Copycat Murders

by T. H. Hunter

  He narrowed his eyes briefly at me, and then returned to his seat.

  “What an arrogant p…” I whispered to Val who, sensing trouble, had come back to see what Harper had wanted from me.

  “… person?” said Val, grinning. “Yeah. One for our list of suspects, d’you reckon?”

  “Perhaps,” I said darkly. “I certainly wouldn’t put it past him. I just don’t understand why he doesn’t want us here. I mean, it’s not as if the MLE got anywhere on its own.”

  “It’s definitely strange,” said Val.

  I sighed.

  “But we’ve got to remain as objective as possible,” I said, trying to shake off my personal feelings as best I could. “No murderer would be this stupid, would he?”

  “Yeah, pity it’s never the obvious ones,” said Val. “Life really would be a lot easier.”

  “You never know, though,” I said. “It could be a clever bluff.”

  “D’you really think Wycliffe has come back from the dead?” asked Val, who sounded spooked by the whole concept.

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly.

  Barry, who had grown impatient below us, began clawing at our legs.

  “Ouch,” I said, reaching down, “what’s the matter, Barry?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Oh, alright,” I said. “Let’s sit down, then.”

  We took three chairs at the end of the table. For one, I wanted to continue my musings with Val. Also, I thought that inconspicuousness was, for the moment, the best policy. Perhaps it was Muriel Hall’s paranoia that had now attached itself to me, but I decided that the later the staff got wind of our plans, the better.

  Meanwhile, the deputy headmaster seemed to have finished his meal. He got up and, without another word, left the great hall in what seemed to be quite a hurry. Personally, I felt the air to be a lot lighter after he left.

  Ordering food was perhaps the most enjoyable thing I had done for quite a while in regard to magic. You simply had to place your wand on the menu and speak the name of the dish out loud. I helped Val and Barry order theirs first, since they couldn’t do it without me.

  It was extraordinary to see how, only a few minutes later, our dishes zoomed through the hall and landed right in front of us on the table. I had ordered Yorkshire puddings with roast beef and gravy. I don’t know whether it was the particularly magical way it had been cooked, but I had never tasted anything like it. It was absolutely delicious.

  In the meantime, Barry had got himself into a full-fledged discussion on magical theory with an elderly man sitting opposite of him. If ever there was a walking caricature of a professor, this man was it. His tousled and uncombed hair seemed to sprouting from his head at random. His spectacles, foggy and thick, made his eyes appear unusually tiny.

  “Certainly, I-I agree,” the man was saying, with an affected stutter that seemed to be so common amongst many academics. “But surely, Farthing’s theorem of therianthropic immutability still counts. I simply find it impossible to conceive of any plausible solution that would discount it.”

  Barry, puffing slightly from intellectual exertion, countered the point in a similarly verbose answer that outlined his own view of magical theory.

  “Oh, I wish he wouldn’t go on like that,” Val whispered, rolling her eyes.

  “I don’t know,” I said thoughtfully. “He’s playing his role perfectly. Or being himself, I suppose. At any rate, a thorough debate gives us time to observe the field without arousing too much suspicion.”

  We pretended to listen to the discussion at the table, though in reality I was closely watching all present. Since research scholars, dependent mainly on the massive school library, also stayed at the castle on a permanent or semi-permanent basis, I needed more information on the people present. Fortunately, sitting closest to me, a woman with long blonde hair, who must have been around my age, was quietly eating her vegetables. She paid close attention to what was being said at the table, though appeared to be too reserved to participate herself. She looked pale and rather ill to me.

  “Excuse me,” I said, leaning over to her. “Could you tell me who that warlock is?”

  I pointed to the man discussing magical theory with Barry.

  “Oh, that’s Professor Olsen,” she said. “He’s my boss, actually. You’re assistants to the Earl of Barrington?”

  “That’s right,” I said, trying to suppress a grin at the mention of Barry’s official title.

  It wouldn’t do, I thought, to start a discussion on the inheritance of Fickleton House. In fact, it was probably best to omit that little detail altogether. My relationship with Barry would have to appear purely professional – not familial.

  “My name is Esther, by the way, Esther Hickey,” she said, smiling pleasantly and extending her hand.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking it. “I’m Amanda Sheridan, but just call me Amy. And this is Val.”

  “Hi,” Val said, “I’m also assistant to Barr–“

  I quickly kicked her foot under the table.

  “– I mean, the Earl of Barrington.”

  “Is it true that he got himself trapped in that cat’s body?” she asked curiously.

  “Yes,” I said. “Quite true. That was long before our time, though.”

  “We wouldn’t have let that happen to him,” said Val.

  “Poor man,” said Esther. “It must be horrible.”

  “I think he tries to make the best of it,” I said, thinking of the way Mrs. Faversham doted on him at home.

  “That’s very brave,” she said. “I’d very much like to meet him. I’ve been an admirer of his work for some time. He’s written some fantastic articles on water magic, too. That’s what I’m specialising in, you see. Professor Olsen is the head of the water magic department. Do you have a focus yet?”

  “Erm, no,” I said, not untruthfully, “I’ve just started out really. But the… Earl of Barrington has allowed me some time to think about it.”

  “That’s certainly very gracious of him,” Esther said, sighing. “I wish I had had that.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  She looked up at Professor Olsen. If I wasn’t mistaken, there something akin to fear in her eyes.

  “I…,” she said, lowering her voice. “Never mind. Sorry, I didn’t want to bother you with my…”

  I just wanted to dig a little deeper when a familiar figure entered at the far end of the hall. It was the headmistress. The look on her face told me that something was seriously wrong. She scanned the staff table from afar, catching my eye almost immediately. Then, thinking it was probably too obvious to approach me or the table directly, she jerked her head ever so slightly toward the exit, turned on her heel, and left the hall again. Her meaning couldn’t have been made any clearer, however.

  “Excuse me a moment,” I said as inconspicuously as possible. “I just remembered, I think I left something upstairs.”

  Val, unfortunately, hadn’t seen the headmistress at all and was rather at a loss. But before she could inquire, I pointedly raised my eyebrows at her, my back turned to Esther.

  “Oh, alright, Amy,” Val said, her voice slightly higher than normal. “I’ll see you later.”

  An ominous feeling in my stomach, I walked as fast as I dared towards the main exit of the Great Hall. Nobody around me, however, seemed to be taking any notice at all. The students were still as loud and as boisterous as ever.

  Shutting the heavy oak doors behind me, I spun around to find the headmistress standing next to one of the hideous waxwork figures they kept in the antechamber of the Great Hall, herself almost as motionless as the figure. Only her eyes were wide awake and fearful.

  “Miss Sheridan,” she whispered. “Another sign has just appeared. I think you need to see this for yourself. Please, come with me immediately.”

  Chapter 5

  Without another word, I followed her. Despite her usual apathy, I was surprised at how fast Muriel Hall could walk in
her present state of mind. But perhaps it was precisely the nervous energy that provided her with the temporary strength to do so.

  Once more, we passed along the many corridors and chambers of the castle. It had struck me before that there were no windows at all, neither in the Great Hall nor in any of the corridors. In fact, I had only ever seen the outside world in the headmistress’s office through the large windows behind her desk.

  At last, we reached what looked like a dead end. But the headmistress pulled out her wand and waved it with a quick flick of her wrist. The massive stone wall in front of us rumbled and vibrated for a second. Then, an archway formed, just high and wide enough for us to pass through, vanishing as soon as we had stepped over the threshold.

  On the other side, a long flight of steps led downward. The portraits and waxwork figures had vanished completely in this part of the castle. All in all, it looked a lot less cared for than the areas I had seen so far. I was able to smell the moisture all around me.

  We reached a chamber with a small, metal door with bars on it. The headmistress stopped and said:

  “This, Miss Sheridan, is the what was formerly the dungeon. Today, it is mainly used for additional storage.”

  Passing through, we found ourselves in a long passageway lit by torches, with slits in the walls at either side that overlooked what must have been – at some point in the past – cells. Finally, the headmistress came to a halt in front of another metal door.

  “It… it is in here,” she said, pulling herself together as best she could. “Clement should also be on his way. I had a student search for him immediately. We’d better go in, I suppose. There is no time to lose.”

  She reached out for the handle and pulled. Beyond, there was nothing but darkness. I took out my wand from my own handbag and lit it, peering into the room. It was filled with an assortment of boxes, empty bottles, disused bird cages, and odd pieces of wood. As I entered, I noticed that the ceiling was very low, so that I could barely stand upright. The smell of moisture and mould was almost unbearable.

  “We rarely use this room anymore,” the headmistress said unnecessarily. “Most of the things in here have been discarded. Though from time to time, we do need something. The sign is over there, next to the old wardrobe.”

  The wardrobe’s doors were so dilapidated that they were almost crumbling to pieces in front of our eyes. The dark paint that covered it was gradually peeling off due to the damp.

  “There,” the headmistress said, her voice quivering slightly. “The mark of the necromancer.”

  My eyes wandered slowly from the wardrobe to the area next to it. For one insane moment, I didn’t want to look at it, but I forced myself to do so all the same. Painted on the wall in a bright green colour, three skulls leered at me, their hollow eye sockets as dark as the wall behind it. Above, a white staff towered over the skulls.

  My heart started racing. In itself, the sign was hideous, though really not frightening, I tried to tell myself. And yet, as I continued to look at it as though I were a hare mesmerised by a snake, the awful history that was connected to it suddenly seemed to speak to me in this moist dungeon. The necromancer’s sign – and therefore the danger – was real, though its consequences were still uncertain. What exactly had happened to the missing people was left to the horrible scenarios my imagination was conjuring up, though I had very grave doubts about whether they were still alive.

  I looked away, trying to pull myself together again. I was letting myself get carried away, sucked into and frozen within the horror. I couldn’t let that happen. People were depending on me. I had to remain rational.

  Gazing back at the sign, I stepped forward to examine it more closely. I could see by the clots of paint that it had been both a hasty and an unprofessional job. Undoubtedly, however, judging from the lack of dust and the moist surface, it was quite fresh. Strangely, the skull on the left had been smudged with something like a cloth or a towel.

  “When were you informed of this?” I asked, examining the skull more carefully.

  “Quarterwarlock Armbruster notified me, only minutes before I came to you,” she said. “He reported it straight away.”

  “I suppose he didn’t see anyone?”

  “He did,” the headmistress said. “A student was caught in this very room, but claims to have nothing to do with it.”

  “Who is this student?” I asked.

  “A girl called Isabella Villar. She’s an exchange student from Spain. She’s something of a troubled soul. As they often are at that age, I suppose.”

  “So you don’t think her capable of kidnap and murder?” I asked.

  “It is hard to believe, but, as I said, no one is beyond suspicion.”

  “Well,” I said, “she might have painted it herself. This looks very fresh to me.”

  “Yes,” the headmistress said, “it’s certainly possible. Oh, Miss Sheridan, this is all so horrible. Suspecting everyone around me. I didn’t know I’d be dealing with this sort of thing when I took the job.”

  She paused, closing her eyes as if to shut out the awful reality of her situation. Her breathing was fast, close to hyperventilating. Then, she puffed up her cheeks and exhaled very slowly.

  “Please forgive me, Miss Sheridan,” she said. “It’s just… you see, this particular sign… the one with the three skulls and the staff… it always preceded a disappearance.”

  “How much time do we have?” I asked.

  “A few days, I think – I hope – but it is impossible for me to be certain.”

  White in the face, she sat down on one of the boxes close to her, her breathing becoming shallower again. Her makeshift seat was full of cobwebs and dirt, but she was far too worried to care.

  “I’m very sorry, headmistress,” I said. “I promise I will do everything in my power to get to the bottom of this.”

  I meant it. Slowly, cold abstraction was being replaced by grim reality. With lives at stake, we had to put an end to this once and for all.

  “Thank you,” she said, with a much steadier voice. “That is very kind of you. How would you like to proceed?”

  “I will need to talk to the student in question – Miss Villar,” I said. “Perhaps I can squeeze out some more information. It’s our only lead so far.”

  “I will make the arrangements,” she said.

  “Is there some quiet space I could use?” I asked.

  The headmistress paused briefly.

  “Well, there’s my office,” she said, “but you could also use the Earl of Barrington’s office. We’ve provided him with a spacious room in the West Tower. Close to your sleeping quarters, in fact.”

  “That sounds excellent,” I said. “I think we will question her there. Could you also ask the quarterwarlock, Mr. Armbruster, to come along, too?”

  “Of course, Miss Sheridan,” she said, her face returning to a healthier colour. “I’ll have Clement arrange everything for you. And let me just say, once more, how grateful I am for your help. It really means everything to this school.”

  ***

  An hour later, I found myself with Barry and Val, who had remained in the Great Hall in the meantime, in Barry’s new office. Though not quite as large as the headmistress’s office, it was indeed very spacious. It also sported large windows, though the view was not of fields and meadows but, as far as we could tell from the light of the moon, of rocky slopes leading further up a hill.

  “You can’t see anything out of these, just a few rocks hanging over your head,” Val was saying. “I mean, what’s the point?”

  “I didn’t know we were close to mountains,” I said. “Where exactly is the school located, then?”

  “A secret location,” Barry said unhelpfully.

  He was sitting at his desk, already in his element as visiting scholar and esteemed lecturer. Wearing his reading glasses, he was leafing through loose pieces of paper containing his notes, which he said he needed to prepare for the coming days. Next to them, several stacks
of books covered the rest of the table’s surface.

  “That’s not very specific, Barry,” Val said. “Give us a hint? Surely, you of all people must have some idea of where we are?”

  Once again, flattery had done the trick. Barry looked up, taking off his glasses with both paws.

  “Naturally. I think we are in Wales somewhere,” he said. “Judging from the landscape, I’d say we are in Snowdonia, though not at the highest peak, of course. The school is under English jurisdiction, however. I remember quite clearly that in 1957 there was some debate about…”

  We were saved from Barry’s spontaneous lecture by a sudden knock on the door. Since it was Barry’s office, he answered. It was peculiar somehow to see him in a position of real authority.

  “Yes?” he said curtly.

  The door opened. The deputy headmaster, his blond hair as slick and his smirk as superior as ever, came in first. He was followed by a very heavy man with a red beard. He was wearing what looked like an apron a smith might wear in his workshop. Almost unnoticed, a girl with dark hair, dressed in black clothes from head to toe, entered, also. Apparently, the magical world was not spared the idiosyncrasies of teenage clothing habits.

  “I see you have made yourself comfortable, my lord,” the deputy said, hardly able to conceal his sneer.

  “Yes, yes,” Barry said, evidently enjoying himself. “What do you want?”

  Deputy Harper’s eyes flickered briefly towards me.

  “You wished to speak with quarterwarlock Armbruster and Isabella Villar, I believe?”

  “Quite right,” said Barry. “You may go.”

  It was hilarious to see Barry bossing around the deputy headmaster, but since we were there by the headmistress’s express wishes, there was little he could do. He looked daggers at all of us and then left the room without a word.

  “Have a seat,” Barry said to Armbruster and Miss Villar.

  Both found it neither odd nor unusual at being addressed by a cat sitting at a desk. Perhaps, some teachers preferred to remain in animal form, or accidents like Barry’s were not so uncommon in the magical world as I had previously supposed. In any case, they both sat down on the chairs in front of Barry’s desk. We had elevated Barry’s own chair to the maximum level, so that he was now towering over them, like a judge in a trial. We had agreed beforehand that Barry would start the questioning, as it was simply the more plausible beginning than if his research assistant led the way.