The Mystery of the Nameless Heir

It was no secret that Gabriel Pomeroy hated his father. It was common knowledge and the punchline of many a bitter jest when Gabriel and Rowan were at school, the Penwell Wizard’s Academy, together. He was certainly not the only gentleman-wizard heir at Penwell resenting the fathers who sent them away to school, treated them with coldness and rigidly ordered them about, ensuring that yet another generation of wizards would ascend to their place at the elite of the Arcane world. Gabriel was a rake and a rebel, to be sure, but Rowan had always thought of him as essentially harmless, a ‘good bloke’.

He wasn’t sure, now. There was no explanation but that young Pomeroy had poisoned his father on Wassailing Night, January 17.

Rowan looked across the desk at Richard Hardwicke, Gabriel’s lawyer and another old Penwell friend. His sandy brown eyebrows were knitted with concern in his blandly handsome face, and, as he did when he was thinking deeply, he was fiddling with a scar on the soft triangle of his lefy hand between his pointer finger and thumb.

“This doesn’t look good, old boy. It simply doesn’t, as much as I want it to look differently. But, we must try, mustn’t we?” Hardwicke said.

“You’re a lawyer-you can spin things, if you will. I’m an inspector. I’m bound by facts, and the facts are thus: the powdered belladonna was found in his room, by the housekeeper, a Mrs. Hopper,” Rowan ran down.

“Hopkins,” Hardwicke said sharply.

Rowan blushed a bit. Hardwicke had never been one to talk about his family much, at Penwell, but it was understood that he had come from humble beginnings, and his expenses were covered by a silent benefactor. It irked him when wizards were unintentionally elitist, such as forgetting the names of domestic staff.

Rowan gave an apologetic grimace, and Hardwicke accepted it with an assenting look.

“And, as per tradition, it was he, the eldest son, who handed his father the cup of lamb’s wool in Rowena’s Cup,” Rowan went on.

The Pomeroy estate was one of the oldest in Arcane County, dating back to the Normans. The land was even older, including the apple orchard which the locals of Bishop’s Hallow believed was home to protective spirits that lived within the trees. On January 17, they kept the tradition of wassailing: blessing the trees of the orchard by singing ancient carols. Within Pomeroy Hall, the wizard family hosted an elaborate dinner, and served varieties of the traditional Christmas punch wassail. The eldest son handed his son the first sip of the punch whose froth was so thick it was called lamb’s wool, in a cup that family legend said belonged to Rowena, a handmaiden of the ancient King Vortigern.

The cup was now being analyzed by Forensic Magic Inspectors, and Rowan was wracking his brain as to what had finally made Gabriel snap, and lash out in this way.

“No one at the dinner table saw Gabriel do anything tricky with the cup,” Rowan countered.

“Penwell was an education in getting round the censors, wasn’t it? Sling-shots, stink pellets, and then those saucy pictures of witches on broomsticks, wearing pointed hats and not much else…” Hardwicke reminisced.

“So, he could be a sneaky rotter-that’s not the same as being a murderer. He couldn’t have been the only person present at that wassailing dinner who loathed Uther Pomeroy,” Rowan said.

“Is it advisable for an Arcane Inspector to so badly want an outcome so different from what the evidence suggests?” Hardwicke asked calmly.

With far less sangfroid, Rowan said, “Is it advisable for a lawyer to so persistently proclaim his client’s guilt?”

“I understand. Its Gabe. We both want things to be different. But, the poison was found in his room. Who else could it have been? He’s been checked for all manner of Persuasion Enchantments, or mind altering potions. He was in sound mind and body, and not under the influence of any other wizard when the crime was committed,” Hardwicke said desperately.

Rowan rubbed his chin, in thought.

“Come with me,” he said.

Hardwicke looked hesitant, but complied, and together they went to Pomeroy Hall. The winter wind was cool and biting, seeming to promise snow later in the week. The wind whistled through the bare branches of the apple trees. Rowan strained to listen to their song, made of the many voices of the trees of the orchard.

The Gabriel Pomeroy that Rowan remembered loathed not just his father, but the class he represented: wizards of the Arcane Council, who inherited their power and position, and made the rules that kept Arcane beings in strict hierarchies, with those who looked less human firmly on the bottom. Gabriel championed the underdog, and sympathized with the disenfranchised-maybe as a rebellious knee-jerk reaction, at times, but it was no less genuinely felt, for that. Murdering his father to assume his place as squire of the Pomeroy estate wasn’t his style-especially since he only begrudgingly attended family events like the Wassailing evening.

Rowan closed his eyes, trying to hear the trees’ answer. If any spirits of nature sprites ever had lived in the apple trees, did they have invisible eyes and ears around the estate? Did they watch over the wizard family who were meant to be their stewards? Could they tell him who did this?

“The nameless heir…..” the trees whispered.

“The nameless heir?” Rowan repeated. What could that mean?

“What was that?” Hardwicke said nervously. Again, he touched his scar.

“You’re a bit late, for Wassailing night. But, all things considered, its probably for the best you missed it,” said a female voice.

Rowan turned around. Rowena Pomeroy, Gabriel’s sister, was looking at him and Hardwicke with not so much suspicion as a certain wry bemusement: she knew they were up to something, and whatever it was she found it ridiculous and scarcely wanted to know. Certain women had a good humored dismissiveness when it came to the endeavors of men, that way, and Rowan was confident enough to take it in good stride.

“Miss Pomeroy,” Hardwicke said stiffly, and eyed Rowena curiously.

He had always, Rowan recalled, been awkward around women-being a sponsored student had taken a bit of the usual prestigious shine off the fact that he went to Penwell, and he did not have the lands, money, or name to recommend him to the sort of gently-born wizardesses whom his more privileged classmates escorted to their debut balls and sent coded posies to. Some less privileged wizards were comfortable moving between the Arcane and Mundane worlds, and that included in matters of romance…but, Hardwicke was not one of them. He was set on a life in the world, even though his place in it was not always obvious or easy. A wizardess like Rowena was, to him, a bitter reminder of that, and a challenge he didn’t have the words to accept.

“Mr….hmm…what is your name? You look so familiar, but I can’t place a face with your name. You’re related to Mrs. Hopkins, aren’t you?” Rowena said.

“I beg your pardon?” Hardwicke said.

“Yes, its you! The little boy, who was looking at the portraits. And the butler, Mr. Cresswell…I’ll never forget it, because he was so very rude…he told you not to touch anything. But he was so mean to you, that’s why I never forgot it. Its when I realized that there was a difference, between how we were spoken to, and treated, and, well, everyone else,” Rowena said insistently.

“Miss Pomeroy, you are mistake,” Hardwicke said, sharply, and unconvincingly, rubbing the scar on the soft middle of his hand. He stalked off, walking alone amongst the bare trees.

Rowena stared, wide-eyed, at his retreating form.

“Oh, I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I, D’amerei?” Rowena said.

“Just Rowan,” Rowan deflected instantly, adverse as he was to his first name.

“I didn’t mean to offend him, but I’m sure I recognize him,” Rowena said.

“He’s Gabriel’s lawyer,” Rowan admitted.

Rowena blanched. “Oh…do you think I’ve put his noise out of joint? He won’t…make some sort of mistake on Gabe’s case, will he? Things don’t look good, for my brother, do they?”

“Its well known that your brother and father didn’t get on,” Rowan admitted.

“Father was a perfect beast, and everyone knows it. Gabe never measured up to Father’s standards. He wanted the second coming of Merlin for a son, Gabe just wanted to be free,” she said. “Well, I was just having a think, getting some fresh air. I should get back up to the house-I don’t know who’s in a worse state, Mother or Mrs. H.”

“Mrs. Hopkins? The housekeeper?” Rowan asked.

“Yes, well, everyone in these parts knows that the ‘Mrs.’ in her name was purely ceremonial. She and Father…well, they were companions. Rather a long term thing. Some nephew of hers’, he even sponsored his education. That lawyer fellow, could it be him?” Rowena said.

The nameless heir…Rowan remembered the whisper of the trees, and as he heard their words ring in his head, he looked down at Rowena’s hand.

“That scar, on your hand,” he said.

“Oh, yes. All the Pomeroys have them. This little birthmark. Looks like a crescent moon, doesn’t it? Its meant to be lucky, I think. We tell ourselves that, anyway,” Rowena said wryly.

Rowan thought of the scar that Hardwicke fiddled with when he was thinking, and ran to catch up with the lawyer. He put his hand on his old friend’s shoulder, and urged him to turn around. When he looked down at Hardwicke’s hand, Rowan wasn’t surprised to see the crescent scar.

“You know your way around this house, these grounds,” Rowan said. “You’ve been here before. How often were you allowed to visit your mother, Mrs. Hopkins? It had to be discreet, of course, so that none of the Pomeroys suspected. As did his sponsorship of your education, your father. He never acknowledged you. You’re the nameless heir. Gabe…you and Gabe, brothers. When did you find out?”

“Find out?” Hardwicke sneered. “I always knew. I always had to live on the periphery, and keep myself secret from them. Why were they so precious? Spoiled, entitled, lazy, ingrates! They throw away all they’ve been given at every chance, scoff and take for granted an inheritance I could never…would never….”

Rowan put his hand on Hardwicke’s shoulder. He did feel real compassion for him. They had been friends since they were boys, and he had watched his struggles to belong in the Arcane world, without notable familial connections to smooth the way.

“You poisoned the lamb’s wool. And you hid the belladonna in Gabe’s room, didn’t you?” Rowan said.

Hardwicke looked exhausted. His shoulders sagged as he nodded, slowly, yes.

Rowan shared his defeated feeling. Maybe he had caught Uther Pomeroy’s murderer, but first, he had accused the wrong man.