by T. H. Hunter
6
A few minutes later, Barry, Val, and I found ourselves back in our room again. The tension fell away from us immediately.
“So much for our holiday then,” I said, putting my wand on the table.
“Yep,” said Val, “a few hours at the spa and we’re already fully involved in a murder case. How much bad luck can you get in a lifetime?”
“We should probably make a profession out of it,” I said, only half in jest.
“This never happened to me before you two came along, you know,” said Barry, a wistful expression on his face.
“But I bet you didn’t have half as much fun, though,” I said, grinning.
“Clearly,” said Barry drily.
“So, Val, you believe Mr. Pomeroy’s story?” I asked.
“Yes, I do,” she said. “He was telling the truth. I’m sure of it. People who lie – well, they usually sort of cover up their emotions. It’s very difficult to fake it, especially on that powerful level. If he is making it up, he’d be a one in a million actor. But then he wouldn’t have had to invent that ridiculous story about his claustrophobia.”
“Very unlikely, in other words,” I said. “So that leaves his brother.”
“Yes,” said Barry slowly. “He does appear to be a nasty piece of work. A scrounger like that might be capable of anything.”
“Perhaps we should pay him a visit,” I said.
“You mean, go there and talk to him?” asked Barry, horrified.
“Yes, Barry,” I said, exasperated. “What else? Play cards with him?”
“But he’s clearly a dangerous lunatic! For all we know, he might jump on us the minute he sees us.”
“He’s a heb, Barry, don’t forget that,” I said. “I’ve got a wand and he hasn’t. If we’re prepared, he’s no match.”
“This was supposed to be a holiday, you know,” he protested. “We shouldn’t be getting involved.”
“We already are,” I said. “Anyway, it seems like the MLE is taking its time again. They haven’t even determined the cause of death yet, though it looks very fishy to me. It might be ages before they start the official investigation. And by that time, it might already be too late. Or do you think it was natural causes after all?”
Barry looked at me for a moment, clearly considering whether it was worth it to lie.
“No, of course I don’t,” he said irritably. “As I said, natural causes are usually detectable on the spot by trained healers.”
“Then we’ve got to push on with our own investigation. The MLE is too slow. The brother might be long gone before they get active. What do you think, Val?”
“I’m in,” she said. “But we’d better be careful. Heb or not, this guy seems to be dangerous. If he’s into explosives, he might have the whole place rigged. You never know.”
“Agreed,” I said. “Barry, what about you?”
“Oh, alright,” he said irritably. “You’d probably get yourselves killed without me, anyway.”
***
Unfortunately, we had little else but the rough name of the village that Mr. Fields had mentioned at the bar to go by. We didn’t want to disturb Mr. Pomeroy again. Luckily, Val had a brainwave during the night. We could simply enter different variations one by one into the satnav of the car and see what it came up with. After a rushed breakfast, we had a thoroughly bad-tempered Bruno lift the barrier for Val once more and got into the car.
“Brilliant, Val,” I said, getting into the driver’s seat. “I’m thinking too much like a witch already. Would never have occurred to me to use the satnav. Has it come up with anything?”
“Here, Oakham,” she said, pointing to it.
“That’s too far away, I think,” I said. “No, Mr. Fields said that the village was close by somewhere. Can’t be more than a dozen miles or so.”
“What about that?” asked Val.
“Oak Hill,” I read. “It’s only about five miles away. Certainly worth a try.”
I started the car. With Barry sitting comfortably in the back, Val and I were left to discuss the best approach.
“Well, we know his name, even if we don’t know the street,” she said. “Somebody’s got to know in a village that size.”
“Yes,” I said with a sardonic smile, thinking of the amount of gossip that was exchanged at the local pub just on the topic of the lack of electricity at Fickleton House. “Could be to our advantage for a change.”
It took us only about ten minutes of driving to reach our destination. The village we entered was up on a hill. Beautiful wrought-iron gates suggested it must have once been quite a picturesque place at some point in the past, though its best times were clearly over and long gone. The roads were in dire need of repair. And although the front gardens were kept in order, the houses had a rundown appearance.
We drove up and down the main street, but there were no shops at all, not even a local post office. Very few people were out and about, though we spotted an elderly lady sitting on a bench at the other end of the village. I brought the car to a halt and Val opened the window so that we could talk to her.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Could you tell us whether a Mr. Matthew Pomeroy lives here?”
“Matthew who?” the woman asked, cupping her hand behind her ear.
She was clearly taken by surprise at being addressed.
“Matthew Pomeroy,” I repeated.
“Oh,” she said, her smile fading. “He’s not here anymore.”
“He’s gone?” I said.
“That’s right,” the old woman said. “He left a few days ago. You friends of his?”
“No,” I said.
“Quite the opposite,” said Val, nodding her head emphatically.
“Oh, that’s alright, then,” said the woman, visibly loosening up. “Didn’t want to offend anyone.”
“Didn’t you like him?” I asked.
“Awfully rude fellow,” she said, shaking her head. “It could be the brightest, most beautiful summer’s day and he’d be as gloomy as a hangover on New Year’s. And to be honest with you, I’m glad he’s gone. Same as many others feel around here, too, I can tell you.”
“I see,” I said. “Well, do you know where we might find him now?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know that,” she said. “He didn’t leave a forwarding address, or so I’m told. Not that he got much post.”
Val and I exchanged a brief look. Matthew Pomeroy evidently did not want to be found. Had he something to do with the death of his mother? His sudden decision to move, I thought, couldn’t possibly be a mere coincidence. The timing was too close.
“You can have a look at his house over there, if you like,” the old woman continued. “But the sign says it’s sold. House’s empty.”
She pointed to a small house at the end of a sidestreet.
“Thank you very much,” I said. “We’ll have a look.”
“Not at all,” she said. “What do you want from him, anyway?”
“Oh,” I said, “it’s a family matter.”
The old woman shrugged.
“I didn’t know he had one.”
***
Matthew Pomeroy’s former house, as far as we could see from the outside, was completely empty. Wooden boards were nailed across the door and a sign in front of it read “Sold”, just as the old lady had said.
Next door, a neighbour was pretending to attend to his garden, though I could tell that he was curious about our visit. It turned out that he was just as unable to tell us where Mr. Matthew Pomeroy had gone to, though he was equally glad to see the back of him. I was getting the distinct impression that Matthew Pomeroy had not been a particularly nice man to deal with.
There had been one detail, the neighbour recalled, that had struck him as odd. According to his account, Matthew Pomeroy had rented a moving van, but had done most of the shifting during the night. It had all seemed like a hasty, ad-hoc job. The neighbour even had to clear away some old pieces of wood that Mat
thew had simply thrown over the fence into his garden. It went without saying that this had not improved his impression of him.
After walking around the deserted house for a few more times in the vain hope of finding something that would indicate his current whereabouts, there was nothing left for us but to drive back to the spa. We had reached a dead end, though we would definitely transmit our information to the MLE as soon as we could. A head start in their investigation – once it finally got underway, that is – could mean the difference between a successful arrest and an escaped suspect.
“Funny he should sell his house like that,” said Val thoughtfully.
“I don’t find anything mysterious about it,” said Barry. “He’s committed a crime – he wants to cover his tracks.”
“Yes, but not plan further in advance?” I asked. “Why sell the house in such haste? And why would he want to kill his mother and not his brother?”
“Perhaps he resented being struck from the will,” I said. “But it is rather odd all the same. You’d think he’d go for his hated brother first.”
“Perhaps he still is,” said Barry.
“You mean, he might have it in for Mr. Pomeroy?”
“You heard the man,” said Barry. “The explosive– whatever primitive heb device it may be – is still deadly.”
“He certainly meant business,” I said, nodding. “It would be a surprise if he didn’t try again.”
“Then,” said Val, with a bemused look on her face, “we’ve gone from suspecting Mr. Archibald Pomeroy to wanting to protect him.”
***
The next few days, nothing out of the ordinary occurred. News of the horrible occurrence had naturally spread like wildfire. Everyone, staff and guests, were secretly awaiting the further developments of the case.
Meanwhile, Barry’s eyesight was gradually improving. Val and I had had the faint hope that Barry’s irritable temper was also connected to his high blood pressure, but our hopes were soon quashed. He remained the same curmudgeonly, though very lovable cat he had always been before.
We also had the opportunity to try out a few of the massage machines. Since electricity didn’t run with magic around, the Magical Holiday Retreat had come up with a myriad of magical solutions for bubble baths, saunas, and massages.
With the death of Mrs. Pomeroy, however, a dark shadow hung around the place, one that neither of us could nor wanted to shake off.
News of further proceedings had been sparse, though at last Mr. Pomeroy sent us word that there would be an inquest, held at the spa itself, since the death had occurred there.
***
On the day of the inquest, Barry, Val, and I made our way down to the restaurant once again. Despite the labyrinthian nature of the place, we had been able to find our way quiet well. Even Barry, now with the power of minimal eyesight, was able to carefully walk along corridors on his own, though we still carried him up and down staircases.
The many tables in the main hall of the restaurant had been cleared. Two wizened warlocks and a witch sat at a long table, which I recognised was usually used for the buffet. For the audience, several rows of chairs had been placed opposite.
Guests and members of staff seated themselves as orderly as was possible. There were a lot of hushed voices and whispers of suspicion about. I could not help feeling, whatever preliminary nature the inquest possessed, it felt more like a courtroom trial in which the guilty party could be declared by the judges at any moment.
“This,” one of the warlocks addressed us, “is the inquest into the death of Mrs. Abigail Pomeroy. I am sure you have all heard of the great tragedy already, so I will keep the introductory remarks to a minimum. I would like to remind all of you that this is not a trial – and we are not here to convict. We are simply to investigate, to seek the truth of the matter. We would therefore like to recreate the evening of Mrs. Pomeroy’s death as exactly as possible.”
The events of the day, as might be expected, were chaotic. I had brought a notepad with me, trying to recreate the movements of the different people involved.
Mr. Pomeroy was first to relate his story. He said that he had been delegating Bruno in making repairs to a damaged bath before preparing his mother’s glass of sherry, which she drank every evening at exactly nine o’clock. After giving it to the barman, he then welcomed Barry, Val, and me to the hotel and showed us to our room. Then, Mr. Archibald Pomeroy had returned to the kitchen in order to help the cook, whose assistant was ill.
The barman, Mr. Jameson, verified that account. He had been on duty behind the bar until the arrival of Mr. Pomeroy. After receiving the glass of sherry from him, Mr. Jameson brought it up to the third floor. As usual, he knocked three times on the door and then placed the glass on the tray hanging from the wall outside of Mrs. Pomeroy’s room. He did not see her come out, though he stated that she rarely came for her glass of sherry immediately.
Bruno, the cook, was the last person to have seen Mrs. Pomeroy alive. He had been inside her room to repair her clock, though he had unfortunately failed to do so. That was around seven o’clock. Then, he made his way down to the kitchens again.
Isabelle, the attractive receptionist, had called on Mrs. Pomeroy a quarter past nine. Mr. Pomeroy had wanted her to give her a message in regard to the new barrier that had been set up around the house. When she failed to get an answer, she thought it better to get Mr. Pomeroy. Initially, both of them could not open the door, but Mr. Pomeroy produced a spare key from his office and opened his mother’s door.
Finally, I was called upon, to everyone’s surprise, including my own. I verified both the fact that a full glass of sherry had been outside of Mrs. Pomeroy’s room when I came upstairs, and that I had seen Mr. Jameson place it there earlier at around nine o’clock.
“Thank you, Miss Sheridan,” the old warlock said. “And that concludes today’s statements. I would just like to add that we have found a second glass within the room of the late Mrs. Pomeroy. Though we cannot yet be certain, it might have contained a substance that led to her death. It is most likely of a heb design.”
A great murmur went through the hall at these words.
“There was another glass of sherry?” asked Val. “How many was she drinking up there?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But something’s certainly funny about the whole business. I –“
But before I could finish my sentence, the door at the far end of the hall opened wide. Instinctively, most people fell silent, turning around to see who it was. A tall, gaunt-looking man with a grey beard and dark, penetrating eyes entered.
“There is one more statement, sir, that you should consider,” he said calmly. “And that is of Matthew Pomeroy, first-born son of the deceased.”
7
There were gasps and whispers from the audience. But Archibald as on his feet, shaking a fist at his first at his brother.
“Get out of my hotel, you vermin,” he spat. “You have no place here. I thought my father had made that clear many years ago.”
“Our father, you mean, dear brother?” Matthew said, a smirk on his face. “Yes, I remember well what he said to me. And believe me, it gives me no pleasure to return here.”
But Archibald was having none of it. His hatred clearly beyond verbal expression, he pushed up the sleeves of his frock coat and walked determinedly towards his brother. The warlocks in charge of the inquest, sensing trouble, drew their wands.
“Stop, Mr. Pomeroy, please!”
Archibald had almost reached his brother. And then, he was on top of him. But before he could strike him, the old warlock had flicked his wand casually, and Archibald went flying through the air, landing neatly on one of the spare chairs.
Matthew, seeing his brother humiliated in front of a crowd, laughed.
“I’m afraid that will have to wait, dear brother,” he said. “But perhaps it is best that you remain seated. For I have something quite disturbing to tell you. It relates to our mother, whom you so rever
e.”
“You leave her out of this,” Archibald bellowed.
“Oh, but I can’t,” Matthew said, smiling sardonically. “It is vital that you should hear this.”
He turned to the witch and the two warlocks in charge of the inquest. His expression was softer now, less cruel than it had been when he had been goading his brother.
“I will speak frankly with you,” Matthew said. “I had no love for my mother. But neither did I want her dead. We quarrelled on the day she died, you must know. I… I haven’t been able to sleep since. If there is anything I can do to help at this inquest, I will do so. And I believe that certain information regarding my mother will be of the utmost importance.”
He cleared his throat briefly, as though the next sentence was hard to utter in public.
“Despite his… deficiency in character and morality,” Matthew said, “I do not believe my brother capable of murdering our mother. On hearing the news, however, it appears that he might be the prime suspect. And because I know it isn’t me, there is another avenue of investigation.”
He produced a crumpled letter from his trouser pocket.
“This is a letter written to my mother by one of her lovers,” he said.
“How dare you,” Archibald hissed. “Stop these lies!”
“A letter,” Matthew continued, unfazed, “which proves that my mother had a third child with another man. The letter is not signed, though you will see by the various references within that it couldn’t possibly have been our father. It is, therefore, my conclusion that…”
But Matthew was suddenly unable to speak. He clutched his throat in agony, trying to make the words come out. But they wouldn’t.
Locked in silent combat with death, he collapsed to the floor before anyone could reach him. Someone cried for a healer, while several people rushed forward to attend to him.
Some of the members of the audience, meanwhile, began to panic. There were cries of murder all around the hall. Archibald Pomeroy, trying to get a grasp on the situation, began ushering the guests back upstairs. Behind him, the warlocks in charge of the inquest were hurried away by the receptionist, Isabelle.
