The Curious Affair of the Witch at Wayside Cross: Page 8

  We did not linger, but immediately started back for the path.

  “So you think Mr. Cooke could have lost his footing, tumbled down headfirst, struck his head, and then, dazed, managed to pull himself out and stagger to the Poison Ring before he dropped dead?” It seemed far-fetched.

  “I am finding it hard to imagine,” my friend agreed. “If he fell, he would likely have tried to protect his head. And getting out again would have required more energetic scrambling from him—Cooke was said to be delicate, even physically weak, and he was barely five feet tall. If he struck his head hard enough to cause death, I think it would have happened almost immediately, and he would have been found in a crumpled heap, at the bottom of the pit, not laid out on his back on a grassy spot some distance away. No, the evidence suggests there was someone with him either at the time of his death or soon after. This person may have caused his death, or may have been an innocent bystander who nevertheless preferred to remain unknown to the police. Out of pity, or superstition, or for some other reason, this unknown person lifted Cooke’s body out of the pit where it might have lain undiscovered for weeks or even longer, and laid it out in a position and place at once more visible, and more comfortable. The body was arranged neatly, eyes closed, hands crossed upon the chest—and a piece of mushroom placed between this lips.”

  It sounded ritualistic. I wondered if this could have been one of the ancient British rituals that Felix Ott was interested in reviving. Could it have been his doing? It need not mean he was a murderer; many people might fear coming to the attention of the police, if they were the sole witness to a sudden death.

  We had reached the path; Mr. Jesperson proposed taking the most direct route out of the woods, rather than retracing our steps, as it would soon be dark, and, eager to return to the road beneath open sky while there was still light enough to see our way back to the Vicarage, I was happy to agree.

  We emerged from the woods onto a road just as the sun was going down. I did not know where we were, but Mr. Jesperson assured me that we were now no more than a ten-minute walk from the Vicarage.

  “That Poison Ring is in a very out-of-the-way place,” I said. “Who discovered Cooke’s body?”

  “Felix Ott. Cooke roomed in the same house, and they normally saw each other every day, so he was quickly concerned. Knowing of Cooke’s interest in the shrieking pits, he began to search the woods and fields, fearing he had met with some accident.”

  “Did the police find that suspicious?”

  He shook his head. “Oh, Canright is suspicious only so far as he would be of any man so openly antagonistic to the Established Church and promoting occult knowledge. But Ott had no motive to kill Cooke—quite the opposite. Although not a rich man, Cooke was in receipt of an annuity that was enough, apparently, to support Ott as well as himself. With Cooke’s death, that support ended.”

  “Did the annuity pass to anyone else on his death?”

  “To his sister, a gentle, frugal, Christian soul who tithes regularly, gives music lessons from her home in Bristol, and never understood or approved her brother’s interest in esoteric matters.”

  I said, “Mr. Manning told us that his brother had nothing, and the house had been left to him entirely, but Miss Bulstrode believed otherwise. She thought he had a legal right to half the family estate—whatever that was.”

  “Well, we had better look into it—and also discover whether Charles Manning died intestate, or left a will.” He sighed thoughtfully. “Even though Manning has hired us to find out why his brother died, it would not do to assume he has been entirely truthful with us about every detail of their relationship.”

  By now we had reached the gate outside the Vicarage. I felt there was still much more to be said and chewed over, but the wind had picked up as darkness fell, and I was too cold to protest when he opened it and ushered me into the front garden.

  “We had better go inside, or Mrs. Ringer may send out a search party,” I said.

  Indeed, that lady must have been hovering by a window, looking out, for it was she herself who opened the door to us, and her expression was not friendly.

  “I met Mr. Jesperson on the road,” I said at once. Although I felt she had no right to an explanation, I wished to keep the peace.

  “And where is my husband’s bicycle?” she demanded with a fierce look at Mr. Jesperson. “If you have broken or lost it, you must pay for a new one.”

  “I beg your pardon—it had quite slipped my mind. Do not worry—it is quite safe,” he said, apparently indifferent to her hostile glare.

  “I shall believe that when I see it,” she retorted. “Go and get it.”

  His conciliatory smile made no impression. “Will it not wait until morning? Surely Doctor Ringer will not want it tonight, and it is in a safe place. If I might speak to him . . .”

  She responded as if to an impertinent servant. “Don’t you try and get around me. I have told you to go and get it. If you do not, I must assume the machine has been stolen, and you must answer to the consequences.”

  With a shrug of resignation Mr. Jesperson gave up the argument, turned, and loped off.

  “Oh, really,” I muttered, frowning at the rigid, unforgiving woman who now stepped back to allow me entrance. “Was that necessary? It is cold and dark—he could get lost—without so much as a lantern.”

  “If he will be that careless of the property he borrows, I am not inclined to add a lantern to the list. Do not make excuses for that young man; it is all his own fault. Now, will you come inside, Miss Lane, or do you intend to spend the entire night out of doors?”

  Although I was tempted to run after Mr. Jesperson, I could not ignore the implied threat in Mrs. Ringer’s invitation.

  “Thank you,” I said coldly, walking in and past her. “You are too kind.”

  Chapter 8

  A Chat with the Vicar

  Mr. Jesperson was back safely with the bicycle in half an hour. I went into the hall to meet him, and at that same moment the vicar popped out to invite us both into his study at the back of the house for a chat.

  This was—as I learned later—a singular honor, for Dr. Ringer protected his territory very fiercely. The children were never allowed through the door, and neither were the servants. Only his wife was allowed to come in occasionally to tidy up or to have a private word with him, and she did not abuse the privilege. If the door was closed, it meant he was thinking or reading or writing and not to be disturbed except in case of direst emergency. Visitors, whether parishioners or relatives, were received either in the front parlor or in the family drawing room, depending on the closeness of the connection.

  I thought I understood why as soon as we were inside, for the room was very small indeed, and although it must have been comfortable enough for a solitary resident, snugly ensconced behind his desk, surrounded by books, there was no obvious place for even one visitor, let alone two.

  However, Reverend Ringer moved a stack of books to reveal a straight-backed wooden chair, upon which he invited me to sit, before excavating a three-legged stool for his other guest.

  “I am very keen to learn how you have been getting on with your investigation—and this is the best place for us to confer, as we will not be overheard or interrupted in here. So, tell me,” he urged, clasping his hands together. “How did Ott respond to the news of Charles’s death? Did you see guilt written upon his countenance?”

  Mr. Jesperson shook his head. “He responded as one who has already read the London papers—and asked me if his friend had been poisoned.”

  The vicar’s hands dropped into his lap. “I see. Do you find that suspicious?”

  “No more so than when you put the same question. Indeed, like yourself, Mr. Ott found it hard to accept that Manning’s could have been a natural death precisely because of his connection to another young man, also a supporter of Ott’s School, who met his death in mysterious circumstances only three months ago. You know of whom I speak.”

  “Y
es, certainly—I told you myself about Mr. Cooke.”

  “Not by name. And you called him an acquaintance of Charles Manning, rather than the close friend that he really was. The two men spent most of their days together—but not, and perhaps most unfortunately, the day of Cooke’s sudden death.”

  Dr. Ringer’s brows knit. “Well, what of it? When you asked about Charles’s friends, it was in order to interview them. What point, then, in bringing up the name of the deceased?”

  Jesperson nodded agreeably, but his keen gaze never wavered. “You may be interested to know who Felix Ott suspects of being behind both deaths.” He paused, but the vicar said nothing. “Well, it surprised me, I must say. He pointed the finger at you, Doctor Ringer.”

  “Me? How absurd,” he replied, his tone contemptuous. “But what can you expect from someone like that? No slander or lie is beneath him.”

  “His assertion was not unsupported. He put forward the argument that you had the opportunity to poison both men. The fact that Manning lodged here would have given you the opportunity to dose his tea every morning. If the poisoning was gradual—small doses of arsenic, for example—he might have died anywhere, at any time, so there would be no need to look for his killer in London.”

  “This is outrageous—do you expect me to sit here and be accused of such an infamous crime without taking action?” He glared across the desk at Jesperson. “If you were not a guest in my house—”

  “I merely inform you of Ott’s argument. I know, even if he does not, how fondly you regarded Charles Manning.”

  Some of the tension in the room was dissipated by Mr. Jesperson’s calm, reasonable tone.

  “But to return to the case of Albert Cooke—I would not presume to describe your feelings toward him—”

  “Feelings? I had no feelings for him—I hardly knew the man.”

  “Felix Ott claims you were seen dining with Mr. Cooke in the inn at East Runton, just hours before he died.”

  I turned to stare at my partner, wondering why he had said nothing of this to me. Was it an invention, designed to provoke a response? If so, it was a successful one, for the vicar’s frown became a furious scowl, and he had to struggle to keep his voice low. “Well, then, he is revealed as a liar, for I never dined with that man in my life. I knew him by sight, that is all.”

  “Did you see Albert Cooke in the inn at East Runton on the day he went missing?”

  After a moment, he gave a grudging nod.

  “And did you speak to him?”

  He cleared his throat. “We may have exchanged a few words.”

  Mr. Jesperson sighed. “Oh, Reverend. More prevarication? I thought we were on the same side. But it seems you wish us to tell you everything we have learned, without returning the favor.”

  The vicar shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Now, see here. You are not being fair. What do the movements of Cooke—and whether or not I passed the time of day with him—have to do with Charles’s death?”

  “Miss Lane and I are trying to discover if and how the deaths of the two men are connected—you yourself assumed a connection when first we spoke.”

  “But you cannot imagine that I know anything about—that I could have had anything to do with either death.” He drew himself up. “Would you take the word of that evil charlatan Felix Ott over mine?”

  Mr. Jesperson tipped his stool back, balancing precariously as he gave the vicar a long, thoughtful stare. “But you have not given me your word, Reverend.”

  “Must I swear to you that I am not a murderer? Very well—I give you my word that I did not kill Albert Cooke. I solemnly affirm I did not kill Charles Manning. I have never murdered anyone!”

  “Would a man who would not stop at murder hesitate to perjure himself? Oh, calm yourself, sir. I do not imagine you a murderer. But you have not been honest with us. You are keeping things back, and your silence may mean a murderer remains at large. Surely you would not wish to be responsible for other deaths?”

  Reverend Ringer stared, his eyes very dark, beads of sweat standing out upon his brow. “Is it possible? Believe me, I had no thought of misleading you. After all, the police do not think there is a killer to seek—they said—”

  “Never mind what the police said. Tell us everything you know about Albert Cooke. How did you come to be acquainted with him? And what of your encounter with him on the day he went missing?”

  “Very well.” The vicar took a deep breath. “I will tell you everything. It may be of no use, but at least you cannot accuse me of holding back. Albert Cooke came to Norfolk with Felix Ott early last year, in February, I think. The two men took lodgings in Cromer, and traveled about the area in search of what Ott is pleased to call ‘the ancient wisdom’ but which most intelligent men would refer to as superstition. Ott’s views on Christianity are notorious, but not all his followers agree. Mr. Cooke, for one, attended several services.”

  “In your church?”

  “Yes. He was most attentive during the sermons; one is not always so blessed, alas. And when he returned not merely once or twice, naturally, I noticed, and felt gratified.”

  “But he lived in Cromer—it seems strange, does it not, that he should have come all the way to Aylmerton on a Sunday to attend the service here.”

  There were signs of a struggle on Dr. Ringer’s countenance; I imagined he was tempted to claim that his sermons were so clearly superior that any churchgoer of discernment would have done the same, but honesty won out. “It may be that he wished to keep his practice of worship a secret from Ott. And Aylmerton had other attractions for him—the library at Wayside Cross, and perhaps also the young ladies who lived there.”

  Jesperson leaned forward. “Was he courting one of them?”

  “There were rumors, but whenever a gentleman has paid a return visit to Wayside Cross, the tongues of the local gossips begin to wag. The three young ladies are very tempting marriage prospects, being single, attractive, and in possession of some property.”

  “Were there similar rumors about Mr. Manning?” I asked.

  “Naturally.” With a pained expression he continued, “However, Charles never spoke of it, and I try not to give credence to gossip. Even if he had feelings warmer than friendship for one of the young ladies, we all know that poor young Mr. Manning was in no position to take on the responsibilities and expense of a wife.”

  “That need not have been a problem if he married an heiress,” I pointed out. “In fact, the only wife Mr. Manning could have considered would be a woman of property.”

  “Please, Miss Lane,” murmured the vicar, looking pained. “This is idle gossip, about a man who is beyond all such matters. If you must, speak to the Misses Bulstrode—ask them if there was any talk of marriage. I cannot see how it will help you find out why Charles died, can you, Jasper?”

  “You never know what bit of information may be the key to unlock a mystery,” Mr. Jesperson answered coolly. “I would not be too hasty to dismiss anything as idle gossip—never, if Miss Lane considers it significant.”

  The vicar did not like being reprimanded. He checked the time on the gold watch resting in a stand on his desk and gave an impatient sigh. “Well, all this has taken up more time than I expected, and I should not like to keep the others waiting for dinner.”

  “One more thing: Tell us what transpired between you and Mr. Cooke at your last encounter.”

  Dr. Ringer settled back in his chair. “I had gone, as a favor to one of my parishioners, who was feeling poorly, to the inn at East Runton to deliver a message to the landlord. I was on the point of leaving when Mr. Cooke accosted me.

  “I was not displeased to see him, until I discovered what he wanted. Not a discussion of spiritual matters at all, but information about something . . . something he had better not have asked me about.

  “He was looking for the so-called Poison Ring. That is the name given by locals to a recurring fairy ring in the woods,” he began, but cut himself off when he saw we knew of it.
“Well, when I did not prove malleable, he changed his story and claimed it was not the toadstools themselves that interested him, but the shrieking pit he knew was located nearby—he had only asked about the Poison Ring as a marker to the location of the pit—but I did not believe him.”

  “Why not? He had an interest in the shrieking pits, did he not?”

  “Then why not say so? Why ask instead about those mushrooms?”

  Mr. Jesperson looked as confused as I felt. What difference did it make?

  “Why did he ask you at all?”

  “He had meant to go there with Charles—Charles knew the location well—but Charles was away somewhere with Ott—Norwich, I think—and I had the impression Cooke was feeling a bit left out—jealous, even, that Ott should have transferred his affections to this newcomer, when Cooke had been his right-hand man for so many months. Or perhaps he was simply bored, driven by idleness to fill his time in some way. So he decided to find it for himself. He had a map, but of course such things are marked on few maps. He told me he had spent nearly two hours tramping through the woods that morning, going over the same ground and getting lost. Finally he had given up and gone into East Runton for his dinner. Refreshed, he was ready to try again, but he wanted a better guide than his useless map. The innkeeper could not help him. I gather he asked some old fellows in the bar, and they told him it was best to steer well clear of any of the shrieking pits, even in daylight. Then I walked in.”

  “What made him think you would know?”

  Dr. Ringer glanced at the watch again and grimaced. “Charles had told him. In one of our early conversations we had touched on the subject of the shrieking pits, and although as you know I abhor all those old superstitions, I was foolish enough to share one of them with him. I wish now I had kept silent.”

  He passed a hand across his brow. “It was something that happened in my first year in Aylmerton. One of my parishioners believed—as did many of the simpler folk, having heard that the pits had once been the subterranean homes of our ancient ancestors—that they were occupied still, by a race of little people: hobgoblins, pixies, or fairies; some sort of creatures who generally shun our race but have been known to do favors for the locals, unless they feel offended by them. Then they might find their cattle diseased and fields barren, or afflicted by any number of disasters.