The Curious Affair of the Witch at Wayside Cross: Read online

  I gave an exclamation of surprise, and Mr. Jesperson stopped eating to stare at the vicar, who nodded gravely. “Miss Bulstrode has a reputation as a witch. She works as a healer, mainly with women. Our doctor has said she is as good as any midwife he has encountered, and although she uses traditional remedies, they tend to work—and are often more effective than anything he could prescribe.”

  He cast a glance at his children, sitting at the other end of the table, heads down, seemingly with no thoughts for anything but the food on their plates, although I would have bet money that the girls at least were listening with all their ears, and he lowered his voice.

  “On the other side, she sells potions and casts spells—or at least people think she does. Whether true or not, nearly all the locals believe she is a genuine witch, mostly working for the good, but with the ability to strike down anyone who offends her, to kill swiftly and secretly without recourse to anything we would recognize as a murder weapon. I would never tell you all this if it were only rumor and superstition, but Ott believes in her powers to such a degree that he tried everything to get her to become a part of his secret school . . . but she flatly refused. So now he hates her. From flattering and wheedling he has turned to vilification. And Charles was so devoted to Ott and his cause that he could never have been friends with someone Ott hated.”

  With that, Dr. Ringer picked up his spoon and attacked his porridge, taking it in rapid mouthfuls. He clearly meant to say no more, but I had to ask: “What of her sisters?”

  “They are each as bad as the other,” Mrs. Ringer said briskly. “And this is not a suitable discussion for my family breakfast table.”

  Mr. Jesperson and I left the house at the same time, although we were going in different directions and by different means. The vicar walked to the gate with us, and offered to walk me to Wayside Cross.

  “You are kind, but no, thank you. I think it better that I arrive alone, rather than accompanied by a second stranger.”

  “They know me. But I take your point: A solitary woman will surely receive a warmer welcome than a guest of the vicar of a church they shun.”

  Still he lingered, and I thought I should never have a chance to speak to my friend alone when Mr. Jesperson, who had been standing holding the bicycle and gazing across the road, said, “Is there a shrieking pit in that field there?”

  “So they call it. But as I told Charles when he asked the same thing, I have never in more than twelve years heard a noise out of it—I think there must be a misunderstanding about the derivation of the name—”

  “I should like to see it. Shall we, Miss Lane?”

  “Rather!” I exclaimed cheerfully as he leaned the bicycle against the gatepost.

  “The field is overgrown and muddy—you will muddy your boots—and your dress, Miss Lane.”

  We ignored the vicar’s peevish warnings and hurried to cross the road, confident he would not follow. We had to scramble across a ditch—which was indeed very muddy—in order to gain access to the field, but the terrain there, although rough and uneven, was not bad. But I could see nothing that looked like a pit; had I been alone I should probably have wandered all over the place and finally returned to the road none the wiser, but Mr. Jesperson—having had, as he told me, the benefit of perusing Mr. Manning’s notes before he went to bed—had a better idea of what to look for.

  “There.”

  I frowned at the shallow declivity that stretched ahead. The ground dropped gently away in an area that might have been fifty feet in diameter but hardly more than three feet deep. He walked down into it and I followed.

  “Not very impressive,” I said. The soil was thin; weeds sprouted through a layer of pebbles or stone chippings. “Was it really someone’s home in the Stone Age?”

  “That’s the general thought. Although some scholars have suggested they were mines, or ironworking pits from Roman times.” He had bent nearly double and was shuffling about, examining the ground. “You would expect to find some evidence of home life, if they were dwellings, in the ones that have been excavated—bits of pottery and what have you—but nothing has been found. Hello, what’s this?”

  His attention had fastened upon a slab of rock. It was bigger than the others, and quite distinct, being smooth and yellowish brown whereas the smaller stones were mostly gray. It was roughly square in shape and more than a foot from side to side, like the top of a box, or a cake tin. It must have been there a long time, for it appeared very much a part of the earth, so I was surprised when Mr. Jesperson picked up a thin blade-like stone shard and began digging around the edges until, before very long, he could prise the brown slab out.

  “What are you doing?”

  “It looks as if . . . Aha!” he exclaimed as the stone came away. It could have been a paving stone, no more than two or three inches thick, and the sides were much more regular than they had appeared when it had been partly covered with soil and overgrown with thin weedy grass. I saw then that by removing the slab he had uncovered a hole big enough to have been made by some large, burrowing animal.

  “Someone has put this there to cover up the entrance,” he said, and stared at the hole as if it were something strange and wonderful.

  “The landowner, to stop foxes, or badgers.”

  He leaned down and sniffed. “It doesn’t smell like foxes.”

  “Maybe it was a rabbit warren.”

  “Have you seen any droppings?”

  I stamped my feet, which were turning slowly to blocks of ice. “That hole was not covered up yesterday. The slab may have been in place for years, even decades.”

  “True.” He continued to stare at the hole; I could not understand the fascination such an ordinary thing had for him. He crouched down and thrust his arm in all the way to his shoulder, and I could not hold back a small squeak of alarm. He grinned up at me, arm still buried in the earth. “What’s the matter? Do you think something is waiting to bite my hand off?” His eyes moved as if he was trying to summon the image of the space around his buried limb. “It opens up—it is much bigger than you would expect from the size of the hole. Is it a chamber, or a tunnel, I wonder? Where does it go?” At last he withdrew his arm and brushed off the dirt on his sleeve, once more gazing dreamily at the hole. “It should not take long to widen it—”

  “Whatever for?”

  He gave me a puzzled look. “Aren’t you curious? We could be on the verge of discovering the secret of the shrieking pits.”

  “You cannot just dig up someone’s land without permission,” I said firmly. “And that’s not why we’re here. For myself, I am far more concerned to find out which of the three ladies was Mr. Manning’s sweetheart—whether or not they were engaged to be married.”

  I had recaptured his interest. “Why so certain she lives at Wayside Cross?”

  “Their names are Arabella, Alys, and Ann. And Hilda informs me that he was courting one of them.” I sighed, and chafed my gloved hands. “I do not like to bring them the sad news, but it is not fair to keep them waiting any longer.”

  “Or to keep you here, freezing.” He wiped his hands on his handkerchief and helped me up the slope. I turned to look back; the hole in the earth, now revealed, looked dark and sinister. I almost asked Mr. Jesperson to replace the slab, but then decided that would be silly, as well as a waste of time.

  “I wish I could go with you to Cromer,” I said without thinking when we reached the road.

  “Of course you can,” he said. “We can walk, or take it in turns upon the machine. Do you bicycle? It is excellent fun.”

  His ready agreement made me feel better, understanding that, like me, he would have preferred us to work together. But it made more sense to divide the work—we must make good use of our time. “Thank you, but I cannot be in two places at once—and I feel my first duty is to speak to the ladies of Wayside Cross. You will be able to tell me your impression of Felix Ott—and surely I shall have another chance to meet him.” What I did not add, before he pe
daled away toward Cromer and I set off at a brisk march in the other direction, was that I had never been on a bicycle in my life.

  Wayside Cross—the name was painted on the gate—was a plain, substantial building of white-painted stone, square and handsome, set back from the road amid a well-tended garden that was still full of interest and beauty even in this bleak season. I thought it would be a veritable paradise in summer.

  A neat and pretty young maid answered the door.

  “Good morning,” I said. “Is Miss Bulstrode at home?”

  “Certainly, Miss . . . ?”

  “Miss Lane. But she does not know me.”

  “Oh, miss, that is no matter. This is her time for receiving, and you are the first today. Come in. Let me take your coat.”

  Once this was done she gave three raps on an inner door, opened it, and gestured me to go in. The room I entered was large and full of shadows; it was lit only by the cool winter sunlight that managed to make its way in through one front window, and from the golden, flickering flames of the hearth, and at first I thought I might be alone in the room, the walls of which were lined with bookcases, filled to the ceiling. There was the unmistakable scent of old books, but mingled with something I took to be incense, containing notes of sandalwood, cinnamon, and others I could not identify. Looking around, I saw a fiercely grimacing monkey inside a bell jar, the skull of some small horned beast, and a raven on a stone statue of Hermes.

  “Good morning,” said a low, husky voice, and a woman stepped out of a shadowy recess and approached.

  She was dressed all in black, a tall, dark-haired woman whose handsome appearance was only marred by a blotchy complexion, a redness of the nose and puffiness of the eyes that suggested she had either been weeping or was suffering from a heavy cold.

  “Miss Bulstrode? I am Miss Lane. I must apologize for disturbing you—”

  She waved a pale hand and smiled with the appearance of some effort, clearly wishing to put me at my ease. “There is no need to apologize. I receive all who come to me. I hope I will be able to help you. You are new to the village? A visitor? How did you hear about me?”

  I replied quickly, “I am not here on my own behalf, but at the behest of another—a gentleman in London—Mr. Manning.”

  She tensed and her smile vanished. “What? How—what do you mean? Mr. Manning? When did he—”

  I bit my lip. “I beg your pardon. The gentleman who sent me to Aylmerton is Mr. Alexander Manning.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I am not acquainted with that gentleman, and I should be surprised if he had heard anything of me.” Her voice and her manner were cold, and she turned her face a little away from me.

  “True—oh, I am making such a hash of this. Forgive me. It is difficult to know how to begin. I came to Aylmerton to discover—they told me at the Vicarage where you lived. I thought you should be told. It is about Mr. Manning’s brother.”

  “Charles.”

  “Yes.” I took a deep breath. “I am afraid I bring bad news—the worst.”

  She groaned. “Worst? How could it be worse?”

  There was a screeching cry, and then there was a great disturbance of the air, and something large and black swooped so close that I cried out as well and ducked my head, putting up my hand to guard my face.

  “He will not hurt you. There, there, Gabriel. Good fellow.”

  Cautiously I looked up and slowly relaxed when I saw the big black bird perched on Miss Bulstrode’s shoulder. I turned my head and confirmed that what I had taken for a stuffed raven was no longer perched on the marble head of Hermes. And I had been wrong to think it a raven—Hilda, too, had been wrong. The bird that cocked its head and peered at me with an eye like a shining drop of ink was a crow.

  “Gabriel, this is Miss Lane. Miss Lane, this is Gabriel. Were you a friend of Charles?”

  I took note of the tense, as I am sure she intended. “Then you know that he is—” When I hesitated over a choice of final clause—passed on; no longer living—she said it for me, unflinching.

  “Dead? Yes. And I mourn for our departed friend. As you see.” She swept one hand down her front, indicating her mourning garb. “Of course, never having met me before, you may have thought I always wore black, but I can tell you I have a preference for brighter colors, the primary colors red and blue in particular. I had hoped, after the death of my stepfather, that I would not be required to wear black again for a good many more years.”

  “I am sorry. Please accept my condolences,” I said awkwardly, and tried to explain: “I never thought the news could have traveled so fast.”

  “Bad news often does.”

  The bird rubbed his head against the side of her face, as if to comfort her.

  Miss Bulstrode stared at me, and two small frown lines appeared between her finely arched brows. “I do not believe Mr. Manning sent you. He knows nothing of us—or I thought he did not. Who told you to come here? What was your relationship to Charles?”

  “It is a strange story, and may take a little while to explain,” I said carefully. “I never set eyes upon Charles Manning before Saturday night—rather, in the early hours of Sunday morning. He was a stranger to me still when I saw him die.”

  She covered her mouth with her hand and stared at me with eyes that looked as black as those of the crow on her shoulder. The silence stretched until she whispered, “You were with him when he died?”

  “Yes. And afterward found your address, with others, in his pocketbook. His brother greatly regrets the estrangement, and wishes to understand something of his brother’s life and the things that mattered to him before his untimely death. Thus I am here.”

  “Oh, you must tell me—tell me everything.” To my surprise, she seized my hand. Her fingers were ice-cold, colder even than the ring she wore on her left hand, set with a large, polished orange stone. I knew I had seen something very like it before, but her urgency made it impossible for me to think. “Tell me exactly what happened. What did he say? Why—how—” She blinked rapidly. “Did he—but wait.” She interrupted herself. “My sisters must hear this, too. Will you wait here for me to bring them?” She tugged at me, directing me to a large, comfortable chair. “Please, sit. Will you take a cup of tea, or anything else? No? Please, forgive me for my . . . my suspicion, my unfriendliness before. May I get you something to eat?”

  “No, thank you—I had breakfast not long ago. I am quite comfortable, and certainly I will wait—I should like to meet your sisters.”

  “I will not be long.” She gave me a distracted smile and hurried away, her full skirt rustling noisily, the crow still clinging silently to her shoulder.

  While she was gone, I stared into the fire, mentally assembling my first impressions of this woman Hilda Ringer had told me was reputed to be a witch, and who had been a friend to Charles Manning. A flicker of orange flame recalled her ring to mind, and I remembered the silver pillbox from the dead man’s pocket. That was where I had seen it before. The polished carnelian set into its lid was the twin of the stone Miss Bulstrode wore on her finger.

  She returned a few minutes later, absent the bird, but with two young women dressed, like her, in full mourning, whom she introduced as her sisters Alys and Ann. All three were dark-haired and dark-eyed, with the same straight nose, but while the two younger ones had the fresh bloom of youth, I thought Miss Arabella Bulstrode was equally handsome, and could not agree with Hilda Ringer’s view that Miss Ann was the prettiest. She was certainly the youngest—possibly not even eighteen—but I found her prettiness a touch insipid, and her expression oddly blank, lacking the obvious spark of intelligence that animated the faces of her sisters. I told myself it was unfair to judge a woman in deep mourning in this way, and perhaps she was in shock since the news of Mr. Manning’s death.

  Once more I was offered refreshments, and once more I declined. The younger ladies sat on a couch that faced my chair, and Miss Bulstrode pulled up a chair for herself and began, “Miss Lane has said she was w
ith Charles when he died, although he was a stranger to her. Please, tell us how it happened. We have been so worried—and so puzzled—by this terrible event. How did it come about?”

  I moistened my lips and prepared to prevaricate. “It was very late at night, but I had not yet gone to bed. I had just started up the stairs to my room when there was a frantic knocking at the door, and Mr. Jesperson went to—”

  “Who is Mr. Jesperson?”

  “He is my business partner. We lodge at the same address—it is his mother’s household.” I paused, expecting a query about the nature of our business, but it did not come. “Mr. Jesperson opened the door, and a strange man all but fell inside. He was in a dreadful state, perspiring, panting, his eyes wide and staring.”

  “This was Charles Manning?”

  “So it later proved. But at the time, he was a complete stranger to us, and he made no introduction. He was far too perturbed for social niceties. He gave the impression of one pursued by . . . witches.”

  I paused deliberately, and Miss Bulstrode took me up on it.

  “Pursued by witches? What an odd phrase. Most people would say pursued by demons.”

  I indicated my agreement. “I chose that word with care. Because when we asked him what he feared, he said—witchcraft.”

  Silent and still, the two younger sisters held hands and stared at me with big, round eyes.

  “That is very odd,” said Miss Bulstrode. The little frown lines had reappeared above her nose.

  “Yes, we thought so. But there was no mistake about it, for after he answered the question put to him by Mr. Jesperson with that one word, he happened to look up, and for the first time he noticed me, where I had been standing all along, saying nothing, halfway up the stairs.” Recalling the moment still made me shiver. “He saw me and became even more frightened, if that were possible; he declared that I was a witch.”

  “No—really? What were his words—his exact words?”