically fell to her death. Healers presume it was suicide, though Steven is insistent that it wasn’t. He has been making the most ridiculous and wild accusations. The boy has completely lost control of himself.
I will not deny that the family benefits from the tragedy, but as I pointed out to Steven only last night, the authorities were quite sympathetic to our situation and therefore granted the placement of a gag. Emma would have been bound by magical contract to complete secrecy.
I have asked Carew to retrieve and destroy all delicate information that Emma gathered during her time here.
There were only two more entries remaining.
July 5th
Steven has been the victim of a terrible accident. My father’s painting in the hall fell on him. Healers and bystanders reacted very quickly.
I am informed that his chances of survival are moderate to good, depending on how well his system reacts to the potions. He cannot be brought out of the estate, of course, though I have sent for the very best healers from London to care for him here.
Sarah has informed me that the essence coils have lost power yet again. The system is stable, for now.
I have made a rather
daunting discovery, however. My suspicions that the problems surrounding the generator were more than mere accidents have been confirmed. Not only the coils, but also other systems have had corrosive spells applied to them for weeks now. The level of degradation is otherwise unexplainable, since many of the parts are new. Someone clearly is trying to bring the generator offline through sabotage.
As to the perpetrator, I am awaiting confirmation from various sources. Any accusation until then remains mere guess work.
At last, I turned to the last entry.
July 5th, second entry
Have received word tonight. My suspicions have been confirmed. Will contact the MLE in the morning. The saboteur is
I turned the page eagerly. But apart from a drop of ink, it was blank. I hectically turned page after page, in the hope that Lord Pembroke had accidentally skipped a few, but it was no use. There was nothing more written.
I hurried into the bedroom where Barry was still examining Lord Pembroke’s body.
“Barry,” I said, holding up the diary, “look what I’ve found. It’s his diary. It’s all in here.”
I quickly told him about the mysterious system failures that had beleaguered the magical generator, as well as Emma’s snooping around.
“He had a gagging order, you say?” Barry said in surprise.
“That’s what he wrote,” I said.
“They are rarely granted, you must understand,” said Barry, frowning. “Lord Pembroke must have had an ironclad case, though with such delicate magic, it’s certainly called for.”
“How does it work, exactly?”
“A spell is performed at a magical court,” said Barry, “by the judge. It prevents the person in question from writing, talking about, or otherwise informing a third party of a specific subject. It’s quite invasive magic, as you might imagine, and thus rarely granted.”
“So Lord Pembroke wouldn’t have had a reason to kill her, then,” I said.
“Not if his request was granted,” said Barry. “But if Emma was the saboteur…”
“No,” I said. “The problems continued occurring after her death. And even so, he could have just thrown her out.”
“But then who is it?” asked Barry. “Unless that infernal butler has become tired of life and went on a rampage, I don’t see who else might have had the opportunity or the motive for that matter.”
“I think I know who it is,” I said. “And Lord Pembroke knew, too. He was just about to write it in his diary, when he must have been disturbed.”
“Well, who is it?”
“It’s been staring us in the face all this time,” I said, pacing up and down. “I was so caught up in all these family affairs that I never thought to look beyond them. An outsider would have a completely different set of motives.”
“I don’t follow you, Amanda…”
“The letters are unimportant. They were sent by Lord Pembroke’s sister, a step that misfired badly, grant you, but there was no malicious intent. The question we have to ask is who had access as well as the expertise to go through with the sabotage.”
“But we have nothing to go on,” said Barry. “All we know from the diary is that the system was sabotaged deliberately.”
“Don’t you see?” I said. “There’s only one person capable enough to have so cleverly sabotaged the system without arousing suspicion, at least for a while.”
“And who, pray, may that be?”
“It’s your friend,” I said. “Sarah.”
11
“Preposterous,” said Barry indignantly. “She couldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Don’t’ you see? It all fits. She’s a recent addition to the house. She probably knows the system almost as well as Lord Pembroke by now. And she has all day to tinker with it.”
“But… but there’s still Beatrice, she could have done it just as well.”
“Why would she sabotage a system that’s the only thing preventing her from dying of old age on the spot?” I said. “It doesn’t make any sense, Barry.”
“But Sarah has no motive,” spluttered Barry, though I could tell that his defences were spreading thin now.
“No?” I said. “Can’t you think of anything? You’re the magical theorist, after all. What could one do with such a generator?”
Barry stared at me for a moment.
But before he could answer, a rumbling permeated Lord Pembroke’s bedroom. It sounded like the beginnings of thunderstorm.
“What was that?” Barry said, a slight of panic in his voice. “What’s going on?”
“Probably a thunderstorm,” I said, gazing out of the window. “It’s too dark to see anything, though.”
“I still can’t believe it’s her,” said Barry bluntly.
“Barry, you’ve seen the magical field generator, haven’t you?”
“Why, yes, Sarah showed it to me only the other day,” he said.
“And did she ask you anything about it?”
Barry hesitated.
“Yes,” he finally admitted. “She… she asked me about the generator. I had written a paper quite some time ago on a related matter, you see.”
“And what was that about?”
“Essence coils,” he said.
“The key component that’s been sabotaged over and over again,” I said.
Barry looked at me in astonishment.
“She fooled me,” he said bitterly. “I should have known.”
“She fooled us all,” I said. “Except for Val, I suppose, but I thought she was just jealous. I…”
Suddenly, the floor began to shake uncontrollably, as though an earthquake had hit Pembroke house.
“That’s no ordinary thunderstorm,” said Barry.
“She must be finishing the job,” I said. “Barry, where is the generator located?”
“It’s… it’s in the West tower.”
“Show me the way,” I said, drawing my wand. “Whatever she’s doing up there, we’ve got to put a stop to it.”
Unlocking the door to the landing, Barry and I hastened out of Lord Pembroke’s chambers.
We hurtled down the dimly lit corridors of the West wing, passing countless doors and little staircases leading to other parts of the wing. We were accompanied by a cacophony of rumblings and, whenever we passed a window facing the grounds, distant cries as the last guests fled the house.
I was surprised at how well Barry navigated the maze-like structure of the house, though perhaps it was his indignation above all else that was guiding the way forward.
Although we were making headway, it seemed like an eternity before we finally arrived at the entrance to the tower. I knew from viewing it from the grounds that it was massive, easily surpassing the rest of the house in height. It was also the tower that Emma had fallen from. Though it was undoubtedly sturdy, I wondered whether if even it could withstand the destruction of the generator.
“Use your wand only if absolutely necessary,” said Barry. “Remember, too much magic might further destabilise the field generator.”
“Right,” I said.
Carefully, I opened the door to the West tower. We were immediately greeted by a blast of hot air and a putrid smell of burning as we entered the long, winding staircase.
“It’s right at the top,” whispered Barry.
“What about these other rooms?” I asked, indicating the rooms leading off the narrow, circular landings.
“Storage, I believe,” said Barry.
“Alright,” I said softly. “You’d better stay back. If I can get a clean shot at her, it will all be over with a minimum of magic. Val should be back soon with Alec and hopefully the MLE, too.”
As we ascended the stairs, the noise coming from the top was getting louder and louder. A humming sound was interrupted every so often by the clattering of metal, followed by reverberations that seemed to penetrate me completely, as though someone had turned up the bass of a surround system to an unbearable level.
At last, we found ou
rselves on the very top floor. Barry indicated the room farthest away. I could see that he was shaking badly, though whether out of nerves or rage and indignation I could not tell.
Holding my wand tight in my hand, I crept forward, making sure to keep the door that Barry had indicated covered at all times. The stench was so bad now that I had to hold my sleeve to my face in order not to gag on the spot.
As I reached the closed door, I paused. Though it was very difficult to tell amidst the ear-splitting noise of the generator, I could have sworn that there was someone inside, speaking loudly.
I, too, was now shaking slightly. My wand hand was sweating from grasping the handle so hard for such a long time. This was the moment of reckoning, the moment I had to get right. If I didn’t get a clean shot immediately, I’d not only risk our lives, but also the lives of all those protected by the magical field from ageing. That was a constraint that, unfortunately, did not apply to Sarah. If she could extend the fight, she would be so much closer to her goal.
Gathering all my remaining courage, I put my hand on the handle of the door. Wand at the ready to fire at the slightest movement inside, I turned it.
Time seemed to move in slow motion as the door swung wide open in front of me, revealing a medium-sized room, dominated by a huge machine in its midst that towered over us. The air was hot and humid, and I began to sweat immediately.
The machine must have been ten feet tall at least, almost reaching to the ceiling. It was largely made of metal, with pipes and valves protruded from every angle, leaving only a foot or so for us to enter the room. Though I didn’t usually fear enclosed spaces, it made me feel claustrophobic just by looking at it.
