The Witching Hour (The Witches Pendragon Mystery Series Book 1) (9 page)

Sunday morning, we pack up our bags intent on heading out as soon as possible. After such a late night, we slept until Hatha came knocking on our door. Noelle had called to inform Hatha of the night’s horrible events back in Amboise and naturally, Hatha wanted to get to the hospital as quickly as possible, even though Noelle had informed her that Manon would be okay.

“Not to worry, Elfie. She’s sitting up chatting as fine as can be, given everything that happened,” Hatha relayed Noelle’s words to me when she woke us this morning. I was so shocked. I thought nothing could have been worse than our night of chasing the ghost of Charlotte du Mont around.

With our bags in hand, we head out to the mini bus. An upset Claire-Elaine, dressed in a red Dior suit, clearly doesn’t want us to leave. For a moment Hatha appears torn about the decision.

“Please don’t leave us here with that…that frightful aberration,” Claire-Elaine trembles.

“I’m so sorry, really I am. It’s just we need to visit Manon, the poor thing has been stabbed. What kind of a head–” Hatha stops, catching herself, she was about to say head witch, “–I mean what kind of a mother superior would I be if I don’t visit my poor sister in the hospital.”

“B-but must you all go?” Claire-Elaine sobs into her handkerchief now.

“Of course they must all go, and we’ll be just fine,” the Count insists. He too is well-dressed on this glorious Sunday morning, wearing a plaid sport coat, brown trousers, and a beret on his balding head. He comes striding across the pebbled-drive towards the mini bus, shaking his head at his wife’s tears. I can’t help but think he’s a bit of a hard-nose. After all, it was Claire-Elaine who screamed last night, not one of her daughters. The scream had been so high-pitched that we were sure it was coming from a small child. Claire-Elaine explained that she had been heading down the hall to a bathroom to fetch a glass of water for her daughter when she felt a hand reach out and grab her from the shadows.

Hatha was devastated by the news. Had Charlotte fooled us all? Didn’t she seek out the light and move on to her eternal reward? Or was something more sinister afoot? It was Camille who reminded us all that Charlotte said she had never harmed the children. And while I’m no expert on ghost behavior, Charlotte had looked genuinely shocked when we accused her of such cowardly deeds. No, if I think about it clearly, I am not convinced that Charlotte is still haunting the chateau. And the other witches seem to agree with me. I overheard Camille and Hendra huddled together in the hallway why I was gathering up my things this morning. They were hypothesizing that there might be another, more sinister ghost living at Chateau Trisse.

“Here are the keys, Elfie…you’re driving aren’t you?” Hatha asks. Her normal, beatific smile on her lips as she extends her hand to me.

“No, I think I’m going to stay behind.” Shoot, that sort of popped out of my mouth.

“You’re not going to come and visit Manon?”

“No, I’m going to stay and catch this ghost and send it packing. Manon needs you, Hatha. You’re practically her mother. But since she’s in good condition, I think she’ll be all right if I stay behind.”

“Oh, bless you, Sister Elfie,” Claire-Elaine sobs all the harder.

“Ridiculous! What can one young nun do that the four of you haven’t been able to accomplish?” the Count adds in a stern voice. “Did you rid the house of the ghost last night? No. The ghost has always been here and always will be. My wife and children just need to learn to live with it, as I have.”

Camille eyes him suspiciously. Is she thinking what I am thinking? He certainly isn’t very sympathetic to his wife’s needs, that’s for sure. What kind of a husband would say such things? How could somebody ever become accustomed to living with a mean ghost who attacks children? I certainly wouldn’t put up with it and I don’t see why anybody else would. And he’s sort of changed his tone, hasn’t he? I mean, the Count didn’t really seem to believe there was a harmful ghost around. Now, he acknowledges the ghost but feels we can’t get rid of it?

“I’ll stay too,” Camille abruptly chimes in. “If it’s Charlotte, or whomever, we’ll send her on the right path. We’ll get her out of the house.”

“Non, mais non,” the Count shakes his head vigorously. “Exactly how long will this take? Am I supposed to put you nuns up indefinitely while you run around my house like something out of that American cartoon…what’s it called…Mathilde watches it?”

Claire-Elaine looks puzzled, her mind is still reeling from the stress of having a potentially dangerous ghost in her house. She thinks hard for a moment, furrowing her brow. “You mean Scooby-Doo?” she hazards.

“Precisely, a bunch of nuns running around like my house is something out of Scooby-Doo,” the Count says, crossing his arms.

Hendra clicks her tongue in disgust meeting him in the eye. Hatha says nothing, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a coin purse.

“If you are worried about footing the bill for my young nuns —having to ‘put them up’– I shall give them enough money to buy their meals in town.”

“No!” Claire-Elaine protests. Ted in the face she turns to her husband. “You’re being quite rude. They’re here to help.”

“I didn’t mean I can’t afford to feed them,” blusters the Count shaking his head so that his beret swivels a bit. I think he looks ridiculous, very pompous like he’s ready to go on a fox hunt. And how is it that he is fresh as a daisy after the events of last night? How is it he has roses in his cheeks while his wife looks worn out, as if she hasn’t slept in days?

“I simply wish this house to return to normal, so we can return to being a family again. But fine, I see you are all set against me.” The Count waves his hands in the air before striding off back to the house banging the front door shut behind him.

“Don’t mind my husband, he deals with stress in his own way,” Claire-Elaine chatters. She reaches out a Dior clad arm to take my bag. “Here Sister Elfie, Sister Camille, this way. Can I accompany you back to your room? It’s getting colder out, but maybe we can still have lunch out in the conservatory. That will be nice, won’t it?”

We say a rather forlorn good-bye to Hatha and Hendra. “Well, if you’re both sure, then,” Hatha says and climbs up into the mini-bus, taking the wheel. First gear, third gear, fourth gear and back, the bus jerks all the way down the driveway.

“Looks like your bus isn’t functioning properly,” Claire-Elaine whispers as we watch the two witches drive away.

“Oh, it’s not the mini-bus, it’s the driver,” Camille laughs merrily, before linking arms with Claire-Elaine as if they have been best chums all her life. She whispers madly about our hostess’s fine and vigorous azaleas while pointing at a group of shrubs. Claire-Elaine stares at Camille as if she has gone quite mad, insisting that she has no azaleas.

“They don’t grow in this soil,” she explains.

“That’s good, that’s good; because once I knew an azalea that ate an entire peffer-footed battle crac. They can be quite aggressive when the plants reach old age. Best not to keep them. And whatever these leafy wonders are that you are growing, I’d say you have a host of fine shrubbery.” Camille throws Claire-Elaine a wide toothy grin.

Right. I have to remind Camille that there are no peffer-footed battle cracs in the modern world, at least as far as I can tell. There are no fassels, no grindle-sniffs, no snuffle pucs and no snarts either. I’m not sure what happened to all the world’s magical creatures but we witches really must be careful what we say. In response to Camille’s bizarre commentary, Claire-Elaine stares at her in an alarmed manner, her beautiful green eyes wide. Camille doesn’t notice the woman’s discomfort and continues to tug at her arm leading her up the steps back into the chateau.

“Exactly what are you asking me to do, Noelle?” Pierre asks me on Monday evening, not able to believe his ears.

I am so lucky that I have found him working alone at the small Amboise police station. It’s housed in a tiny concrete building on the outskirts of town beside a sprawling mall of big box stores. The entire station must occupy less than 3,000 square feet. There’s a small front office just large enough for four desks covered with computers, files and stacks of paper. At the back of the front office is a door which leads to the cells in the back. On the walls are aging posters of how to safely take a person into custody, stop a pick-pocket, discharge a firearm etc. I’m no expert on modern times, but the posters seem to date from a different era with the criminal element wearing striped tops and bell-bottom pants. 

Pierre clears his throat. I meet his eyes and can tell from his expression he’s not going to give in to my request.

Perhaps this man needs to be buttered up. Maybe I should try flirting. I’ve seen woman do this in movies, especially movies from the 1960’s, so I give it a try. I bat my eyes. I try to use my feminine wiles like Marilyn Monroe in
Some Like It Hot
. I lean forward, in attempt to appear sexy. But then I come to my senses. Trying to look sexy and flatter a man to get what I want is so demeaning. I stand back up and gaze directly in his eyes.

“Please, that knife was meant for me. I have to talk to Etienne. I have to know why anybody would become a Satan-worshipper. I need to make sense of everything I saw last night,” I plead.

“Well, I can’t let you see such a dangerous criminal alone,” Pierre states firmly. “That’s just not going to happen.”

I hand Pierre another
Chocolate Surprise
, pulling it from the huge bag that is slung over my shoulder. This is Pierre’s fifth chocolate, and it comes from a special batch Sheila and I made up very hastily for just this purpose.

“No amount of chocolate is going to change my mind,” he talks as he chews. “Although these are delicious.”

They’re not just laced with the cannabis that makes people calm, they have a drop or two of one of Hatha’s potions in them; a potion which makes people more susceptible to doing things they don’t want. Around eleven o’clock this morning, I swept surreptitiously into
Chateau Morcelle’s
pantry while Sheila stood guard. I pulled down a giant blue bottle marked “The Persuader,” and we headed off to
Le
Denouement
to make the batch of
Chocolate Surprises
as fast as possible.

It would appear that the fifth chocolate changes Pierre’s mind.

“Well, alright, you can talk to him, but he’ll remain locked in his cell. I’ll bring you a chair so you can sit down. But I’m not leaving. I’m staying with you the entire time.”

“Alright,” I agree and hand him another chocolate.

Searching through a thick key ring, Pierre finds the one that unlocks the door to the holding cells. As soon as he has the door open, I hurry through, desperate to carry out my mission. Behind me, Pierre drags along a plastic-laminated chair.

When the reinforced door closes behind us with a heavy thud, I wonder what it must be like to be shut up in here in this dark area. It’s so claustrophobic that I get a slight case of the willies. I love the forest; I love fresh air. For me this place is pure hell.

“Go ahead, don’t be afraid. I won’t allow him to hurt you,” Pierre says dim-wittedly, as if I’ve stopped in my tracks because I am afraid of Etienne.

My eyes adjust to the low light and I make my way down the hallway looking at the two cells off to the left. A whiff of some strong cleaning agent assails my nostrils. Bleach? I don’t know what it is but I do know this place could use a good airing out. Unfortunately, there would be no way to bring in any real fresh air, as there are no windows in this part of the building. Curiosity causes me to glance in the first cell, which holds a man who is sleeping off his wine.

“We can’t let him out until he’s good and sober,” Pierre informs me. Other than Etienne, this man dressed in raggedy trousers and shirt is the only prisoner at the station.

“We couldn’t really charge the others with anything,” Pierre explains about the other Satan-worshippers as we reach the second cell. “Although we know who they are, and we’re keeping a close eye on them. They all denied having anything to do with Hugo’s murder. Most told me they joined Etienne’s little gang just for the fun of it. Said they did it because they were bored. Claimed they never had any intention of harming anybody.”

“What about the poor goat?”

“Yes, well, nothing happened to it, did it? Most of the kids –and that’s what they were, teenagers– said that when Etienne was threatening to harm the goat, they were getting ready to run away. They felt their little charade had gone too far. And I can’t arrest anyone for failure to step in to help a goat. Wish I could. If I had my way, they would all rot in prison for years.”

Pierre explains all this as we stand in front of Etienne’s holding cell. I eye the would-be goat killer. He’s fast asleep, still wearing the same black shirt and dark skinny jeans from the night before. He has nodded off on the only bench in the room, with his hands tucked up under his head, using them for a pillow. I can’t see his eyes, due to a mop of black hair that has fallen over his face.

“Oh! Etienne! You have a guest and I’ll be watching, so be polite!” Pierre raps on Etienne’s bar with his knuckles as he deposits the plastic chair for me to sit on. His hollering wakes Etienne, who grunts as he pulls himself to a sitting position. Spying me, he smirks, his bloodshot eyes piercing me to the core. The self-proclaimed murderer rises to his feet and saunters over. For the first time in my life, I see what Hatha has described as aura. She has always said you can tell by the light radiating from someone’s face exactly what type of person they are. All the light emanating from around Etienne’s face is blood red and for the first time since devising this plan with Sheila, I am second guessing what I came here to do.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the goat lover?” Etienne smirks.

“You watch your mouth,” bellows Pierre.

“Or what?” Etienne replies.

I open my mouth to reply but then stop. I have to admit, his aura is throwing me for a loop. If it begins to… what is it that they say…pulsate…yeah, that’s what they say… if it begins to pulsate, then I’m out of here.

Wait, what am I thinking? I’ve come here for a reason. So, I compose myself. I am a witch of the highest standards, a credit to my kind. I am not afraid of this man, this idiot who is locked up behind bars.

Still, the blood-red aura is extremely disturbing, I wasn’t expecting it when I made my way over to the police station today.

“Pierre, would you like another chocolate?” I mumble and hand him one. The policeman smiles smugly, finding it funny to be eating chocolates if front of this Satan-worshipper. I sit down on the cold, plastic chair and fold my hands in my lap.

“I hope I killed your mousy friend,” Etienne smirks. His smile is grotesque.

“One more outburst like that and I’ll have you thrown out…” Pierre’s voice drifts off and I can tell by the look on his face that
Chocolate Surprises
have done their job; he’s now in La La Land.

“That’s quite alright, Pierre, you don’t have to stay and listen to this,” I murmur calmly. “Please, I’ll be fine. What can Etienne do locked behind bars?”

“Well, if you’re sure,” he says, “Then I’ll just head back to my desk.”

“I’m absolutely positive,” I beam at him, and thankfully he shuffles away.

“So you want some time alone with me, huh? Women love a bad boy. And I’ve been very, very bad,” Etienne quips.

“I don’t think that you have,” I reply matter-of-factly.

“What?” His voice rises a little as he grips the bars looking like Jack Nicholson in that frightful horror movie we watched a couple of weeks ago, the red light still streaming from around his body.

“If you murdered Hugo, tell me how you did it?”

“What do you mean ‘if?’ Of course I did it. I did it as a sacrifice to…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, to Satan,” I say and fake a yawn.

“Prove it, tell me the details,” I continue.

Etienne looks confused. “You want details? What are you some kind of Satan-worshipper wannabe?”

“No, that’s what you are. You didn’t kill, Hugo, did you? Now you’re going to go to prison for something you didn’t do. All so you can impress a bunch of bored kids. Pierre told me he talked to some of your teachers from high school on the phone this morning. Found out you were always trying to grab attention when you were younger.”

“You witch!” he bellows.

“Ooh, if only you knew what a compliment that was.”

“You stupid cow, you’re crazy.”

As he’s saying this, I pull my pointy hat out of the large bag I’ve brought and place it proudly on my head.

“You guessed it, I am a full-fledged witch –pledged to Eostre herself. And now I will channel her powers and turn you into a mushroom, a nice, clear Shreem Shroom, unless you tell me what I came to learn.” I stare at my cuticles, as if very bored.

Etienne lunges at me through the bars. For a moment his aura is even stronger, glowing bright red, and I wonder if this is the right course of action.

I sputter the only incantation I know in Latin. It’s supposed to make the victim feel heavy and start to lose control of their limbs. They are supposed to feel like they are turning to stone. Unfortunately, I really have no idea how to turn anyone into a mushroom or any other type of fungus. I wish I did. Yet sadly for me, I’ve only practiced this stone-limb hex exactly once and that was on a fellow witch from the Forest Fosse. Her limbs didn’t get heavy at all, but she went quite cross-eyed. Hatha said my Latin pronunciation was poor and that’s why I couldn’t get the hex right. I was so distressed at making a fellow witch go permanently cross-eyed, I refused to ever repeat the words to the hex, until now.

Behind the bars Etienne glares at me. “Is your Latin mumbling supposed to scare me?”

“Nooo…but I might….” wails a disembodied voice, as Hugo comes gliding through the cell-block wall right on cue.

My ghost, my hero! I throw Hugo a grateful smile and cheekily he materializes just enough to wink at me from behind Etienne’s back.

“Mon dieu!”
Etienne cries as Hugo glides right through him. By the look on his face, I do believe the would be goat killer is going to wet himself.

“Gh-gh…” Etienne stammers, trying to get the words out.

“I do believe the word you are looking for is ghost. Yes, this is the ghost of the man you murdered. He has returned to pay you the same favor.”

“Muur-duur,” Hugo wails.
Sing it loud and proud, o’ brother of mine
, I think to myself and throw him an encouraging grin.

Etienne falls to his knees. “I-I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me. I swear, I made it up. My followers needed to believe in me. They were beginning to defect. When I heard about Hugo, I knew that claiming to kill him would bring them back to me.”

“So…you did all this to become some kind of cult leader? That’s really sick…You were going to murder an innocent goat for no reason other than to make yourself look like some kind of Grand Poobah of Satanism?

“Muur-durr goooaaaattt,” Hugo wails, laying it on a bit thick.

“Shut up in there, I’m trying to sleep,” the wino in the other cell block shouts.

“I wasn’t going to really kill it. I knew they would all flee at that point. They’re a bunch of spoiled, university brats who were just seeking a thrill. I saved that goat, stole him from the slaughter yard.”

“The slaughter yard? That’s ridiculous, who would eat a goat? Now, are you telling me that you did not kill Hugo?”

The ghost hovers over Etienne, who is still on his knees, his eyes tightly shut. He’s terrified. And this is the man who just last night was trying to summon Satan himself? My goodness, what if he had actually conjured the dark forces? He would have fallen over dead from shock.

“I swear I didn’t kill him. I swear. I was nowhere near the Parc Leonardo on the night Hugo was murdered.”

“Muur durr,” Hugo starts in again, and both I and the man from the other cell snap at the ghost to shut up.

“You are one very sick man. You were willing to take a murder wrap in order to look like a big wig. You need to be locked up in a mental institution.”

With that I put my hat back in my bag, stand up and pick up both my bag and the chair.

“Good bye, Etienne. Hugo, I’m sure I’ll meet up with you later. For now, I’ve got some work to do. It looks like I am starting over on this murder case, but not to worry, I shall find justice in this violent world.”

“Here-here!” the drunk in the next cell claps. Hugo disappears quickly as I walk back down the hallway, leaving the quivering mass that is Etienne alone in his cell to reflect on his evil ways.