by Adele Abbott
“Until what?”
“Until either one of the two people whose portraits appear in the locket showed up at our door. My grandmother said that they would come to claim the locket one day. Look, it’s very complicated, but the journal makes it all much clearer.”
“Can I see it?”
“You don’t look like the woman in the locket, but you can only have got it from one person: the red-bearded man. I’m happy for you to see the journal, but I’d rather you took it away with you. I’ve now fulfilled my obligation to my mother and grandmother. To tell you the truth, I’ll be glad to be rid of it.”
***
After leaving Cynthia’s house, I wandered around, in something of a daze.
“Jill!” someone shouted.
It took me a few seconds to realise that it was Aunt Lucy. She had Barry with her; he was straining at the lead, trying to get across the road to me.
“Hi, you two.” As soon as I reached them, Barry jumped up and planted his front paws on my chest. “Get down, you big, soft lump.”
“We’re going to the park!” He was as excited as ever. “We’re going to see Babs!”
“That’s great.”
“I’ve arranged to meet Dolly.” Aunt Lucy pulled Barry off me. “Why don’t you come with us?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“Please, Jill!” Barry pleaded.
“I’d like to, big guy, but I’m really busy. You’ll have a great time with Babs. You don’t need me there.”
“What’s the book?” Aunt Lucy pointed to the journal in my hand.
“This? It’s—err—nothing. Just a case I’m working on.”
“I know you said you’re busy, Jill, but Hamlet did ask me to tell you it’s very urgent that he speaks with you.”
“Okay. I’ll pop in to see him, and then I really must get back to Washbridge. Enjoy the park, Barry.”
“I will. I love the park. I love to play with Babs.”
“Bye, then.”
Aunt Lucy tried to wave, but she was practically pulled off her feet, as Barry took off down the road.
As always, Aunt Lucy’s house wasn’t locked, so I let myself in, and went to see what the hamster emergency was all about.
“Not before time!” Hamlet sighed. It struck me that he and Grandma had a lot in common.
“I came as soon as I knew you wanted to see me. What’s the problem?”
“That soft dog of yours is the problem.”
“I thought you and Barry were getting along okay now.”
“I can just about put up with that stupid canine; it’s his fleas that I take exception to.”
“Barry doesn’t have fleas. Aunt Lucy would have mentioned it.”
“She doesn’t have to share the same room as him.” He picked at the soft fur on his underside, and produced a flea. “Look!”
“Oh dear. And you’re sure they came from Barry?”
“You’re surely not suggesting I brought them into the house?”
“Err—no, of course not. I suppose I’d better buy some flea powder.”
“You better had, and quickly, otherwise the whole house will be infested.”
“Okay, I’m on it.”
I checked Candlefield Pages and discovered there was a pet shop, called Pets-A-GoGo, not far from Aunt Lucy’s house. As I made my way there, I was scratching my arms and legs non-stop. I couldn’t see any fleas; hopefully, it was just my imagination working overtime.
The notice on the door of Pets-A-GoGo read: No Animals Allowed.
Inside, the shop was deserted except for the funny little wizard behind the counter; he had a definite look of a squirrel about him—probably on account of his puffed-out cheeks.
“Hi!” I said, trying to ignore my itchy arm.
“Hello.” He scowled.
“It’s very quiet in here.”
“It always is. I hate this place.”
“Oh? Have you worked here long?”
“I own the shop. I’m Hugh. Hugh Mann.”
“Nice to meet you, Hugh. I’m Jill. Isn’t it rather unusual for a pet shop not to allow animals inside?”
“I can’t stand them.”
“Sorry?”
“Animals. I can’t stand the smelly, horrible things.”
“Any in particular?”
“All of them.”
“This may be a silly question, but why would you run a pet shop if you don’t like animals?”
“It was my parents’ shop. They’re dead now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. They landed me with this awful place. I’m thinking of going into another line of business. I hear nail bars can be quite profitable. What do you think?”
“I’m not really the person to ask, but they do seem to be popping up everywhere.”
“You don’t get smelly animals in nail bars.”
“That’s true. Anyway, the reason I’m here is to buy some flea powder for my dog.”
Hugh took two steps back from the counter. “Do you have fleas?”
“No, of course not.” I scratched the back of my hand.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“The flea powder is down that aisle, on the top shelf. Leave the cash on the floor, would you? I’ll pick it up after you’ve gone.”
Charming.
Chapter 19
I took the flea powder back to Aunt Lucy’s house. Once there, while I waited for Barry to come back from the park, I took a look at the journal that Cynthia Drewmore had given to me. The scribblings, and that’s what they were, weren’t easy to decipher, but I persevered, and slowly but surely, the story started to emerge.
Juliet Braxmore was indeed the daughter of one of the most powerful, but evil wizards that Candlefield had ever known. After Juliet’s mother had died in childbirth, Helen was employed as nanny. Braxmore had very little to do with raising his daughter, preferring to leave it to Helen. It was obvious from her writing that Helen looked upon Juliet as her own daughter, and that Juliet thought of Helen as a surrogate mother. Helen offered to leave her employ once Juliet reached adulthood, but Juliet wouldn’t hear of it, so Helen stayed on as her handmaid and companion.
Damon was the son of Charles Wrongacre. The details of how Juliet and Damon met were sketchy, but one thing was very clear: Braxmore did not approve of the union. He demanded that Juliet have nothing further to do with Damon, and threatened to kill him if she persisted in the relationship. The two young people could not bear the thought of being apart, but knew that to stay together would result in Damon’s death. In desperation, they turned to Damon’s father, Charles Wrongacre, who had always been supportive of their relationship.
His proposed solution was radical and extremely shocking.
Wrongacre rightly concluded that Braxmore would never allow the relationship, and that he would rather the couple were dead than together. In desperation, Wrongacre proposed that he would create a spell that would ‘kill’ Juliet and Damon, but which would then allow them to return from the dead many years later. No one had ever created such a spell before, and so it was with much trepidation that the young couple agreed to the plan.
When it was time to cast the spell, Wrongacre told the couple that they would both return not once, but twice. The reason for that, he explained, was that he could not be sure how long Braxmore would live. Should he still be alive on their first return, he would no doubt do everything in his power to track them down and destroy them. If that happened, they would still have another chance to find happiness together.
It was clear from Helen’s writing that she had been very nervous about the plan, and had tried desperately hard to talk Juliet out of it. But Juliet had said that without Damon, she might as well be dead anyway. Helen had not been present when the spells were cast; Juliet had insisted she leave, and take with her a locket that contained pictures of the two lovers.
The next thing Helen had heard was when the deaths of the t
wo young people were announced. She sought out Wrongacre who was beside himself with grief. He had not had sufficient time to perfect the spell, but had been forced to proceed anyway. To have waited any longer would have meant certain death for Damon. Juliet had wanted Wrongacre to cast the spell on her first, but Damon insisted it must be him—that way, if for any reason it failed, Juliet need not subject herself to it. As it turned out, the spell went without a hitch on Damon, but there were problems when Wrongacre came to cast the spell on Juliet. Braxmore’s men were at the doors, and managed to break through before Wrongacre had finished. Through tears of despair, he told Helen that he didn’t think the spell had worked fully on Juliet. Either way, the two young people were pronounced ‘dead’, and were buried in separate graves on their own estates because Braxmore would not entertain the idea of their being laid to rest together.
The next entry simply read:
Wherever Juliet and Damon are, I pray they find the happiness they so deserve.
The next entry, which was dated many years later, was in a different handwriting. It read:
Helen Drewmore, my mother, died two days ago. She made me promise that I would keep up this journal. Even on her deathbed, she still believed that Juliet and Damon would return one day. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that there is now little likelihood of that.
Freda Drewmore.
The next entry, which was again in Freda Drewmore’s handwriting read:
Damon has returned! I recognised him immediately from his picture in the locket. We talked for some time—he told me that he had only recently realised who he was. Until a few weeks ago, he had lived under the name of Thomas, but then his memory had returned. He first remembered his name, and then he remembered Juliet, the love of his life. He told me that he thought he may have tracked her down, but that she looked different, and wasn’t living under the name of Juliet. The woman, named Magna, did not appear to have any memory of him or her previous life. He asked if he could take the locket, in the hope that it might jog the woman’s memory. I pray that it does, and that they will be re-united.
A few days later, there was another entry:
A woman by the name of Magna Mondale came to my door today. She had the locket that I had given to Damon. She seemed both confused and upset. Confused by the story that Damon had told her because she had no memory of him or of anyone named Juliet. And upset because the day after he had visited her, he was found dead. Damon had told her of my family’s connection, so Magna had decided to return the locket to me. Even though she did not look like the woman in the locket, I felt that she must be Juliet, so I offered to let her read the journal. She declined because she was sure Damon had got the wrong person.
The next entry in the journal was dated two days later:
I have just heard that Magna Mondale is dead.
The final entry in the journal was in yet another person’s handwriting. This one was dated only a few months earlier.
Damon is back. He told me that he had been living under the name of Henry until a few weeks ago when his memories began to return. He has been searching for Juliet, and thinks he may have found her, although she does not look like the portrait in the locket. The woman’s name is Jill, but he fears she has no memories of him or their former life together. He has taken the locket which he intends to give to her in the hope it will jog her memory.
I pray that it works this time.
Cynthia Drewmore.
No wonder Cynthia had been so upset when I’d told her that I’d found Damon dead.
Just then, I heard the front door open, and the sound of footsteps. Aunt Lucy and Barry were back, so I quickly slid the journal into my bag.
“Jill? I didn’t expect to find you still here.” Aunt Lucy looked red in the face, and sounded a little out of breath.
“Has he run you ragged?”
“As always.”
“Can I have a quiet word?”
“Of course. Upstairs, you go, Barry.” She gave him a gentle tap on the bottom, and he ran off up the stairs. “What is it?”
“It seems Barry has fleas.” I took the powder out of my bag.
“Are you sure?” She began to scratch her arms. “I haven’t seen any.”
“Hamlet told me. I’m going to treat Barry with the powder while he’s still tired from his walk.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Hi, Barry.”
“Hi.” He was flat-out on the floor.
“Pssst!” Hamlet beckoned to me. “Did you get it?”
I gave him the thumbs up.
“Just stay still boy while I—”
Barry spotted the flea powder in my hand, and jumped to his feet. “What’s that?”
“It’s nothing to worry about. It’s just flea powder.”
“I don’t have fleas!”
“You do, but this will get rid of them.”
“I don’t like flea powder. Take it away.”
“It won’t hurt you. Just stand still for a few minutes.” I had him backed up against the cupboard. “I’m just going to sprinkle this—”
He shot through my legs, and out of the door, but not before I’d overbalanced and emptied most of the contents.
All over Hamlet’s cage.
“Achoo!” Hamlet sneezed. He was covered, head to toe, in the powder.
“Sorry, Hamlet.”
“That’s just great!” He shook himself.
“It was an accident. Sorry, but I—err—I have to go. Urgent appointment. Bye!”
***
As I magicked myself back to Washbridge, my head was still spinning with thoughts of Helen Drewmore’s journal. Sooner or later, I’d have to try to work out what it all meant, but for now, I had to focus on the Washbridge Flyer murders.
I’d arranged to meet Desmond Sidings at the station.
“Would you like to start with the engine?” he asked. “That’s the most interesting part.”
“No offence, but I’m not really into steam trains. I’m only interested in seeing the carriages where the murders took place.”
“Fair enough. Follow me.”
He led the way onto the platform where the Washbridge Flyer was standing. Even though I’m not a train buff, I could appreciate what an amazing piece of engineering it was. The engine and carriages were in pristine condition—from the outside at least.
“Let’s start with the front carriage.” He climbed aboard.
I was very impressed. Unlike all the trains I’d ever travelled on, this one had class—a touch of elegance if you will. The seats had obviously been re-upholstered, and all the wooden surfaces and the metalwork were polished to a shine. On one side of the central aisle were tables with four seats. On the opposite side were individual seats.
“The Shores were seated there.” Desmond pointed to a table in the centre of the carriage.
“Where’s the toilet where Gena Shore’s body was found?”
“Through that door.” He pointed.
I walked the length of the carriage, and went through the door. The toilet was on the left, and in front of me, another door.
“I take it that the buffet car is through there?”
“Correct.”
I glanced back and forth. “This area isn’t visible from either the front carriage or the buffet car, is it?”
“No. Unlike most modern trains, there isn’t glass in the doors between carriages.”
Just beyond the toilet, there were two external doors; one on either side of the carriage.
“I assume that Gary Shore jumped, or was pushed through one of these?”
“That’s right. It would have been that one.” He pointed.
I took a quick look around, and then suggested we move on through to the buffet car, which was a shorter carriage than the first one. The shutter on the serving hatch was down.
“I was expecting something grander.”
“In its heyday, The Flyer had a buffet car with a fully fitted kitchen, but we w
ould never be able to recover the costs of running that today, so we have to make do with this. Shall we continue?” He led the way to the far end of the buffet car, and through the door to the rear carriage.
Once again, we found ourselves in a small corridor with a toilet—identical to that in the front carriage.
“This is where Carol Strand was found, I assume?”
“That’s right.” He led the way into the seated area of the rear carriage; it was identical to the first one we’d seen.
“What’s through there?” I pointed to a door at the far end.
“That would normally be the guard’s van, but these days it’s only used for storage: food, toilet rolls, that sort of thing.
“Can I see inside?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think to bring the key.”
“Is it normally open during the weekly trips?”
“No. The passengers aren’t allowed in there. Only the guards have a key, so they can get any supplies they might need.”
“Okay, this has been very informative, but what would really help is if I was able to go on your next trip. Would that be possible?”
“Of course. The police have given us the green light, so The Flyer will run this Sunday as usual.”
“Great. I’ll be there.”
As soon as we stepped off the train, we were approached by a woman with a microphone, and a man with a camera.
“Mr Sidings.” The woman with the mic blocked our way. “We understand that you plan to run the Washbridge Flyer as usual this Sunday. Isn’t that rather reckless given that the murders are still unsolved?”
“Not at all.” Desmond Sidings was remarkably calm under the circumstances. “The police have given us the all-clear, and that’s good enough for me. There’s no reason to suspect that there will be any further issues.”
“Issues?” The woman sounded as outraged as it was possible to sound. “Is that what you call multiple murders?”
That was my cue to slip away. He would have to handle this one on his own.
