by T. H. Hunter
Barry and Val looked worried but were otherwise alright. We followed the stream of guests upstairs, taking care not to lose Barry in the fray.
***
Back in our room, we tried to make sense of the bizarre events we had just witnessed, as well as the new information we had just heard.
“A third child?” asked Val. “But what’s that got to do with anything?”
“It means,” said Barry heavily. “That there is someone else with a clear motive. Next to Archibald and Matthew.”
“I still don’t understand,” she said.
“There’s the spa, for one,” I said. “An establishment like this is both popular and lucrative.”
“Don’t forget the rest of the inheritance,” said Barry. “The magic powers of the father were transferred to the mother. With her death, they most likely now reside with Archibald. If that’s whom she put in her will, of course.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Remember Archibald told us that there had been an attempt on his life with dynamite? He said that he thought it was his brother Matthew. But it might well have been any other heb. Or warlock, I suppose.”
“Of course,” said Barry. “And Matthew died tonight.”
“So,” said Val slowly, “you think that Archibald will be next?”
“Yes,” I said. “Whoever is the third child is most definitely going to kill Archibald. Then it doesn’t matter who’s in the will. It will all fall into the hands of the last remaining sibling. The unknown sibling. Come on, we don’t have a moment to lose.
8
We exited our door as quietly as possible. We had been to Archibald’s office before, on the second floor, not too long ago, so we knew the way. Luckily, the corridors were completely deserted. Most of the guests had presumably left by now.
We reached the door, and I knocked gently three times upon it.
After a brief fumbling of papers, there was a curt ‘come in’ from inside. Once more, Archibald Pomeroy was sitting at his desk. He looked tired, as though he had run a marathon. His face was as white as ever, while large bags had formed under his eyes.
“Miss Sheridan,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s not what you can do for me,” I said, “but rather the reverse. We think that someone might try to make an attempt on your life.”
“But my brother is dead,” he said. “I have nothing to fear anymore. It’s over, Miss Sheridan.”
“We don’t think that’s correct, Mr. Pomeroy,” I said. “We don’t believe that your brother was responsible for your mother’s death.”
He frowned at me in disbelief.
“He was always a good actor, my brother,” he said. “My mother wouldn’t believe it either, despite all the indications to the contrary. And look where it got her. But she did realise her mistake at the very end.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “But there was no reason for him to come here tonight.”
“He clearly wanted to make a dramatic exit. A planned suicide, that’s all it was. And smear the good name of our mother as he did so.”
“He was trying to tell us something at the end, Mr. Pomeroy,” I said. “Please, we think you’re in grave danger. Someone is in the hotel right now, trying to get to you.”
“And what do they want with me?” he said.
“There is good reason to believe,” said Barry earnestly, “that whoever is behind this has systematically killed your entire family. You are the last in line. Therefore, it is reasonable to assume that it is the inheritance they are after.”
“But,” Mr. Pomeroy spluttered. “That’s preposterous. There’s nothing much to inherit. The spa isn’t going too well, I’m afraid to say. Who would murder for a load of debt?”
“Perhaps,” Barry said, “it is not the spa they are after.”
“What else is there?” he said.
“Your magic powers,” said Barry.
“I don’t have any magic powers,” he said bluntly.
“If you are the sole beneficiary in your mother’s will, which I believe you are after she changed it at the last moment, then you certainly do. Have you tried?”
“Why, no, I haven’t,” he said. “Never wanted anything to do with the ghastly art. I leave that sort of thing to Bruno.”
“We will have time for that later,” I said. “Right now, we have to protect you.”
“But protect me from what? Whom?” he asked, a note of panic in his voice.
“Your mother’s third child,” I said. “The one Matthew mentioned before he collapsed.”
“But that was clearly a pack of lies,” he said. “He hated our mother for not standing up for him. He probably wrote that letter himself.”
“But what if he didn’t?” I asked. “What if the letter is genuine and there was a third child. Think, Mr. Pomeroy. All the peculiar circumstances of the last few weeks make perfect sense. The poisoning of your mother. The attempts on your life. The death of your brother tonight. Somebody is clearly trying to eradicate your family.”
Gradually, the horrible truth of the matter began to dawn on Mr. Archibald Pomeroy. The little colour still remaining in his cheeks were drained. He had the look of a marked man, a hunted man.
“You really believe that, Miss Sheridan?” he asked, a look of horror on his face.
“I am almost certain,” I said. “You’re in very grave danger. Whoever is behind it will be more eager to accomplish his or her task than ever. They’re very close to achieving their goal. You are the only person still standing in their way.”
“But who on earth would do such a thing,” he said. “I… I can’t believe that I have another sibling… but if I do, whoever could it be?”
I hesitated briefly.
“It is most likely someone close by,” I said. “Someone who is here on a regular basis.”
“You mean, one of the guests? One of the regulars?” he said.
“That is certainly possible,” I said. “But I believe it has to be someone even closer than that. Someone who can access all areas of the spa without arousing any suspicion. It would have to be someone with access to your mother’s quarters, for instance.”
“You don’t mean you suspect one of my staff of… of…”
I nodded.
“I can’t be sure, of course,” I said. “But it is the most likely scenario. Mr. Pomeroy, I want you to think carefully. Has there been a member of staff who has been acting out of the ordinary lately?”
Mr. Pomeroy thought about it for a moment.
“Why, no. I can’t think of anyone.”
“Have there been any recent additions to your staff?” Barry asked shrewdly.
“Well,” he said, scratching his neck, “quite a number, in fact. I’ve had to let go of a few people. Too expensive, you see. Isabelle, the receptionist, has been here a month, I think. I got Jameson, the barman, a few weeks before her. And then there’s Bruno, the cook. I think he’s been with us for three months. But surely, Miss Sheridan, you don’t think…”
“At the moment,” I said, “all we should care about is getting you out of here. You must leave the spa immediately. If you stay, there’s no way of guaranteeing your safety.”
“Believe me, Miss Sheridan,” he said bitterly. “After what happened tonight, I have no intention of staying. I’m going to sell the place and…”
But before he could finish his sentence, Val held up a hand and whispered:
“I think there’s somebody coming.”
We all fell silent immediately, listening.
Val was right. Footsteps were clearly audible, slowly ascending the staircase. We waited, holding our breaths. Had they heard us talking to Mr. Pomeroy?
Then, there was a knock at the door.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Mr. Pomeroy looked anxiously at the door and then at me. I nodded. He cleared his throat.
“Yes?” he said.
The door slowly creaked open. I gri
pped my wand inside my pocket with a trembling hand. I would be able to draw it at the first sign of trouble.
The door swung open. In the doorway stood Isabelle, the pretty receptionist. Now, however, her blonde hair was untidy. She was holding a handbag close to her left thigh.
“Oh, hello,” she said, looking at Val and me in surprise. “I didn’t realise you had guests up here, Mr. Pomeroy. I’d better come back later.”
“No, no, that’s quite alright” Mr. Pomeroy said, though his tone was full of suspicion. “What is it you want, Isabelle?”
She moved uncomfortably on the spot.
“I… I came to see whether everything was alright, Mr. Pomeroy,” she said. “I know how much you are upset by your brother. I was worried about you.”
“That is very kind of you, Isabelle,” he said, with a sideward glance at me. “My brother’s death has… affected me. I’ll be forced to take certain precautions.”
“Precautions?” she asked innocently. “But whatever do you mean, Mr. Pomeroy?”
“I mean,” he said, “that I will be leaving this place for good. Too many deaths. Too much family. I’m selling the place.”
“But sir, you can’t do that…”
“It’s my last word,” he said adamantly. “No, I’m serious about this, Isabelle. I’m sick of this place.”
“When will you be leaving?” she asked.
“Tomorrow, I think,” he said. “First thing in the morning, in fact. Yes, better make a fresh start of it. There’s no time lose now.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Pomeroy,” Isabelle said.
“Tell Jameson,” he continued, “that I want two bottles of port ready for my departure tomorrow. Oh, and I want you to talk to Bruno, too. I’ll have a list of things I want him to pack for me in the morning.”
“I will do that, Mr. Pomeroy,” she said.
“That will be all,” he said. “Goodnight, Isabelle.”
She looked at Val and me one last time. Then, she turned to Mr. Pomeroy again.
“Goodnight, sir.”
***
Though Mr. Pomeroy had been quite serious about his orders for his departure the next day, a plan was beginning to form in my mind. Our three remaining suspects had all been given the information that Mr. Pomeroy would be leaving the first thing in the morning to an unknown location. Therefore, it was the last opportunity for the killer to strike and complete the task.
In other words, it was the perfect trap. Mr. Pomeroy was, however, not eager to play the bait.
“But I’d be a sitting duck,” he said, breathing heavily. “I can’t just sit here and wait.”
“Don’t you wish to avenge your mother’s death?” Barry said coldly. “Don’t you want her murderer caught?”
“Why, of course I do,” Mr. Pomeroy spluttered. “But I didn’t know that it’d involve… Oughtn’t we wait for the MLE to start its investigation.”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Pomeroy,” Barry said, “that by the time the MLE has got involved, the killer will have had ample opportunity to make an attempt on your life.”
“Then I have no choice,” he said finally, still quivering from head to foot. “My life is in your hands, Miss Sheridan. What exactly do you want me to do?”
***
Mr. Pomeroy’s bedroom was next to his office. At ten p.m., Val, Barry, and I had positioned ourselves so that we couldn’t immediately be seen once the door had been opened. I had my wand at the ready. We had patiently waited for first the barman and then Bruno to arrive and fulfil their duties.
And now, the minutes crept by slowly as we sat there in the darkness. Mr. Pomeroy looked anxiously from the door to the window. He did not like playing guinea pig. And to be frank, I didn’t blame him. But it was our only chance of catching the killer.
The only sound remaining was the shallow exhaling of Mr. Pomeroy. It must have been 1 or 2 a.m. already. I was getting dangerously drowsy, and I had to nudge Val in the ribs a couple of times to prevent her from falling asleep.
And then, there was the slightest of sounds from outside of the room, on the landing. Was someone creeping along it? A door creaked open ever so slightly.
I held my breath, for fear that my pounding heart would give me away. Barry crept under the bed. I could sense that Mr. Pomeroy, though trying to pretend he was sleeping, was rigid with fear.
And now, footsteps were approaching. They were soft, perhaps those of a woman or a light male.
And then, the door to the bedroom suddenly swung open with full force. Val and I, taken totally by surprise were knocked over sideways. My head was spinning from shock and pain. My wand went flying over my head and out of sight.
Mr. Pomeroy hastened to turn on the bedside lamp, but a harsh voice prevented him from doing so.
“Leave it off.”
It was Jameson, the barman.
Supporting my throbbing temple, I tried to regain focus. Val clutched my arm in terror.
“He’s got a gun,” she whispered. “Amy, hex him. Quick!”
I fumbled desperately on the ground to find it, but it was too late.
“Hold it,” Jameson said.
I could see that he had stepped on something in front of him. Continuing to cover us with his revolver, Jameson bent down to retrieve it.
“And what do we have here?” he sneered. “A wand. Thank you, Miss Sheridan. I’m sure it will serve me well once I have become a warlock. And all I have to do is to kill my dear half-brother hear. Say goodbye, Archie.”
He raised his gun and was just about to shoot when Barry, still hardly able to see, launched himself forward with a ferocity only a true cat could summon.
Jameson fired, yet the gun was yanked downward at the last minute as Barry’s claws sunk painfully into his arm. That gave Val and me the few seconds we needed.
With one loud cry, Val launched herself at Jameson. It knocked all the air out of him, and the gun went flying out of his hand. That gave me the time I needed to get my wand. Yet during the struggle, it had been kicked under the bed.
I scrambled forward. Mr. Pomeroy was still in some sort of mental freeze. His face was frozen in panic, and all he could do was watch the scene before him, his mouth open, his eyes popping.
Diving underneath the bed as fast as I could, I stretched out my hand as far as I could.
“Amy, help!” Val screamed.
My fingertips were very close. They were touching the handle of the wand. Stretching my body as far as it would go, I finally grasped it.
“He’s getting the gun,” Val yelled.
There was no time to lose. I crawled from underneath the bed as fast as I could.
Barry, Val, and Jameson were still fiercely interlocked in a wild melee, but – with the energy of the cornered animal – Jameson was getting the upper hand.
“Val, watch out!” I shouted.
Val, who was trying to prevent Jameson from retrieving the gun that lay on the floor, couldn’t hold on for much longer. With one last desperate attempt, Jameson hurled Val backwards, making her fall to the floor.
Barry was blindly scratching and biting Jameson’s ankle, but couldn’t do much else on his own. For one brief moment, the path was free for Jameson. The gun lay only a few feet away.
“Watch out, he’s going for the gun!” Val yelled, pointing at it on the floor.
Jameson dived. But I was ready for him. Pointing my wand at him, I cried:
“Frigus!”
The body-freezing charm hit Jameson square on the chest. His hand still outstretched like a peculiar statue, he keeled over on the spot and hit the ground with a crack. He was unable to move an inch.
My heart still beating furiously, I helped Val to her feet. Barry was limping, but seemed quite pleased with himself.
I turned around to Mr. Pomeroy, who was still lying in bed. He hadn’t dared move an inch during the fight. He was still staring at Jameson in disbelief, unable to comprehend that his own barman had just tried to kill him.
“You’re safe now, Mr. Pomeroy,” I said. “There nothing more to worry about.”
9
Several hours later, we were back at Fickleton House again. Jameson had been handed over to the MLE, charged with multiple counts of murder and attempted murder.
In his room, they had discovered further evidence that led them to believe that he had been experimenting with poisonous concoctions of his own making. The trial was expected to begin the following month.
After the events at the Magical Holiday Retreat, we were glad to return to the peace and tranquillity of Fickleton House. Mrs. Faversham had brought us tea. And I had started a magical fire in the fireplace. Its crackling flames had sent Barry, who was sitting on my lap, to sleep almost immediately.
“Amy,” said Val, tucking into a scone with cream on top, “I still don’t understand how he did it. I mean, how he killed Mrs. Pomeroy. You saw him place the glass of brandy outside of the room and walk away again.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Jameson’s plan was to put us off the scent. It was quite ingenious. In fact, he took two glasses of brandy up to Mrs. Pomeroy. Remember her magic clock had stopped working the day before? He simply knocked an hour before the usual time and deposited the poisoned brandy on the tray outside of her room. Then, once nine o’clock hit, he delivered a second glass, knowing full well that she was already dead.”
“Risky,” said Val. “Someone could have seen him the first time.”
“Yes,” I said. “The entire thing was mad. Yet it almost worked.”
“But what about the will?” Val asked. “The mother changed it right before she died, in favour of Archibald Pomeroy, didn’t she?”
“Yes,” I said. “At least in regard to the inheritance of her magical powers. The business was always to go to Archibald and only him.”