The Witching Hour (The Witches Pendragon Mystery Series Book 1)

by Sarff, Julie

  From behind a large oak tree that is smackdab inside the circle of rocks, we hear a tiny, noise … a thump, thump, thump. Camille moves fast, striding across the forest floor.

  “It’s here! This is it!” I am just in time to watch Camille shove a bunch of leaves out of the way. Excitedly she reaches down and tugs at something…I think it is a brass ring…yes, it’s a brass ring lying on the ground. She pulls on it and the bunker door flies open. Out tumbles Elfie.

  “Oh thank you, Eostre!” I cry as Hatha rushes over and grabs Elfie up in her arms.

  “Oh my dear, smart Elfie,” she cries, “Thank you for pounding on that door, otherwise we might not have found you.”

  “Yes,” comes a woman’s sharp voice. “You’re all so clever and smart. And now what am I going to do with so many of you?”

  I turn on my boot-clad heel to see a middle-aged woman with blond hair cut into a bob. It’s too dark to make out her facial features, but in my mind I picture the woman wearing a harsh expression like Adolf Hitler in the books Monique brings home from the library. By the reflection of moonbeam off metal, I know that she holds a gun in her hand; a gun which she points at the seven of us.

  “Margaritte? What on earth are you doing here?” Claire-Elaine asks the woman who has emerged out of the dark.

  “Committing murder, in a just a few seconds, that is. Now, all of you move close together and stay where I can see you. Anyone who makes a sudden movement will be shot immediately.”

  “How dare you say such a thing it front of a child!” sputters Hendra.

  I glance at the poor little girl and can’t even imagine the horror little Mathilde must feel. I, myself, am caught up in my own fear. I’ve never had a gun pointed at me before –crossbow yes– but never a gun.

  We all take a few steps closer to each other, as directed. Although I’m not sure why we’re doing this woman’s bidding since she claims she’s going to kill us.

  “Margaritte, have you lost your mind?” Claire-Elaine asks.

  “It was you who was supposed to lose your mind, Claire,” Margaritte spits. “The ghostly haunts were supposed to send you fleeing. Yet you didn’t go. Not even when you thought your daughters were in danger. You stayed on and on. And I kept having to be scarier, ratcheting up the haunting. Yes, it was I who pulled the covers off of Mathilde. I raked my fingers down your daughter’s back, and did you leave? No. You’re still here, and you have all given me no choice as to what I must do. Of course, nobody will ever find your seven bodies in the bunker.”

  “HAVE YOU LOST ALL YOUR MARBLES!” comes a deep voice. A man emerges from the depth of the woods and hits Margaritte broadside, knocking her to the ground. The gun flies from the woman’s hands and is caught, quite deftly in one of Camille’s large paws.

  “Alain, Alain, what are you doing?” Claire-Elaine shrieks, and I realize this man must be her husband, the Count of Trisse.

  At the sound of her voice, the man falls to the ground and puts his head in his hands sobbing.

  “It…it was never supposed to go this far,” he says. What’s this? A confession? All of us sisters lean in, waiting to hear.

  Claire-Elaine has the presence of mind to know that whatever Alain is going to say, it’s not going to be good for their poor child, Mathilde. “My dear,” Claire-Elaine asks Camille, “Would you escort Mathilde back to the house and call the police?”

  With a “come on, ole thing,” Camille gathers Mathilde in her huge arms. “Let’s leave your parents to talk.”

  Following their departure comes a most remarkable confession, punctuated by the odd gun shot. It turns out Margaritte is the Count’s first wife. Through all the mumblings of “please forgive me,” I learn that the Count and his first wife cooked up a scheme to send Claire-Elaine running from the house.

  “But why?” I ask, right before Hendra accidentally shoots the gun which Camille has handed to her. It turns out okay, the bullet whizzes over the Count’s head and into a tree. It wasn’t her fault, Hendra’s never held such a strange weapon before.

  “You’d better hand me that, Sister,” Hatha directs, but Hendra hiss-whispers, “No, no, I’ve got it all figured out, it won’t happen again.” All the while the Count blubbers, “I’m so sorry… yes, that’s right, you should kill me…I deserve it.”

  Not sure if it was the magic of the Witching Hour, or a guilty conscience, but the man confesses all. He goes on to explain that he fell out of love with Claire-Elaine and he desperately wants a divorce.

  At her husband’s horrible words, Claire-Elaine turns pale. She holds up a hand to stop him. “I see, and you wanted me to leave, correct? I assume this has to do with the prenup.”

  “Yes,” Alain says, “Yes, according to the prenup, if you leave me you get nothing, but if I leave you…”

  “Then I get half of your fortune, including the chateau.”

  “Yes, yes that’s it. Margaritte and I wanted to get back together. You know she would never give up the title, and she would never give up the chateau.”

  I suck in my breath. How cold and cruel these people are. And they say witches are evil. Unbelievable.

  “So you had her “haunt” me and the children, is that it? To try to get me to leave?”

  “Yes, but it was not always her, many times it was the actual ghost. She told me it was the ghost who hurt the children, not her. I would have never allowed such a thing. It all got out of control and then you brought in the nuns…”

  He broke off. Unbelievably, he gave Claire-Elaine a scolding look. “If you hadn’t brought them in to interfere in our affairs, I wouldn’t have had to lock one of them up in a cellar.”

  Pardon my French, but what a bastard! Am I right? Only a bastard would blame imprisoning Elfie on his own, innocent wife. This man has a seriously twisted view of the world.

  “And what was your plan, to let me die down there?” Elfie’s voice cuts in. “It’s a pit, and you threw me down the stairs. I hit my head and blacked out for hours. I didn’t come to until I heard the voices of my fellow sisters. It was all I could do to climb that decrepit ladder and reach the trap door, only to find that it was locked from the outside. If they hadn’t come along, I might have ended up dying down there.” Elfie rubs at her head, which must still be aching.

  “You have to believe, I never meant for it to go this far. I was supposed to just be a little haunting, to send Claire-Elaine away. It was only after we captured you,”–here he looks discreetly at Elfie—“and Margaritte shoved her into the bunker that I realized she had been the one who had harmed the children. It wasn’t the ghost at all. When I realized it was Margaritte, I no longer wanted to have anything to do with her. Knowing that she harmed my children…well, you don’t know how awful that makes me feel.”

  The Count grimaces as Hendra fires another shot causing everyone to jump. This one heads straight up into a tree, and a large owl flies off with a reproachful, “whoo.”

  “Oops,” Hendra says, and shoves the gun in Hatha’s hand, trying to get away from the dangerous object as fast as she can. Hatha holds it gingerly, as if it’s a dead rat, with the barrel pointing downwards.

  For a while, nobody says a thing. Each one of us is trying to process this horrible information. What monsters this man and his ex-wife are. I look at the Count, sitting in a heap on the forest floor and I feel very little pity for him.

  “We’ll that explains everything, and to think we blamed it all on the poor ghost of Charlotte Du Mont. Hendra, Sheila, do you think you can help lift Margaritte to her feet?” Hatha asks, taking command of the situation.

  “No, I’ll do it,” the Count insists. He scrambles to his feet and picks up the body of his unconscious first wife. Heading back to the Chateau, are an extremely strange crew –a pile of witches, a woman in a Chanel suit, her husband and his unconscious ex-wife– all marching back across the forest, heading for the yellow light that streams from the windows of the great house.

  Off in the distance, I hear a pol
ice siren. Good ole Camille, she’s already called the authorities.

  Chapter 22 (Noelle)

  I, Noelle, was quite relieved when the phone call came early in the morning informing us that Elfie was alright. I was surprised to learn of the schemes of the Count and his ex-wife both of whom, Camille told me, are cooling their heels in the local prison.

  With the Chateua de Trisse mystery solved, I was beginning to feel everything was alright with the world. That is, until I got to my shop to find my ghost sitting in the cauldron I use to make chocolate.

  “Muur deer,” he wails. When it comes to Hugo we are right back where we started. We are no closer to finding his true killer than the day I first met him.

  “Yes, yes, I know, I know. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.”

  His wailing is enough to prod me to pick up the phone. At La Bonne Chaleur, Elise picks up. She sounds very sheepish about the whole satanic ritual thing, and the fact that her brother knifed Manon.

  “I need you to come by on your lunch hour, and bring your friend Anna.”

  I think Elise knows why I’m asking, which is why she agrees without any questions. Perhaps I am grasping at straws, trying to turn up a new lead, but the only thing I know about the ghost is that he dated the cousin of Elise’s friend Anna. Maybe if I can talk to the cousin, I can figure out who killed Hugo.

  I am just finishing up my lunch of ratatouille prepared by a delicious restaurant that sits opposite the Chateau d’Amboise, when Elise and her plump friend stroll into my shop.

  “You’re the chocolate maker?” Elise’s friend asks. “Your confections are disgusting, you know that right?”

  “Yes, I’m the disgusting chocolate maker. That’s me, Noelle Fosse. And I hear your cousin used to date Hugo?” I reply to Anna, who is dressed all in black. I’ve learned these people are called “Goths” and they’re supposed to be scary or dark or witch-like or something. I bet this young gal was at the satanic ritual that took place the other night. Although, that might be stereotyping on my part.

  Still, I eye her up and down, her dark hose are ripped; probably torn to look ragged in just the right places. This precisely-torn hosiery trails down to some heavy duty Mary Janes that are elevated off the ground on a three-inch rubber sole. She’s got a dark skirt, dark sweater, and a huge amount of eye-liner caked on her lower lid. What is it with the Goths and eye-liner?

  “Juliette? My cousin Juliette? She never did anything of the sort. Juliette never even knew Hugo. She’s always gone out with Maurice.”

  “No, not that cousin. Your other cousin used to date Hugo,” Elise says, glancing over at her friend.

  “That’s the only cousin I have. Girl cousin, anyway.” Anna tosses her long, black unwashed hair.

  “I mean Lucien. Lucien used to date Hugo.”

  “Lucien? My cousin Lucien? He likes women. Are you crazy?”

  “I saw them together…in the Parc Leonardo. They were kissing…”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Elise.”

  Anna and Elise immediately fall to squabbling and my mind reels. Lucien? Manon’s Lucien? Could it be the same guy who I met at the hospital last night? The guy who asked Manon for a love potion for girls?

  “I saw them, I tell you. In the Parc Leonardo, right behind the giant water screw. You know, that replica of Da Vinci’s design? They were definitely together. I called Hugo’s name and they stopped what they were doing and glared up at me. Lucien seemed embarrassed. He stood up and stalked off.”

  “Elise, do you remember what day you saw them together?” I ask, my hand reaching into my pocket, ready to dial the police.

  “Of course I do. I remember the day well, because later that night, they found Hugo murdered.”

  “And you didn’t bother to share this information with the police?”

  Elise shrugs. “Why should I rat them out? Lucien seemed like he was uncomfortable with the whole gay thing. It wasn’t my story to tell. Besides, I was pretty sure that it was my brother, Etienne, who killed Hugo. I didn’t want him to go to prison. Now, of course, he’s changed his tune. Etienne says he never killed Hugo and has renounced Satan. He’s quite the different guy all of a sudden. It’s like something got to him, and scared the daylights out of him.”

  Yeah, Hugo got to him. And Hugo scared him straight.

  “Now Etienne’s all weird. Reading the bible and stuff. Whenever I go to visit him, he’s preachy. And even though I didn’t go to the police, I did try to tell that fat nun when she came to my store. I wanted to confess everything to her, about seeing those two kissing before Hugo died and also about the Satan-worshippers.”

  I feel as though I could reach out and slap her. Why didn’t she tell me this a week ago when I went to visit her at her uncle’s hardware store?

  “Out, out of my store,” I shoo them away with a dramatic gesture of my hands.

  “Sheesh, first you ask us to come over then you go all uptight on us. What is it with old women anyway?” they ask as they depart.

  I’m twenty five. In what universe is that old? As soon as they leave my shop, I text Manon.

 

 

 

 

 

  Once more, I flip the sign to Fermé, and rush out of the store, quickly locking the door behind me.

  *****

  No sooner do I fling open the door to Manon’s store, then I stop in my tracks. Lucien is here. The murderer is here! Eating lunch with Manon and Beatrice, looking as easy going as the day is long.

  The three of them smile up at me.

  “Um, just a second,” I say oddly, and hide behind a rack of brightly printed Baby Lulu dresses, quickly typing a text.

  <> comes the reply a second later.

  “Who are you texting, Noelle? Come join us, we have a bit more fruit and cheese,” Beatrice calls.

  “Sounds wonderful, I’m so famished.” I reply, walking nonchalantly towards the three of them. They’ve spread their picnic atop Manon’s checkout counter.

  “Hello, Lucien, I’m surprised to see you here,” I say trying to keep my voice from wavering.

  “Just picking up a little more of this,” he holds up a small vial with blue liquid in it and I realize, if he’s arrested, he’ll tell the police we’re witches.

  Thinking quickly, I say, “Haven’t you figured it out by now? That stuff is fake. It only works because you think it does. You feel more confident because we told you that it makes you confident, but it’s really just water and food coloring.”

  “That’s not true,” Manon starts in with a pouting look reminiscent of Lizelle.

  “C’mon Manon, time to tell him our potions aren’t real. They’re just for fun. What you’ve been experiencing, my friend, is the placebo effect. Manon was just trying to bolster your confidence.”

  As soon as I say this, I see a change come over the quiet, shy Lucien. It is a look of pure rage. I stare into his eyes. They are cold and vacant, like a man with no soul. Abruptly, he smashes the vial down on the countertop and it shatters to pieces.

  “You lied to me!” he shouts at Manon. “You said you would help me find love. I gave the potion to the girls. They all seemed to fall for me. I suppose they were in on it too. Everyone’s been lying.”

  “Did Hugo lie?” I ask. It pops out of my mouth before I realize it might not have been wise to antagonize this young man. He turns his piercing eyes on me and I know instantly that I am right.

  “You murdered him, to keep him quiet. You were embarrassed about being gay. I don’t know why. Plenty of people are gay. Gay people are winning rights all across the world and that’s how it should be. So tell me, why so many shenanigans to make it look like you like women?”

  “Noelle! What are you talking about?”
cries Manon.

  “Because it’s what father wants,” Lucien blurts out. “Hugo was my only love. The girls always hated me and I couldn’t care less. But I needed to make them love me for my father. All this was for him! And you all lied to me! Especially you!” he turns on Manon. Shaking with rage he grabs her, his arms circling her tiny throat. A second later, poor Manon makes the most pitiful sounds as she gasps for air.

  That’s when the Celt in Beatrice comes alive. She flies at Lucien in a rage. Her arms flailing like a fan on overdrive.

  “Nobody move,” Pierre comes through the door, gun pulled.

  “I thought you said you were right around the corner,” I say with regards to his text. Seeing the gun in Pierre’s hand, Lucien lets go of Manon’s neck and puts his arms up.

  “I moved as fast as I could,” he pants as if he’s been running. “I called the station first, so they could send back up.” I hear sirens in the distance and it’s like music to my ears. It’s not long before two of Amboise’s finest arrive. Five minutes later, they have Lucien in custody in the back of a police car.

  It’s only after Pierre takes our statements and leaves that Beatrice, Manon, and I heave a sigh of relief. The three of us look terrible. Strands of Beatrice’s hair have come lose from her wimple, and Manon’s brow is furrowed in worry. If Pierre hadn’t arrived when he did, Lucien might have strangled Manon to death.

  “What say we close up early?” I ask, “There’s a storm blowing in, I can feel it in my bones. I doubt we’ll have a ton of customers this afternoon anyway.”

  Manon and Beatrice nod in silent agreement. Poor Manon. She’s still as white as a sheet. Ever since Hugo showed up at my shop, it’s as if our lives have been turned upside down.

  We close the shop, and walk in a brisk wind, linking arms. When we reach my shop, I stop only long enough to get my sweater and bag. It really says something about our frame of mind, that none of us feel compelled to clean up the chocolate shop before turning to leave.

  For the first time in my life, I walk away from a dirty cauldron.