by T. H. Hunter
I got up and slowly made my way over to the bar. Most people were still finishing their meals, so there were only very few people present. A small, elderly man wearing a suit and hat was sitting on a bar stool. Behind the bar, Mr. Jameson was serving the customers.
“Oh, hello again,” I said.
“Hello, madam,” he said politely, “I hope your meal was to your satisfaction?”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “It was excellent.”
“What would you like to have?” he asked.
“Cider, please,” I said. “Are you a waiter as well as a barman, then?”
“Not usually, no,” he laughed. “But you do have to do everything, eventually. Mr. Pomeroy put me in charge of serving a few tables today. We were short on regular staff in the beginning.”
He turned his back to me and busied himself with the drink. Hoping to strike up a conversation with the elderly man in the suit, I shifted the chair beside him.
“Would you mind if I sat here?” I asked him, smiling.
“What?” the man said in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. “Oh, not at all, not at all, young lady.”
“Thank you,” I said, sitting down. “It’s my first time here at Mr. Pomeroy’s.”
“Indeed?” he squeaked. “I’ve been coming here for the last thirty years, you know. The name’s Herbert Fields.”
“Amy Sheridan,” I said, shaking his hand.
“I came here first in my professional capacity as a student of magical law, you know. Long time ago now.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?” I said, as Mr. Jameson placed my drink in front of me.
“Oh, quite routine,” Mr. Fields said. “That was when Mr. Pomeroy, senior, was still alive. I knew him quite well. Tell me, are you on holiday, Miss Sheriff?”
“Sheridan,” I said, trying to supress a grin. “But yes, I’m on holiday here with my friends Val and Barry – that is, the Earl of Barrington. He’s here for his health.”
“The Earl of Barrington,” the man said, clearly trying to retrieve a memory. “Yes, I remember reading something in the paper about him recently. Turned into a dog, didn’t he?”
“No, luckily a cat,” I said, picturing Barry’s curmudgeonly face pasted on the body of a Rottweiler.
“That’s right,” the elderly man said. “A cat. Yes, well, he was quite a warlock in his time, you know. Well respected. Until his accident, of course. Not the most sociable of people, I hear.”
“You can say that again,” I said, laughing. “But Val and I still have hopes for a brighter future in that regard.”
I took a sip of my cider.
“So, you knew the previous owner, Mr. Pomeroy’s father? What was he like?”
“Well,” he said, his benign smile fading a little. “I… I do not like to speak ill of the dead, my dear. It is not a habit I intend to divulge in. It’s better to let the past be the past.”
“So not all was very harmonious in the family, I take it?” I asked, pressing the issue.
Mr. Fields nodded gravely.
“I think his sons had a hard time of it. Particularly Matthew.”
“Matthew?” I said, bewildered.
“Yes,” Mr. Fields said. “Matthew was the first-born. He took his temper from his father, you know. They quarrelled all the time. Awful. Drove away a lot of the guests, too. Until one day, the father threw him out. Disinherited him entirely, as a matter of fact.”
“That must have been quite a shock to him,” I said. “So Archibald, the current owner, inherited everything?”
“Do not ask me for the legal details because I do not know,” Mr. Fields said, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. “But to my knowledge, Matthew rarely turned up here again. Not even to visit his poor mother. She was the only person who had been on his side, at least initially.”
“Archibald Pomeroy mentioned her. Do you know what happened to Matthew after he had to leave?”
“Yes,” said the elderly man, shifting in his seat. “I believe he doesn’t live very far from here. A village by the name of Oaking, or Oating. Something like that. His mother still lives here at the hotel, you know. A charming young lady she was back in the day. Very beautiful. We were all very envious of Pomeroy senior. Oh yes.”
Mr. Fields took a sip of his red wine. He seemed to be lost in memories, for he didn’t resume the chat we were having. Thinking it was better to leave him alone, I finished my drink and got to my feet again.
“Thank you, Mr. Fields,” I said. “It was very nice talking to you.
“Very nice, very nice,” he said absent-mindedly, his expression still vacant. “I’ll see you around, Miss Sheppard.”
I caught Mr. Jameson’s eye behind the counter, and we both grinned.
***
I passed through the crowded restaurant and took the stairs. It was less that I was eager for movement after the heavy meal, but rather the dislike for the stuffy atmosphere of the lift that directed me away from it.
Panting slightly as I arrived on the third floor, I was just about to turn into the corridor when I heard a terrifying scream.
I hurried forward to see what was the matter. Mr. Archibald Pomeroy was standing in the doorway of the room that had the tray permanently suspended on its corridor wall. A large glass with an amber liquid was standing on it.
Mr. Pomeroy’s face was white as a sheet. Next to him, the young receptionist called Isabelle was holding her hand over her mouth.
Silently, I stepped forward, then I followed Mr. Pomeroy’s terrified gaze. Inside the room, an elderly lady lay motionless on the floor.
5
“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” Mr. Pomeroy kept saying over and over again. “This cannot be.”
Without thinking, I turned to Isabelle.
“Can you get the doctor, I mean, a magical healer right away?”
I could tell that she was beyond words, but she nodded and left the room in haste.
I bent down to feel Mrs. Pomeroy’s pulse.
“Is she…?” Mr. Pomeroy asked.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pomeroy,” I said, looking up at him. “She’s dead.”
Mr. Pomeroy put his hand over his mouth to stifle a cry. Either he was an excellent actor, or it was a genuine emotion. And yet, it had only been a few hours since Val had felt a deep-seated homicidal impulse within him. I would make sure not to turn my back on him, that much was certain. And my wand was within my coat pocket within easy reach.
“Was this your…” I began tentatively.
“My mother,” Mr. Pomeroy said, nodding gravely.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
We stood there for a while in silence, not knowing what to say. Then, the receptionist returned with a sombre-looking, middle-aged man.
He was wearing green robes of a kind I had never seen before. An emblem featuring a staff and a snake clearly showed that he was a healer, though how he had arrived here so quickly was beyond me.
The healer examined the body for a quite a while, prodding it here and there with his wand. He conjured up strange markings I didn’t recognise, muttering unintelligibly under his breath. Finally, he got up.
“How did she…?” Mr. Pomeroy asked immediately.
“Cause of death unknown,” the healer said, no note of sympathy in his voice. “We will remove the body for further testing. There will have to be an inquest, Mr. Pomeroy.”
“An… an inquest?” Mr. Pomeroy said, blinking. “Whatever for?”
“Under magical law, a full examination of the body necessitates an inquest,” the healer said, as though he were reading a passage from a book. “You will be informed of the date within the hour, Mr. Pomeroy.”
“I see,” Mr. Pomeroy said. “I… I need a… if you will excuse me.”
Evidently still in shock, he slowly walked out of the room and down the corridor. The healer then conjured up a stretcher and careful levitated Mrs. Pomeroy’s body onto it.
***
Half an hour later, I had told Val and Barr
y all about the discovery of Mrs. Pomeroy.
“I’m surprised they didn’t arrest him on the spot,” said Barry. “Why didn’t you call the MLE, Amanda?”
“I… I don’t know,” I said honestly. “He looked clearly distraught. I’m not sure that…”
“Pomeroy was clearly harbouring homicidal thoughts for someone very close to him, that much Valerie determined the minute we got here,” Barry said. “Now, his mother lies dead. It’s not that difficult to put one and one together, you know.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple, Barry,” I said. “Look, I know I’m no psychic, but it just wasn’t… I don’t think he did it. His reaction seemed genuine to me. I think he was shocked and surprised to see her like that.”
“Did it occur to you, Amanda,” Barry scoffed, “that Pomeroy might have been putting on a show for your benefit? He already gave us a sample of his acting abilities outside of the lift, remember?”
“I know, Barry,” I said, frowning. “But I think we all saw through that one straight away. Look, I still want to be sure before we make such a serious accusation.”
“But what can we do except for going to the MLE?” asked Val.
“We should confront him,” I said. “You can read him very clearly, Val. You can read him like an open book, as you did before. If he’s innocent, then no harm has been done. If not, well, we can still call the MLE then.”
“OK, Amy,” said Val, who felt just as uncomfortable as I did. “You’d better get your wand ready in case he turns on us. I’ll get my coat.”
***
Barry, Val, and I made our way downstairs and inquired at the reception for Mr. Pomeroy. It turned out that his office was on the second floor, only one flight of stairs down from our room. After the discovery of his mother’s body, he had locked himself in his room, with orders not to be disturbed unless absolutely necessary.
“Here it is,” said Val, pointing to a smart, silver sign as we reached the second floor, “Mr. Archibald Pomeroy, Manager.”
I knocked on the door. We waited, but there was no answer. I knocked again. This time, there was a barely audible grunt from within.
Gently opening the door, we stepped into a flamboyantly-furnished office, with mostly purple furniture and an expensive Persian carpet. Sitting behind an antique desk was Mr. Pomeroy. His head was in his hands. There was a golden liquid next to him that I suspected was whiskey. He looked utterly devastated.
“We’re very sorry to bother you, Mr. Pomeroy,” I said. “But it’s rather urgent, you see.”
“Urgent?” he said, a light of hope in his eyes. “Is there news of my mother? Were they able to revive her after all?”
“I’m afraid it’s nothing like that,” I said, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. “It’s, well, you see, we were worried. Worried that your mother might not have died of natural causes.”
“You mean,” he said, amazement on his face, “she…? Whatever makes you think… I knew my mother. Suicide is entirely out of the question. She would never have done such a thing.”
Before I could answer, Barry intervened:
“Not suicide, but murder, Mr. Pomeroy,” he said. “As far as I understand, the healer did not find a cause of death immediately. Most natural causes of death can be identified on the spot.”
“Why yes, I suppose so,” said Mr. Pomeroy, his expression darkening even further. “Do you really think there might be foul play involved?”
“It’s possible,” said Barry simply.
“We were also worried about another thing,” I said, looking at Val. “Val picked up on certain, erm, emotions of yours earlier this evening.”
He stared at us for a moment in disbelief. I slid my hand into my coat pocket to make sure that I’d be able to draw my wand at the first sign of trouble. I almost expected Mr. Pomeroy to jump at me, or else start raving and shouting. But instead, he shook his head with deep-seated sadness that struck me as being very real.
“If only it were that easy,” he said. “I loved mother very deeply. Everyone knows that.”
“But whom do you hate so much that you would…?” Val began.
“Please, Mr. Pomeroy,” I said. “We wish no harm. And we do not want to make false accusations, especially not on official record. That is why we came to you first. But we cannot ignore what Val has sensed in you, either. We simply want the truth so that we can put our conscience at ease.”
Mr. Pomeroy took a large swig of whiskey. Then, he stared at us, his face immovable.
“You want to know that?” he said, his voice suddenly harsh and bitter.
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Pomeroy,” I said quietly.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” he said to my surprise. “It’s no secret, anyway. Not most of it, anyway.”
He got up. I could tell that he had had quite a lot to drink already, for his balance was unsteady. Considering the fact that we had just accused him, however indirectly, I didn’t dare to say anything more. His sinister demeanour didn’t seem to match his flamboyant clothes at all anymore. There was something much harder behind that soft, flabby exterior of his. The eccentric Mr. Pomeroy that had welcomed us to the hotel seemed nothing more now than a hollow persona he had crafted for himself.
“My hatred,” he said, “is reserved only for my brother, Matthew.”
“Your brother? But… but why?” I asked.
He swore loudly.
“Why not?” he said angrily. “If you knew him, the way I know him, I’m sure you’d feel the same way. A nasty person, he is. Worse. He’s vindictive and spiteful. And then, there was his addiction, which made everything a thousand times worse. Lying, stealing, even getting into fights with customers. He did it all, and worse. He almost brought our entire family down with him, too. And then, my father did the only thing left to him, many years ago. He cast him out. Forever. Disinherited him. So after his death, I received the Resort, and my mother received his magic powers.”
Val and I looked at one another, stunned. But it was Barry who spoke next.
“So you are not a warlock, Mr. Pomeroy?” he asked.
“No,” he answered. “That is why Bruno has to do the magic for me. My mother was a heb, you see. My father was the warlock. Under magical inheritance laws, magical ability in mixed marriages only can be passed on to only one person at a time. And my father chose my mother, because she had always wanted to be a witch.”
“But with your mother’s death, you are likely to inherit her powers?” said Barry shrewdly.
Without warning, Mr. Pomeroy suddenly lurched forward, pointing his finger at Barry.
“How dare you!” he bellowed. “I don’t like your insin… insinuations, my Lord.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pomeroy,” I said quickly, trying to calm the situation somewhat. “Barry was only trying to…”
“We believe you didn’t do it,” Val said loudly.
All three of us turned to her in surprise. There was a moment’s silence. Mr. Pomeroy sat down in his chair again.
“Thank you for believing me,” Mr. Pomeroy said finally, slurring slightly from the drink. “What else do you want to know?”
“Why do you still hate your brother with such a passion?” I asked. “I mean, isn’t it all over? He no longer lives on the premises, I take it.”
Mr. Pomeroy scoffed.
“You might get a different impression if you stay here long enough,” he said darkly. “My dear brother likes to – how shall I put it? – pay us a visit once in a while.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“He comes here by night,” said Mr. Pomeroy. “Smashes the whole place up. Lights it on fire. Drives away my guests. I usually tell them that some heb hooligans broke into the place. Like I did with you. But a week ago, he went over the limit. I could tolerate broken glass, but this was different. He actually tried to kill me.”
“What?” Val said.
Mr. Pomeroy nodded impressively.
“That’s right. He pl
aced a booby trap at the edge of one of the barns. Bruno and I are the only ones who go there, you see, to reset the barrier every once in a while. But a week ago, an explosive went off just seconds after we had left. Missed us by only a minute.”
“An explosive?” Barry asked.
“That’s right,” Mr. Pomeroy said. “A heb explosive. Now, almost all of my guests are warlocks and witches, so they wouldn’t need to use heb killing devices. And even the ones who aren’t – you know, heb wives or husbands – would be able to get their hands on a magical device that would be much more reliable.”
“But your brother has no such contacts,” I said.
“Precisely,” said Mr. Pomeroy. “Hence my suspicion that it was him.”
“And you erected the barrier to prevent him from entering the area again?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, frowning. “That was after he trashed the place some time ago now. I had it set up so that it would repel hebs, which includes my brother, of course. Since I’m technically one too, however, Bruno lets me in and out. It’s inconvenient, but it has made us all feel safer. A lot of the staff left after the bombing incident, you see. Nobody wants to work at a place that’s under a threat like that.”
“But how did your brother get through the barrier to set the explosive?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Pomeroy. “That’s a mystery. I suppose you’ll have to ask him yourself on that one. If he’s not already in the next world due to his filthy habits. But I shouldn’t get my hopes up…”
“Would your brother have a motive in regard to your mother’s death?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, “it was our father he quarrelled with the most. But you never know with that sort of person. He could’ve killed her. In fact – if it is foul play, as you think – then I wouldn’t be surprised. And to think that she stuck up for him for so long. And that’s how he repaid her in the end.”
