He paused, as if allowing the gravity of those names to settle in the air between them. Margaret, her curiosity piqued, leaned forward. "So, both your families were integral to founding the town?"

"Indeed," Witherspoon nodded. "But it was more than just building a town. Together, our families embarked on a project that would change the course of our shared history—the dam that created the lake."

Langley, always the detective, interjected, "And it was during this time that the amulet was discovered?"

Witherspoon's eyes darkened. "Yes, the amulet. A discovery that was meant to herald prosperity, but instead sowed the seeds of discord. The Evans, you see, were the ones who unearthed it. Almost overnight, their fortunes began to rise. A government contract to build the dam, wealth pouring in... it seemed the legend of the amulet's luck was no mere tale."

Margaret, drawn into the narrative, asked, "But then, how did the amulet come into your family's possession?"

A hint of remorse flickered across Witherspoon's features. "My great-grandfather, overcome by obsession and jealousy of the Evans' newfound luck, stole the amulet one night. He believed it was the key to our family's prosperity."

"And did it bring your family luck?" Langley's question was pointed, his gaze sharp.

"In a manner of speaking," Witherspoon conceded. "The fortunes of our families reversed. We began to thrive, and the inn... this inn," he gestured around, "became a reality. But the Evans... their luck turned sour. Personal tragedies, financial ruin. They blamed their misfortunes on the loss of the amulet."

Margaret, ever empathetic, sensed the heavy burden of history in Witherspoon's tale. "And now, generations later, the amulet has brought death to your doorstep again. Why did you not just give it back to the Evans?"

Witherspoon shook his head, a mixture of defiance and resignation in his voice. "It's not that simple. The amulet, for better or worse, has become part of our family's legacy. To give it up... would be to admit to a century's worth of guilt and wrongdoing."

Langley leaned forward, his detective's mind piecing together the narrative. "But why the murders, Witherspoon? Why go to such lengths to keep the amulet?"

The innkeeper sighed, the weight of his choices evident. "Fear, Detective. Fear of losing what little we had clawed back. Fear of the Evans reclaiming their luck and leaving us to fall into ruin. I... I didn't plan to become a murderer. It was a desperate bid to protect my family's legacy."

Margaret and Langley exchanged glances, the complexity of Witherspoon's confession dawning on them. The amulet, a symbol of prosperity, had become a curse, its legacy a trail of betrayal and bloodshed that had ensnared both their families in a never-ending cycle of tragedy.

Witherspoon shifted uneasily, the dim light casting shadows over his face as he delved deeper into the saga. "The Evans family, despite their best efforts, never truly recovered. Clara, hailed as an heiress, was more a custodian of dwindling legacies and persistent misfortune."

Margaret interjected, a hint of confusion in her voice. "But Clara herself told us she came here to confront Jenkins, citing her family's past. How does that align with your story?"

He sighed, the weight of history in his eyes. "Clara lied. She was protective of her reasons, desiring to mask the true depth of her family's despair. Even I was unaware of her true identity until Jenkins, in his last moments, revealed it."

Margaret's heart twinged for Clara, bearing the brunt of such a legacy silently. "So, Jenkins embarked on this quest out of love? To win Clara's heart and reverse her family's cursed fortunes?"

"Yes," Witherspoon affirmed, his voice low. "Armed with Clara's tales and her father's obsessive research, Jenkins embarked on a quest that led him here. He believed the amulet would not only win him Clara's love but also restore her family's dwindling luck."

Langley leaned forward, his detective's curiosity piqued. "And he succeeded? He found the amulet here, on the inn's grounds?"

Witherspoon exhaled deeply, the story taking its toll. "Indeed, he did. Jenkins decoded a clue that led him directly to the amulet, buried within a stone's throw of where we sit. He thought he had secured not just the artifact but also a future with Clara."

Langley's pragmatic voice broke the emotional tension. "But that discovery led to his downfall, didn't it?"

Witherspoon's gaze fell, a mixture of remorse and determination flickering in his eyes. "Yes, my family has always monitored the land closely, aware of the amulet's value beyond mere riches. Witnessing Jenkins unearth our ancestral treasure compelled me to intervene."

Margaret, ever the intuitive detective, pressed further. "But why resort to violence, Mr. Witherspoon? A confrontation would have sufficed, wouldn't it?"

Looking up, Witherspoon's expression was one of mixed regret and steadfastness. "Fear can drive a man to desperate measures, Ms. Holloway. I believed intimidation would make Jenkins surrender the amulet quietly. However, he was unexpectedly resilient, leading to... regrettable actions."

Silence enveloped the room as they absorbed the enormity of Witherspoon's confession. Jenkins' quest for love had entangled him in a web of ancient curses and familial vendettas, culminating in a tragic confrontation.

Witherspoon's tone shifted as he delved deeper into his tale, his gaze fixed on Margaret and Langley, who listened intently, each detail painting a clearer picture of the fateful night. "From the seclusion of my home, a mere stone's throw from the inn, I observed Jenkins. The night was clear, and my vantage point provided an unobstructed view of his actions."

Margaret interjected, her curiosity piqued, "You saw him from your home? You were watching as he found the amulet?"

"Yes," Witherspoon admitted, a trace of regret threading through his words. "The sight of Jenkins, unearthing the amulet from its ancient resting place, ignited a fear in me—a fear of losing our family's legacy. It was then I conceived a plan, driven by the need to reclaim what was ours."

Langley, seeking clarity, pressed, "And this plan led you to his room? How did you manage without drawing attention?"

Witherspoon revealed a calculated side of his scheme, "I anticipated the need for discretion. The occupant of the adjacent room, a hiker named Dave, unknowingly became part of my plan. A dose of sleeping medicine ensured his silence for the night, a necessity for what I had to do. Unfortunately, Dave had a difficult time recovering from the medication, still feeling its effects days later."

Margaret's eyes widened at the revelation, understanding the depth of Witherspoon's determination. "So, you used the secret passages of this inn to confront Jenkins in his room, all while ensuring no one would hear?"

"Exactly," Witherspoon confirmed, the corners of his mouth downturned in a grimace of reflection. "My approach was stealthy, and my demand was simple: the return of the amulet. Jenkins, however, was not easily swayed. He denied its possession at first, but the truth eventually surfaced."

Langley leaned forward, absorbed by the unfolding narrative. "He admitted to having it, then?"

"He did," Witherspoon acknowledged. "But more than that, he confessed his intentions were for Clara, to restore her family's fortunes through love, not greed. It was a moment of unexpected honesty that changed everything."

Margaret's mind raced with the implications of Witherspoon's actions. "But something went wrong?"

Witherspoon sighed, the weight of his decisions bearing down on him. "Indeed, something did. Our confrontation escalated beyond mere words. The struggle for the amulet turned physical, and tragically, Jenkins lost his life. A desperate attempt to secure my family's legacy resulted in an unfathomable outcome."

The room fell silent, the gravity of Witherspoon's confession hanging in the air. The story of the amulet—a tale of love, legacy, and loss—had culminated in a tragic confrontation, forever altering the lives of those involved.

Persistent Questions

In the shadowed confines of Witherspoon's office, Margaret and Langley stood, a mix of disbelief and apprehension etched into their faces. Witherspoon, meanwhile, oscillated between a veneer of casual dismissal and a darker, more revealing pride as he navigated their questions.

"But why did you kill Clara?" Her question was pointed, and demanded an answer. 

"Clara invited me to her room. I brought the picture of her I'd found in Harold's room, and I pretended I had only just figured out that Jenkins was in love with her.  Once she began talking to me, it became clear to me that Jenkins had already told her he knew where the amulet was. She was going to stay in the hotel and continue to look for it. I couldn't have that."

Margaret, with a composed yet insistent tone, broached the topic that had been a thorn in her side. "The scent of roses... it's been a persistent presence since the murders began. A warning, or perhaps a message from you?"

Witherspoon laughed, a sound that seemed too carefree for the gravity of their conversation. "Roses, you say? To be honest, the idea hadn't even crossed my mind until after the unfortunate events had unfolded. But you see, it was serendipitous—the inn is often adorned with roses, and I had just regaled our guests with tales of our resident specter. "

He leaned forward, his smirk laden with a self-satisfied cunning. "So, it struck me—why not use it to my advantage? Let the legend of the Woman in White serve a purpose beyond mere ambiance. It became an exquisite redirection, steering the curious away from truths they needn't uncover. So, after I killed him, I took the amulet and brought a rose to the room. Quite proud of that bit, actually."

"But I smelled them myself during the stake out!" 

"Oh my dear. Human beings are complex creatures, but our brains do play tricks on us. There were roses in the very room you were sitting during the stake-out. It was only when you began thinking of the murders and the ghost that you began to smell them, but they were there from the start."

Langley, processing the cunning behind the manipulation, shifted the conversation towards another peculiar event. "And the séance? Was that another layer of this elaborate misdirection?"

Witherspoon's smirk grew broader, his eyes alight with the thrill of revealing his machinations. "Ah, yes, the séance—a stroke of theatrical genius, wasn't it? The medium, or so she claimed, is none other than my sister, deeply committed to our family's cause and the protection of the amulet. She played her part with convincing ardor, diverting attention as we secured our legacy."

Exchanging a glance, Margaret and Langley could see the web of deception Witherspoon had spun, using the inn's haunted history as a smokescreen for his own dark agenda.

"So, the ghost stories, the rose scent, the séance... all a calculated facade to obscure your true intentions," Margaret concluded, her voice a cold whisper against the backdrop of Witherspoon's scheming. "You even planted a picture of Eliza in Jenkins' room! You manipulated the lore of this place, playing on fears and fascinations, to keep us all dancing to your tune."

Witherspoon nodded, a look of grim pride etching his features. "Precisely. In a setting as rich with legends as Brightleaf Inn, belief becomes a powerful tool—one I wielded deftly to protect what is ours. The amulet's destiny was never to stray from the Witherspoon lineage."

As the full measure of Witherspoon's manipulations dawned on them, Margaret and Langley were struck by the depth of his cunning. The haunting of Brightleaf Inn, once a backdrop of eerie charm, had been masterfully repurposed into a diversion for a far more sinister plot. Witherspoon's admission, rather than dispelling the shadows, only deepened the inn's legacy of secrets and lies.