An All Hallows’ Eve Mystery - Chapter 9
‘Are you certain?’ Miss Powell asked gently, as they stood on the threshold of Fred’s room. He looked over, to find her amber gaze filled with care. He smiled reassuringly, tempted to smooth the brooding lines of her face with his fingertips.
Later. Once this is over, you may…attempt a connection.
‘I’m sure. There must be no doubt we’ve been thorough, and impartial.’
Miss Powell nodded, remaining at the door as she had in every room until now, not idle, but ensuring all was done properly, while surveying everything from a…wider perspective. They’d left Fred’s until last as the others had to be searched whilst the guests descended for tea.
John had gone through his findings and plan with the magistrate, who’d been alarmed, but happy to let John untangle the messy business whilst he carried on with his day.
Not that I mind.
Focusing on his task, John made quick, thorough work of Fred’s well-appointed, but empty room—empty, of anything personal. Even his clothes remained in his travelling bag, only a few bits strewn about along with empty liquor bottles. Still, John checked every drawer, trunk, and crevice.
And no, beyond some interesting reading materials in Miss Jennings’ night table, they hadn’t found anything noteworthy.
The quicker you finish, the better, John thought, moving to the bed. Sliding his hand under the mattress, he felt for anything unusual, careful not to catch on the ropes.
Nothing. As you well knew.
Nonetheless, he went to the other side to repeat the process, throwing Miss Powell a smile, which she returned, her eyes softening.
She is something…
John’s hand ran the circuit again and he almost…thought it was over.
Until he reached the top corner, and touched something cold.
No…
Dread filled his heart as he palmed the object, steeling himself though he knew what was coming as he rose. Holding out the bottle, he looked to Miss Powell, feeling…
A failure. Fred’s executioner.
She shook her head, disbelieving, and came to him as he uncorked the top, holding it out for her. One whiff, and she nodded desolately, setting her hand on his forearm as he recapped the bottle.
That tiny touch helped soothe the sting ever so slightly.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Pierce.’
‘So am I, Miss Powell.’