The Mysterious Mr Wylie: Wonky Inn Book 6

by Jeannie Wycherley

  “Of course!” I said and gritted my teeth, blinking my eyes rapidly before taking a deep breath. “There is one thing…”

  “Yes?”

  “The body… what’s left of it… is wearing robes.” I glanced around to make sure Danny couldn’t hear us and lowered my voice to a whisper. “That probably means they were a witch or a wizard.”

  “Or dressing up,” George suggested.

  I tutted and pulled a face at him.

  “I have to cover all eventualities,” George pointed out.

  I growled at him. “Well maybe, but in this inn? With my family? You reckon?”

  “No, you’re probably right.” He looked back into the room where one of the forensic team was removing a number of items from around the skeleton and slipping them into plastic evidence bags.

  “How long do you think it has been there?” I asked.

  “We don’t know yet. I’ll have to let the pathologist determine that.”

  “And cause of death?”

  “Yes. Nothing obvious at the moment. But when all you’re left with are the bones, it can be incredibly difficult to work that out.”

  I placed my hand on George’s arm. “Would you be able to let me know when you do find out? Only… if I know when the body was left there, that might help us work out who left it.”

  George patted my hand. “I’ll tell you what I can, when I can. That’s the best I can do.”

  “Good enough,” I said, and wished I could fold myself into his arms for a reassuring hug. Maybe he felt the same way because his hand hesitated, remaining on mine. But those days were over for now and I wasn’t sure they would ever return, so I pulled away and went in search of a tissue.

  Either my cold was coming back, or I was weepy. One of the two.

  His forensic team were thorough. They carefully removed the remainder of the wall so they could gain access to the space beyond. At some stage The Throne Room had been bigger than it now was, and one of my ancestors had added the partition to house their terrible secret.

  The pieces of the wall were taken away for further examination, and I watched as a plastic clad woman examined the remaining surfaces with painstaking detail, armed with a torch, a camera and a pair of tweezers.

  With the wall down, the exposed space was the height and the length of the room, and just over a metre wide. More photos were taken of the skeleton in situ, and then the body was recovered, and carefully placed inside a body bag for removal to the mortuary.

  We all stood in respectful silence as two funeral directors bore the body away on behalf of the coroner. I dashed at another tear as I watched them gently manoeuvre the stretcher down the stairs.

  Then more photos were taken of the objects that had been revealed by the removal of the skeleton in its voluminous robes. I spotted a book—black leather and covered in dust. One of the forensic scientists picked it up and something fell from among the pages, floating down onto the grimy floor. Some kind of black and white photo by the look of it. I couldn’t get close enough to see any detail.

  I watched Gwyn shoot through the air to stand alongside the scientist as she reached down to pick up the photograph and study it. For once I envied my great-grandmother’s invisibility. I found myself burning with curiosity to examine both the book and the photo. No doubt they would yield interesting clues.

  Finally, just after seven that evening, the corridor was released back to me, although George instructed me to keep the bedroom locked up until he and his team had finished with it. “For at least the next few days,” he suggested. “But maybe longer.”

  I nodded, feeling glum. So much for my plans for the bathrooms then.

  I rang the builders, who had been sent home earlier in the day, to put them off for the time being. We would resume the renovations as soon as humanly possible.

  Charity and the rest of my staff continued to service our guests, trying to act normally, but the mood over my wonky inn remained subdued all night, each of us no doubt thinking of the unknown victim in this sad situation, imagining how he or she had ended up there.

  I spent a long time in my office that evening, nursing a brandy and staring blankly at the pages of a novel I’d started reading while on holiday. At some stage I became aware that Gwyn was restless too. She haunted the corridor outside my room, disappearing every so often into The Throne Room, but when I tried to question her about what she knew and why she was so upset, she apparated away from me, only to return five minutes later and repeat the process.

  Over and over.

  Later I lay in bed, the window open, listening to Mr Hoo hunting in the distance, puzzling over the day’s events.

  I couldn’t help but feel responsible in some way and I wanted to know what had happened so that the inn, or I at least, could make reparations. Of course, given the state of the body and the advanced decomposition, there was every possibility that it had been holed up and hidden away for a long time, maybe decades before I’d been born.

  I didn’t get much sleep that night.

  We muddled on, something we were adept at doing at Whittle Inn. The Throne Room remained closed up, with police officers intermittently returning and conducting more tests and further investigation, but the corridor and Neverwhere were released back to me. The builders came back and continued what they’d started. There were additional expenses involved. Given the amount of fingerprint dust everywhere, and as a direct result of both the police investigation and the building works, before I knew it the whole floor, with the exception of my own suite of rooms, needed to be painted and decorated.

  Both the dust and the furore settled, but the memory of the anonymous skeleton formed a hard chunk of ice in my stomach. I needed to do something, anything, even if this ‘something’ only amounted to finding a name.

  Ten days after the discovery George rang me to ask whether I’d like to meet him for a drink. Ostensibly he suggested we would discuss his initial findings and he’d run a few more questions past me, things that might help him pursue a few leads, but secretly I think we both wanted to take some time to test out our feelings about our muted relationship.

  We’d pressed pause. Was it time to hit play?

  It seemed important to meet on neutral ground, and rather than show my face at The Hay Loft, Whittle Inn’s rival in Whittlecombe, I drove to The Blue Bell Inn in Durscombe and found my way to the snug at the rear of the inn. Only a few months had elapsed since George and I had listened to the Devonshire Fellows for the very first time in the same spot, but now the entire band of Fellows resided at Whittle Inn.

  George had obviously had the same idea, because he had taken a place at exactly the same table. The Blue Bell was busy, serving meals to hungry tourists, so we were lucky to have a table at all. He stood as I arrived and gave me a hug. It felt natural and I relaxed into it momentarily.

  “You’ve forgiven me for turning you into a toad, then?” I asked when we’d both settled and had drinks in front of us.

  He gave me a look that was hard to read. “You know after everything that happened to me, I’m not even sure that inhabiting the body of a toad was that much of a big deal. There wasn’t a lot to worry about. Eat, sleep, swim, repeat.”

  I grinned. “Vance looked after you.”

  “Yes, he did.” George shook his head in wonder. “What a creature he is.”

  I nodded. The Keeper of the Marsh was hundreds of years old and a real character. I hadn’t been to see him since I’d arrived back from my holiday, but I ought to. I knew he’d appreciate a chat.

  “Is Jed still out there with him?” George asked, and I nodded.

  “I think that’s safest.” Jed would have to be turned over to The Circle of Querkus if I reinstated him to human form and that seemed unnecessary. He’d saved my life after all. “Wizard Shadowmender knows where to find him if he really wants him.”

  “Pretty surreal.” George drank deeply from his pint, and then regarded me over the top of his glass. “You know, in spite
of everything that’s happened, I’m not sorry that I met you.”

  “I’m glad.” I held a nervous giggle in check. It sounded like something someone would say if they never wanted to see you again.

  George hesitated. I waited. Then there was a roar of laughter from the bar area behind us and the moment was lost. Instead he pulled his notebook, pen, and a plastic evidence bag from his jacket pocket.

  “I wanted to fill you in on where we are with the skeleton we found at the inn.” He’d adopted his professional and formal tone and there was a part of me that ached to hear it. I swallowed the pain and slumped back in my chair, waiting to hear what he had to say.

  “First of all, we are able to categorically state the skeleton is a male. His age… that’s a whole different ballgame.”

  George flicked through his notepad and read his notes. “To be honest the post-mortem is inconclusive. The age of the bones is indeterminate, which the pathologist finds bizarre. She’s running more tests. Initial test data suggests anything from thirty years to three hundred years, so we’re wide off the mark somewhere.”

  “That won’t help me narrow down when he stayed at the inn then?” Strange. “What about his age when he died?”

  “Again, results are inconclusive. There are signs of aging in terms of fusion of certain bones, but also characteristics of a young man. We just don’t know.”

  “Oh,” I said. “What else have you found out about him?”

  “No obvious sign of trauma. No damage to the bones.”

  I wasn’t sure this could be construed as good news. If he hadn’t been murdered before he was interred behind the wall, it didn’t bear thinking about how long he’d been boarded up there awaiting rescue.

  George tapped the plastic bag. “If you’re up to it, I have a couple of things to show you.” He unzipped the plastic bag and drew out the black leather book I’d seen the forensic scientist holding, along with several scene of crime photos.

  Casting a quick look around to make sure no-one was watching us, he placed the photos in front of me. There was one of the skeleton as it had been found, wearing his robes and hat. Another showed the robes laid out on a white surface, clearly displaying the pattern and edging. “Do you recognise these robes?”

  “Only in as much as I saw them on the day our friend was discovered,” I replied, feeling sad for our anonymous victim. “He needs a name. It’s horrible that he’s so anonymous.”

  “We just call them The Deceased.”

  I looked pleadingly at George. “That’s just awful? Can we at least give him a temporary name?”

  George frowned but I could see he would humour me. “What would your suggestion be?”

  I lifted the photo and studied the image. “He needs a name that is timeless. Something old that could also be new. How about Luke?”

  “Luke it is then. But just between us, alright?” George gave me a warning look and I nodded.

  “Of course.”

  “Going back to these robes that… Luke… is wearing. Do you think they’re the genuine article?”

  “As in something a witch or wizard would wear?”

  “Yes.”

  “I do.” I pointed at the hemline, the colours would once have been vibrant: orange, several shades of blue and deep purple, shot through with a gold silk. “This is exquisite. I’m willing to bet these cost a bit and were made by the best tailors in the business.”

  “So not fancy dress?”

  I shuddered to think that some innocent mortal had found their way into the inn wearing fancy dress and been finished off by one of my forebears. “I really don’t think so, George.”

  “Fair enough.” George shuffled those photos together and offered me the book to have a look at. I’d imagined from a distance that it had to be an old classic and I wasn’t wrong. A first edition of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, the gilt lettering faded. I opened the cover to find a name in neat cursive writing, Alfhild Gwynfyre.

  “Grandmama?” I ran my fingertips gently over the two words there. Gwynfyre. This had been her book before she’d married my great-grandfather.

  “I don’t understand,” I choked the words out. “I can’t believe my great-grandmother would do this.”

  George leaned forward and placed his hand on my knee, his voice soft. “There’s no need to upset yourself, Alf. No-one is insinuating anything about Gwyn, and even if she was implicated somehow, to everyone except you she’s been gone a long, long time.”

  “You don’t understand, George. Everyone else is not me. It’s not Charity. It’s not you even.” I’d raised my voice and people were looking around at us. I reined myself in and spoke more quietly. “We know her. She’s as real to us as the people at the next table.”

  George nodded. “There is that.”

  “I’ll try and talk to her about it, but she’s been avoiding me ever since Luke was found. You know what she’s like for disappearing on me.”

  “Right. Yes. See what you can find out. There may be something she knows that would help us identify who this is. That’s probably the most important thing given that we’re looking—more than likely—at a historic death.”

  “I will try,” I repeated, not holding out much hope. I reached for my glass. I’d only ordered an orange juice spritzer given that I was driving. My hand shook slightly, and I wished I’d had a brandy instead.

  “There was this as well.” George held out another photograph. “This was tucked inside the book.”

  He handed over a marvellous sepia toned photograph on heavy card. Three men and a woman were standing outside the inn. My breath caught in my throat. I was definitely looking at an image of a young Gwyn. We looked similar, although I couldn’t tell her hair colouring from the photograph. She wasn’t smiling, none of them were, but she didn’t look unhappy.

  “That’s Gwyn,” I confirmed.

  “And the men?”

  “Well,” I pursed my lips and regarded each one in turn. “I’m going to hazard a guess that one of them is my great-grandfather, James Daemonne. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a picture of him before. I don’t recognise any of them.” I flipped the photo over. July 1920. GG, WW, AGD, JD. “AGD and JD? That would confirm two of these people as my great grandparents, I suppose.”

  “But who are GG and WW?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  WW though? That was a coincidence.

  I sat at my desk with the closed briefcase in front of me, fiddling with the little tag.

  The property of W Wylie.

  WW.

  But we couldn’t be talking about the W Wylie that had stayed at Whittle Inn back in March.

  Could we?

  “You’re burning the midnight oil, Miss Alf.” Startled, I glanced up. Florence hovered in the doorway, her ever-present feather duster swinging through the air in front of her.

  “I am rather.” I yawned and stretched. “It’s a bit late to be up dusting, Florence.”

  My housekeeper grinned, slightly sheepishly. “I know. I’m trying to catch up.”

  I nodded but didn’t say anything. I’d figured Florence would eventually grow tired of all the Witchflix programmes and return to her duties. If she wanted to. If she didn’t, then who was I to judge? Florence had lived a short mortal life, there was no point in being miserable for all eternity in her afterlife.

  I indicated the briefcase in front of me. “Do you remember this?”

  Florence floated in, close enough I could have touched her, had she been a physical entity. “The briefcase?”

  “Cast your mind back to when I stayed down at the Psychic Fayre and left you Charity and Gwyn to run the inn. Do you remember?”

  “Oh, I do!” Florence exclaimed excitedly. “You had me spy on a gentleman for you.”

  Hooray! Someone remembered. I wasn’t going crazy.

  “Tell me what you remember,” I said.

  “We thought he seemed a little strange and out of place. He told us he wanted to stay at The
Hay Loft, but of course they were full, so he came to us instead. He didn’t appear to be our normal kind of guest.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  Florence paused while she racked her brains. “Mr Wylie.”

  Bingo.

  “What did he look like?” I asked, curious because I had never met him and yet now his name kept turning up.

  Florence swished her duster around on my desk through force of habit, even though she knew I hated her tidying the office. “He wasn’t very tall. Not like Mr George or Mr Silvan. Perhaps he was around Charity’s height.”

  “Okay.” I held my hand up to stop the onslaught of the feather duster.

  “Sorry.” Florence regained control of the dastardly implement. “He was dark-haired like Mr Silvan, but very neat. Not like Mr Silvan.” Silvan was a free spirit and his tousle of hair very much reflected that. “His hair was short, and he had a tidy moustache.” She mimed a moustache sitting on a top lip. “He always dressed very well, in a smart suit.”

  “Like Ross Baines?” I asked.

  “Oooh the lovely Ross Baines,” Florence smiled. I knew she had taken quite a shine to Ross. Sadly, he’d left us to go and work for Penelope Quigwell and I’d heard through the grapevine that he was getting on very well in her team of technical wizards—the first ghost she’d ever employed. “Perhaps not as smart as Ross.”

  I took that with a pinch of salt. “And you recall that I asked you to look in his briefcase?” I asked. “Is this the same briefcase?” I pointed to the case.

  Florence looked doubtful, probably wondering why that briefcase would have turned up on my desk. “I’m not sure I’d remember, Miss Alf,” she said, her face crestfallen.

  “No.” I felt disappointed myself. But why would one briefcase be any different to another?

  “Except…” Florence suddenly bent at the waist, her head disappearing into the briefcase. I saw her look sideways, left then right, and then she stood upright once more. “I am certain this is the same one,” she announced looking pleased with herself.

  “How can you be so sure?” I popped the clasps and eased the lid up. Without a magickal command, the briefcase remained empty. Nothing to see at all. No distinguishing marks as far as I could tell.