by T. H. Hunter
The red-headed cook stared at him, then muttered something inaudible yet menacing at the same time before going inside again.
“Val,” I said as she joined us. “This is Mr. Pomeroy, the owner of the spa.”
“How do you do?” he asked, smiling a toothy smile at Val.
“Hello,” Val said.
“Right,” he said, turning around to me again. “Now that we’re complete, we’d better get inside. It gets dark very early at this time of year. But we did have a wonderful summer, didn’t we? I think mother should be making ready for bed already. This way, if you please.”
Val picked up Barry and we entered the hotel, with Mr. Pomeroy leading the way. We found ourselves in a large reception area. The walls were painted in shocking pink, while the furniture and the desk were white. A pretty blonde woman in her late teens or early twenties was sitting behind it, looking attentively at the door.
“Good afternoon,” she said, rising mechanically from her seat. “Welcome to the Magical Holiday Retreat.”
“Yes, yes, we know all that, Isabelle, my dear,” Mr. Pomeroy said pompously, waving a hand in front of him. “See which room Miss Sheridan is in, will you?”
“Yes, sir, of course,” the receptionist said in a meek voice.
She hastily thumbed through the list of rooms on her desk.
“Room 023,” she said after a moment.
“On the ground floor?” Mr. Pomeroy said, aghast. “Who on earth put them there?”
“You did, sir,” the receptionist said, a slight tremor in her voice as though she didn’t like reminding him of the fact.
“I did?” Mr. Pomeroy asked, as though the suggestion was absurd. “Impossible. Well, well. Never mind. That won’t do. That won’t do at all! See if there’s anything else available, will you?”
“Of course, sir,” the blonde girl said, placing her finger on the list again. “There’s a one room apartment on the second floor and the suite on the third.”
“The suite it is, then,” Mr. Pomeroy said, clearly enjoying himself in the role of the generous benefactor.
It was at that point that I wondered whether Mr. Pomeroy always staged this little scene for his guests or whether it was an off-the-cuff whim of his.
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Pomeroy,” I said. “But really, there’s no need to…”
“Not at all, my dear,” he said, winking at Val and me. “Always happy to accommodate you in any way I can. It’s not every day that a pair of beautiful witches, such as yourselves, walk through that door, I can assure you. It’s crinkly old warlocks mostly.”
He emitted a short laugh that sounded more like a bark. Then, he turned to the receptionist again.
“Isabelle, have Jameson bring up the luggage, will you? By the way,” he said, looking around him. “Where is your luggage?”
“Oh,” I said, “it’s still in the car. I totally forgot.”
“Never worry,” he said, nodding in a fatherly fashion. “We’ll get it. Now, I’ll show you to the suite, if you would follow me. I think you’ll simply adore it. I had it redone entirely a year ago, you see. We’ve got new magical lifts as well. Here we are.”
We followed him into the corridor beyond the receptionist’s desk and came to a halt in front of a pair of lifts. Mr. Pomeroy pressed the button.
“Cost me a fortune, all of this,” he said, chortling. “A couple of heb youths broke into the Retreat and stole some of the equipment on the top floor a few weeks ago. Wrecked the rest. Quite a mess, I can tell you. We had the MLE around and all. But they didn’t catch the culprits, I’m afraid to say. I don’t think they take heb crimes very seriously.”
“Hebs broke in to your spa?” I asked curiously. “Whatever for?”
“Well, I don’t know,” he said, taking a large flask from his pocket. “But that was why we had the barrier installed in the first place. To keep those hooligans out. It has an anti-heb charm on it. But it’s rather temperamental at times. Seems to keep out magic folk, too, on occasion.”
“Well,” said Val, “I’m a psychic, not a witch, so…”
“A psychic?” Mr. Pomeroy spluttered in surprise, spraying us and the floor with a clear liquid that reeked of powerful alcohol.
“I hope that isn’t a problem?” Val asked, taken aback.
“Problem?” Mr. Pomeroy said, chortling again. “No, no. No problem at all.”
“Perhaps that’s why the barrier didn’t let you through,” I said slowly. “Maybe it counts psychics as hebs and not as witches.”
“Certainly possible,” said Mr. Pomeroy, nodding. “We haven’t had a psychic guest in a long time, so we weren’t able to test it. Lucky for me, I suppose. Tricky customers, eh? Never can conceal anything from you psychics.”
He laughed good-humouredly, though I could see he looked rather worried at the same time at the prospect of having a psychic guest in his hotel. Val looked at him with an expression that told me that she was trying to read him.
“Surely, Mr. Pomeroy,” Barry said silkily, “you don’t have anything to hide in your establishment?”
Barry had clearly not forgotten Mr. Pomeroy’s unwelcome reference to his public quest for help in the Daily Warlock and was more than happy to return the favour.
“Conceal?” Mr. Pomeroy said, nervously closing his flash again with a snap. “Whatever gave you that idea? Well, I suppose we all have personal things we would like to keep to ourselves. It’s only natural, isn’t it? Ah, here’s the lift at last.”
The lift’s door opened and we squeezed inside, with Barry still in Val’s arms. The space was constricted, and Mr. Pomeroy’s breath filled the air of the lift with a putrid smell of powerful spirits. I couldn’t help but notice that his eyes kept darting anxiously in Val’s direction.
Having arrived on the third floor at last, we filed out of the lift again. Mr. Pomeroy seemed to be rather relieved to get some distance between himself and Val.
“Is everything alright, Mr. Pomeroy?” I asked him.
“Claustrophobia,” he said weakly, leaning theatrically against the wall. “Please excuse me.”
After a moment, he gathered himself and led us straight down the hallway.
It turned out that he hadn’t been wrong in regard to the suite. It was quite magnificent. There were three rooms in all, with two bedrooms and one living room. The bathroom was spacious and up-to-date with the latest magical gadgets, including a massage shower.
“Very impressive, Mr. Pomeroy,” I said, beaming at luxurious possibilities around us.
After the shock of Barry’s illness, a little pampering would do us all some good, I thought.
“Why, thank you,” Mr. Pomeroy said, inclining his head. “Mother made sure we always had the latest designs.”
“Is she…?” I asked tentatively.
“She’s retired, yes,” said Mr. Pomeroy, clearly mistaking the point of my question. “The death of my father hit her hard. Very hard. She spends most of the time in her room these days. In fact, she’s on the same corridor as you are. She’s got the room with the tray outside. Just a few doors down. That reminds me, I’d better prepare her usual nightcap. The barman always brings it up to her at nine o’clock before she goes to bed, you see.”
He opened the door.
“I’ll be in the restaurant downstairs if you need me,” he said. “If there’s anything else, please don’t hesitate to contact me or any member of the staff. Oh, and before I forget, you’ll find an overview of all the wellness programs we have on offer in your living room.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pomeroy,” I said. “Just what Barry needs right now.”
“Not at all,” he said, opening the door and standing in the frame for a moment. “I wish you a very pleasant stay.”
He bowed with an ostentatious flourish of the hand and then closed the door behind him.
“What a peculiar man,” I said after a moment.
“I don’t like him,” said Barry sniffily.
I la
ughed.
“I’m not surprised after he mentioned the request you put in the Daily Warlock.”
“You mean the one you placed there, Amanda,” Barry said irritably.
I turned to Val, expecting her to launch into a good-humoured attack on Barry’s framing of the whole affair, but was astonished to see that she wasn’t paying attention to our repartee at all.
“Val?” I asked. “Is everything OK?”
“What?” she said, looking up. “Oh, yes, sure.”
“Val,” I said. “You were always a bad liar. What’s wrong?”
“It’s… it’s Mr. Pomeroy,” she said, shaking slightly.
“What about him?” I asked.
“I think he’s…”
“Oh yes, he is,” said Barry snidely.
“Barry, please,” I said. “What is he, Val?”
She looked at me with large, worried eyes, her expression very earnest. Then, she slowly began to speak:
“I think he’s planning a murder.”
4
“A murder?” I asked incredulously. “Are you sure?”
Val simply nodded.
“But…” I said, shocked at my complete lack of suspicion. “But he seemed pleasant enough. A bit fake, perhaps. A little eccentric certainly, but nothing more. Did you feel his emotions, then?”
“Yes,” said Val gravely. “It’s never been so clear before. It was pure hatred, Amy. And a determination to act on it, too. This isn’t any normal grudge. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that kind of emotion so vividly before.”
I moved over to the sofa and sat down.
“When did you sense this, Valerie?” Barry asked, blindly moving towards where he thought she was standing.
Val, in an unusual act of nimbleness, caught Barry before he could crash headlong into the table next to the sofa. She placed him next to me before she answered his question.
“I think it was as we were waiting for the lift downstairs,” she said, as she began to pace to and fro in front of us. “You know, when he was talking about how psychics made him nervous. That’s when I got suspicious. After that, he was really easy to read. And he was lying when he said he had claustrophobia.”
“Yes,” I said, frowning. “That did seem odd. But why would he pretend to have claustrophobia.”
“I think he put it on to hide his anxiety about having a psychic in the hotel,” said Val.
“You’d think he’d be better at shielding his feelings,” I said thoughtfully.
“He clearly wears his emotions on his sleeve,” said Barry, in an air that suggested that he’d never do such a thing. “It happens to warlocks as well as hebs, you know.”
“Yeah, we’ve noticed, Barry,” I said, grinning. “But seriously; did you feel who it was Mr. Pomeroy hates so much, Val?”
But Val shook her head.
“No,” she said. “Only that it was someone he knows well. It was an intimate sort of hatred, not abstract. I’d say family, or someone he used to be close to. I could tell that it’s been eating away at him for some time, too.”
“Are you sure about all this?” I said.
“Positive, Amy,” she said.
“Then we’ve got to prevent it from happening,” I said. “Stop the murder before it occurs.”
“We’re on holiday,” Barry protested. “And I don’t even have my eyesight back.”
“We can’t let a murder occur right under our noses,” I said determinedly.
“But we don’t even know who the target is,” Barry said. “We can’t call the MLE, because there hasn’t even been a crime yet! And I doubt Mr. Pomeroy is just going to tell us if we ask him politely whether he’s been planning any murders lately. You know, because it’s based on a hunch.”
“Hey!” Val said. “It’s more than just a hunch. I felt his emotions, Barry. They were as clear as day.”
“Perhaps,” said Barry. “But that’s not going to make him talk.”
“No,” I said slowly. “There must be another way to find out, though. What do you think, Val?”
“You’re right, Amy,” she said. “We ’ve got to stop him if we can. I know he doesn’t seem the type at all, but he really means business. Somebody is in serious danger.”
***
Unsure of how to proceed next, we finally decided to go to the restaurant for dinner. It would provide an opportunity to observe Mr. Pomeroy more or less unnoticed, since he had mentioned that he would be tending to the restaurant that evening.
It must have been 9 o’clock by the time we finally left our room and found ourselves outside on the corridor once again. Barry still had to be carried everywhere, though a hearty meal and a soak in a magical bath after that kept his spirits high.
As we left our room, the hallway outside was only dimly lit by old-fashioned oil lamps that I suspected had been magically altered. A member of staff was outside one of the rooms, placing a large glass of brandy on a tray that had been suspended from the wall.
He had short, very dark hair. Clean-shaven and smartly-dressed, he looked like the paragon of all barmen, an impression which was only slightly diminished by his youthful face
“Oh, hello,” the barman said, slightly surprised to see us. “I just brought Mrs. Pomeroy her evening brandy. You must be the new guests Mr. Pomeroy was speaking of just now. My name is Jameson. Bill Jameson.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m Amy and this is Val. You’re right, we’ve only just arrived.”
“Then I hope you will have a very comfortable and pleasant stay here,” he said smoothly.
“We’re looking for the restaurant,” Val said, who was clearly becoming hungry. “Can you tell us where it is?”
“Of course, madam,” he said. “I’m on my way down now. On duty in five minutes. I’ll lead you there.”
***
It turned out that the restaurant was in fact below ground level. The lack of windows and sunlight was offset by warm décor and a generally welcoming atmosphere. I was surprised to see so many guests there, since the hotel itself did not seem to be particularly large.
“I suspect some warlocks just come here for a meal,” Barry said, as Val tied a napkin around his furry chest. “I must say, the menu is rather mouth-watering. Read it out again, will you, Valerie?”
Mr. Jameson, who seemed to also serve as a waiter in addition to his duties as a barman, had provided some cushions for Barry so that he could sit at the table with us. Val read the menu out loud for Barry again, then pondered on her own choice.
“I think I’ll have the burger,” Val said after a while. “What about you, Amy?”
“I don’t know,” I said, scanning the same page a third time. “The chicken salad looks quite good…”
“Oh, come on,” said Barry dismissively. “You’re not going to spoil our dinner with your healthy choices, Amanda.”
“Yeah, Amy,” said Val, laughing. “We’re here to be spoilt. Go on.”
Outnumbered by two to one, I grinned.
“Alright,” I said. “I wouldn’t want you to lose your appetite, Barry. But remember what the doctor said.”
Barry shook himself as though trying to physically rid himself of the haunting memories.
“Yes, yes,” he said irritably. “I’m taking the pills, aren’t I? Anyway, one dish of pork chops followed by some ice cream won’t do any harm, surely.”
“You want to regain your eyesight, don’t you?” I said, putting on what I thought was a stern expression.
“Of course I do,” he said.
“Then you’ll have to choose something else,” I said.
Barry glared at me, then turned to Val for support. Val, though usually more forgiving, shook her head gently.
“Fine,” he fumed. “As long as you spare me the smell of any rabbit food. I’m not having any of it near me on my well-earned holiday.”
We finally compromised on Barry eating fresh salmon. As part of the bargain, I chose steak instead of salad.
; I had never been to a magical restaurant before in my life, with the exception of Warklesby’s School of Magic. It turned out that the meals did not whizz through the air at Mr. Pomeroy’s Magical Holiday Resort, however. They were brought in the ordinary heb fashion, though I suspected that the cooking had been greatly accelerated by magic, because our food arrived within just a few minutes of ordering.
And it was absolutely delicious. Even Barry couldn’t find anything wrong with his salmon, though I think he had very much looked forward to criticizing the compromise he had been forced to make. Val, also , was tucking into her burger with relish.
Not long after, we were all happily fed and feeling rather drowsy. It was only now, after our hunger had been satisfied, that we really took in more of our surroundings. I estimated that there were around fifty other people in the restaurant with us. A pleasant, middle-aged waitress had tended to us throughout the evening, though there were quite a number of other staff present.
“Have you seen Mr. Pomeroy at all?” I asked Val, trying to make him out without arousing too much attention.
“No,” she said, frowning. “I haven’t seen him all evening.”
“Probably plotting the murder in secret,” said Barry darkly.
“I think that’s the bar over there,” I said.
“Good idea,” said Barry. “I could do with a drink.”
“No, Barry,” Val said indignantly. “Remember your high blood pressure.”
“What else would we do there?” he said.
“Gather information,” I said. “We’ve got to find out more about Mr. Pomeroy.”
“But what about my bath?” said Barry, who was clearly not in the mood for any detective work.
I gave Val a pleading look.
“Fine,” she said in exasperation. “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll meet you later downstairs, Amy.”
“OK,” I said. “Thanks, Val.”
I waited for Val and Barry to leave the restaurant and then paid the bill. Mr. Pomeroy was still nowhere in sight, though perhaps that was for the better. Whatever his plans, he didn’t seem like the type to appreciate somebody poking around. And since no crime had been committed so far, he had every right to simply throw us off the premises if he chose to do so.
