Copycat Murders

by T. H. Hunter

  She looked at us as though the matter were settled, but Val appeared to be just as puzzled as I was. I was just about to inquire about the rest of the story when there was a loud knock on the door.

  “Come,” said the headmistress.

  An adolescent youth entered the room. He was wearing a student’s uniform, though he had taken off his warlock’s hat. The headmistress squinted slightly so that she could recognise the face. Then, she clucked her tongue in disapproval.

  “Again, Ross?” she said, a twinkle in her eye. “What was it this time?”

  “Inappropriate answers in class, ma’am.”

  “How many more detentions are you determined to acquire this term?” she asked.

  “I’ve always been one for records, headmistress,” Ross said cheekily.

  He smiled in mock-apology. To my surprise, the headmistress seemed to be secretly enjoying the encounter, and she was trying her best to suppress a smile in front of her deputy. Harper, however, was less than amused. He cleared his throat.

  “Expulsion from the school is also a record of sorts, Ross, remember that,” he fumed.

  “Indeed,” the headmistress said, though I could see by her twitching mouth that she didn’t seriously consider it. “I will deal with you later. Justice will have to wait a little longer, even for you, Julian Ross.”

  The youth made a ridiculously low bow, flashing his grin at all of us again as he emerged, and was just about to turn around when the headmistress changed her mind.

  “Wait,” she said, her tone suddenly much sharper than before. “How long have you been outside the door, Ross?”

  “Me?” he said innocently, blinking. “Why, only a few minutes, headmistress.”

  “Did you hear anything you shouldn’t have?” the deputy headmaster barked at him.

  “Of course not, sir. I would never…”

  “Spare us the act, Ross,” the deputy spat. “Out with it. What did you hear?”

  Ross, sensing real consequences for a change, switched gears quickly. His mocking features rearranged themselves into a remarkably good impression of someone who had been wrongfully accused of an awful crime.

  “Headmistress, I did hear voices inside, so I decided to wait. But I didn’t hear anything specific. Then, I thought I’d knock all the same, since I didn’t know how long your meeting would be. I didn’t hear a thing. I swear it. That’s the honest truth.”

  The headmistress eyed him with a mixture of indulgence and suspicion. Finally, she turned to the deputy headmaster, giving him the briefest of nods.

  “Deputy Headmaster Harper will oversee that you are fairly punished, Ross.”

  “But, headmistress, I…” he spluttered.

  “That will do, Ross,” she said. “I assure you that you will not be expelled, but I cannot attend to it myself… under the present circumstances. Clement, would you mind escorting Ross downstairs?”

  “With pleasure, headmistress,” Harper said menacingly.

  Julian Ross had no choice but to follow the deputy headmaster outside. But I could tell that his curiosity was sparked. What was so important that the headmistress wanted to conceal it from him?

  After they had left, the headmistress waited for a while longer. She got up, periodically looking at the closed door, pacing around the room until she was satisfied that Harper and Ross were definitely out of earshot.

  “Julian Ross is a bit of a rascal,” she said, smiling, “but he has his heart in the right place. However, we cannot be too careful these days. I would advise you, also, to trust no one.”

  “I will certainly make no exception for your deputy, madam,” said Barry, still offended at Harper’s earlier impertinence.

  She frowned.

  “You mustn’t be too hard on Clement. He wants this situation resolved as much as anyone else. Now, where were we?”

  “I think you were going to tell us about how Wycliffe was captured,” I said.

  “Oh, yes. Well, after it had been established that necromancy was involved – and had been ignored for so long – there was nothing less than a political earthquake. The headmaster was dismissed and shunned. Forced into retirement, he died a few years later – I think more of shame than anything else, if such a thing is possible.

  “Meanwhile, the MLE had taken control of the school. They combed the entire castle from dungeon to spire in an effort to find the perpetrator. At first, they found nothing. But then, the professor for earth magic went missing.”

  “You mean, Professor MacKenzie, Wycliffe’s boss?” Val asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Suspicion fell immediately on the entire department. Once more, they searched the private rooms of all teachers, student helpers, and research scholars connected to the department of earth magic.”

  “So, they had searched them before?” I asked.

  “Indeed, Miss Sheridan,” she said. “It was a decision informed by prejudice. The department of earth magic was the very first to fall under scrutiny…”

  “… because necromancy is a branch of earth magic,” I said.

  “Correct,” she said, nodding. “I myself was never quite convinced of the necessity of that connection. You see, although it is true that it is considered to be a part of earth magic, many of the principles of necromancy, aside from the moral dimension of course, are so very different from – let us say – ‘usual’ earth magic. Warlocks or witches specialised in earth magic, therefore, would hardly have any advantage in terms of actual ability or knowledge.”

  “But Wycliffe was a specialist in earth magic,” said Barry, frowning.

  “Yes, it is true. I’m merely pointing it out so that you might consider all options in your own investigations.”

  “I see,” he said.

  “During the search, they found some incriminating evidence in Wycliffe’s room the second time around, then?” I asked.

  “That’s right,” she said. “The peculiar thing was that he had survived the first search unscathed. Perhaps he thought that the danger had passed. Or maybe he was forced to move some of his research from his other hiding places. In any case, the MLE arrested him immediately, but unfortunately he was able to burn a lot of his work as they closed in, so that the true extent of his crimes remain unknown. The fire he set almost consumed the whole East Tower.”

  “Did Wycliffe confess?” asked Val.

  “Yes, he did,” the headmistress said, frowning. “Though for some reason he wouldn’t disclose where he had dumped the bodies. Perhaps he had hopes of continuing his work at a later date in case he escaped. Some of his victims were found later, deep within the woods.”

  “Were there any marks that he…” Val began, though unable to finish the horrible thought.

  “I believe that the official judgment,” Headmistress Hall said, hesitating slightly, “was that Wycliffe had tried but failed in his attempts at necromancy.”

  “But you thought otherwise,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said, her bags under eyes as pronounced as ever, “I do, Miss Sheridan. You see, the authorities were desperate to calm the situation, as far as that was possible. The Magical Courthouse in London was burnt down after a riot. Once the full horror of Wycliffe’s crimes became known – thirteen victims to date – people felt that the those in charge had failed them. Most witches and warlocks agreed. Myself included.

  “The final stage of the trial was moved here, to the school, in the large West Tower. It had been closed for the summer entirely, and its isolated and undisclosed location was ideal for the trial, though they allowed spectators to attend.”

  “So Wycliffe was found guilty?” asked Val.

  “Oh, yes,” the headmistress said. “The evidence was incontrovertible. He repeated his confession, in fact. Apparently, Professor MacKenzie had finally been willing to act on his suspicions regarding his assistant and had intended to turn him in. Throughout the trial, Wycliffe showed no remorse whatsoever. He even goaded some of the victims’ families. It was horrible. Many dem
anded the reinstitution of the death penalty, but of course, the law was the law. He was stripped of his powers and sentenced to solitary confinement for life, the harshest punishment in our world. In a manner of speaking, those who deemed it to light a sentence got their way in the end, though.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Wycliffe was murdered in prison, about a year ago. A petty squabble amongst prisoners. He was buried in a secret location, for the general mood was still tense – even after all those years. And that should have been the end of it.”

  She stared at the door again, an almost paranoid look on her face. Perhaps it was the setting sun behind her, but the lines on her face seemed deeper and darker than before.

  “But it wasn’t the end. Now, twenty years after Wycliffe’s death, it’s starting again,” she said in nothing more than a whisper. “The signs on the walls, the mysterious rituals. And disappearances, too. It’s exactly how it was when he was at large the last time.”

  “You don’t mean…” I began.

  “There have been horrible rumours. Rumours that he has returned from the dead, seeking revenge. You’ve got to help us.”

  Chapter 4

  She looked desperately at Val, Barry, and me. Somehow, it made the burden a lot heavier. It had felt a lot easier accepting the request in the form of a letter a few weeks ago. Now, however, the severity of the situation became a lot more pronounced.

  “Of course, headmistress,” I said. “We’re here to provide any help we can.”

  “I’m counting on it,” she said. “Your track record is indeed impressive. And some fresh pairs of eyes are what we really need in this dire situation.”

  She took the list that had been lying in front of her on the desk and handed it to me.

  “This is a list I’ve compiled – on a strictly confidential level, you understand – of all the known locations of necromancer signs that were spotted throughout the school. Most of them have been erased, of course, for fear of frightening the students even further, if that’s at all possible, that is. You will find the names of the missing students below. In regard to the stolen supplies, you should better talk to our quarterwarlock, Henry Armbruster.”

  “Thank you, this will help a lot,” I said, scanning the list. “Did the MLE find any leads?”

  Headmistress Hall shook her head miserably.

  “None at all,” she said. “The entire school was searched multiple times. No office, dormitory, or staff room was spared. Not even mine. But they couldn’t track down the missing students.”

  “And you think they’re dead?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said miserably. “It’s the same pattern as… as last time when Wycliffe was active.”

  “Does the MLE share your view?” asked Barry shrewdly. “That Wycliffe has somehow returned from the dead?”

  “I-I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not even sure myself. It seems impossible and yet… All I’m saying is that the pattern is exactly the same as last time. Some of the agents are old enough to remember what it was like all those years ago. But without bodies, or evidence that foul play is involved at all, there is very little they can do apart from searching the school. But the answer, I’m sure of it, must be somewhere in there.”

  She pointed at the list in my hand.

  “Some tiny detail that we’ve overlooked so far,” she continued. “You have all the school resources at your disposal, just contact me or Clement if you need anything.”

  “Thank you. Has anyone actually seen Wycliffe?” I asked.

  “Not to my knowledge,” said the headmistress slowly, “but that doesn’t mean it’s not him. He could be in disguise.”

  “Posing as a student or a member of staff, you mean?” I asked.

  “Precisely,” said the headmistress.

  “Is this possible to sustain for a long period of time?” I asked, turning to Barry.

  “Oh, yes, certainly,” said Barry. “A warlock trained in shapeshifting will have no problem doing that, since the transformations are minor in comparison to, say, turning into an animal. That wouldn’t be the problem.”

  Barry hesitated.

  “What’s the matter?” Val asked.

  “Well,” he said, “I’m no expert in necromancy, but I’ve never heard of anyone reviving themselves.”

  “Maybe he had an accomplice,” said Val.

  “Or,” I said, “it could be someone else. A copycat killer, mimicking Wycliffe’s style?”

  “Yes,” Barry said, “that is also possible.”

  “Does anyone else know why we are here?” I asked, turning back to the headmistress.

  “The school board does, but few members actually reside here at the castle. I can add their names to the bottom of the list, if you like.”

  “Yes, that would be great, thank you,” I said. “We want to keep our cover for as long as possible.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I have demanded the utmost secrecy of all of them.”

  After she had added the names, I pocketed the list. Val and I got to our feet, and Barry hopped down from his chair. We shook hands (and paws) with the headmistress once more and headed for the beautiful oak doors that led out of her office.

  ***

  At the foot of the stone spiral staircase, I felt at a complete loss. Although I wouldn’t have admitted it openly, of course, I felt more like an amateur now than ever before. In our previous two cases, we had always slipped into them by accident. At Warklesby’s School of Magic, however, things were different. We had been hired with the specific purpose of solving a mystery that even Magical Law Enforcement, with all their manpower and resources, couldn’t crack. What, then, could be expected of us? Would most people presuppose our failure from the start? The deputy headmaster, I noted with a shudder of utter dislike, certainly thought so. But the thought of him telling the headmistress that he had been right all along was almost unbearable.

  “Are you OK, Amy?” Val asked.

  I swung around. She had that look on her face that told me she had been reading me like a book.

  “I… sure, everything’s fine,” I lied.

  “No, it’s not,” she said. “You can’t fool an empathetic psychic, you know.”

  “I suppose I can’t,” I said, cheering up a little. “Especially when she’s my best friend, too. So, where should we start?”

  “The Great Hall, of course,” said Barry confidently.

  “Why there?” I asked.

  “Because I’m hungry,” he said.

  We all laughed, more, I think, for the purpose of easing the tension than anything else.

  “Well, at least Barry has his priorities right,” said Val. “Let’s have a meal and get a good night’s rest. It’s probably best to start fresh in the morning.”

  “How do we get to the hall, though?” I asked.

  “I know the way,” said Barry.

  We followed him through one ancient stone corridor to another. And yet, each seemed to have a life of its own. The portraits, reaching back centuries, were fascinating in themselves. Arches to tiny passageways hid behind tapestries of all shapes and sizes. Suits of armour were one thing, but the peculiar life-sized waxwork figures of great spellcasters that were strewn throughout the castle made the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. They were excellent replicas, and so it was sometimes difficult to distinguish between them and groups of students we passed on our way. For the most part, however, we encountered few people on our way to the hall.

  “How come you know the way around this massive place, Barry?” asked Val.

  “I’ve been invited several times before to give lectures on therianthropy. Many years ago, though. Ah, here we are. I can already smell the outstanding food they make here.”

  Val and I opened a pair of heavy wooden doors. A loud buzz of conversation and chatter hit us as though we had been struck by a wave. We were facing the most massive hall I had ever seen in my life. The ceiling was so high that the place
could have well served as a cathedral. Beautiful baroque artwork and carvings decorated every inch of it. Long banners and larger-than-life statues stood at the hall’s sides. In the centre, a sea of witches and warlocks sat on long benches at ornate tables made of white marble. As far as the eye could see, foods from every continent were being devoured by students and staff alike. Above their heads, dozens of empty plates whizzed away while full plates precariously teetered through the air until landing with a plonk in front of a hungry witch or warlock.

  “This is amazing,” said Val, awestruck. “Can’t wait for our turn. What do you say, Barry? Amy?”

  “We certainly won’t starve in here, that’s for sure,” I said. “Come on, let’s find a table.”

  “I think,” said Barry haughtily, “they’re expecting me at the staff table. Researchers also sit there. You’d better join me, or otherwise they might smell a rat.”

  It turned out that the staff table was slightly elevated at the far end of the hall. About two dozen people were already sitting there, though there were ample empty seats left. To my dismay, I saw that the deputy headmaster was already there. He had evidently finished disciplining the mischievous Ross. As soon as he spotted us, he got up from his seat and approached us.

  “Hello again,” he said with a nasty smirk on his face.

  He coughed briefly to get the attention of everyone at the staff table.

  “This,” he said, evidently taking some sort of malicious pleasure in his introduction, “is the Earl of Barrington, who will be filling in for Professor Hucklebee. These two are his research assistants, Miss Sheridan and Miss Morgan.”

  There was a polite but brief murmur of greetings at the table before everyone returned to their original conversations.

  When deputy Harper was sure that he couldn’t be overheard, he leant forward slightly, whispering:

  “Finished investigating for the day already, have we?”

  “Not quite,” I said coldly. “Still a few staff members to go.”