Arcane Adversaries

by Jess Faraday

  ARCANE ADVERSARIES

  SIMON PEARCE MYSTERIES VOLUME 4

  By Jess Faraday

  Arcane Adversaries

  Simon Pearce Mysteries Volume 4

  By Jess Faraday

  Copyright © 2020 by Jess Faraday

  Published by: Blind Eye Books 1141 Grant Street Bellingham, WA. 98225

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by Nicole Kimberling

  Proofreading by Dianne Thies

  Cover design by Dawn Kimberling

  First Edition March 2020

  For my family.

  THE NATURAL ORDER OF THINGS

  December 29, 1887

  Penbreigh, Cornwall

  “Nice,” Selina Gilbert said, running a cool hand over my bare upper back.

  “A saucer-sized bruise is nice?” I asked.

  I gasped as she dabbed ointment onto the long scratch that stretched across my left shoulder blade.

  “It’s impressive, anyway.” She touched another dab of ointment onto the cut.

  “Ouch!” I cried. “What’s in that?”

  “Garlic for the scratch, wolfsbane for the bruise. Hold still.”

  “That hurts,” I said.

  In the mirror I saw a smile twitch over her face. She was pretty, objectively speaking. A young widow—another recent arrival to Penbreigh—thin and pale with long, dark hair worn loose, and startling green eyes. A lot of people called her the Witch of Penbreigh, and she did have that air about her: something elemental, uncontrolled, overtly sexual, a bit smug. It was a combination that could get a woman in trouble in a village this size, so it was fortunate that her compounding skills were so in demand.

  As for me, I didn’t believe in the arcane, and any sexual appeal was lost on me, but I’d take her ointments and tinctures over anything sold in a chemist’s shop.

  “This is infected,” she said. “You shouldn’t have waited so long.”

  “Didn’t have a choice,” I said. “The week between Christmas and New Year’s Day is a busy time for the criminal element, which means it’s a busy time for me.”

  “You work too hard.” Her hand paused on my shoulder, the palm suddenly warm. “You shouldn’t have to work on your birthday.”

  Our eyes met in the mirror, and I felt a strange charge pass between us. I stood quickly, pulling my shirt from the back of the chair. Startled, she took a step back.

  “How did you know it was my birthday?” I asked. It wasn’t what I’d meant to say, but what was a person meant to say? No one knew my date of birth except, perhaps, the clerk in Bodmin who had filed my employment paperwork.

  She smirked. “You wear it like a badge.”

  I didn’t know what she meant by that. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. The Witch of Penbreigh was standing before the front window, framed by hanging bunches of drying herbs and flowers, the pungent combinations of their scents hanging in the air. Her gaze flicked toward my bare chest. Hurriedly, I pulled on my shirt and buttoned it.

  “Thank you, as always, for the ointment,” I said, reaching for my money. She began to speak, but movement in the window behind her caught my eye. I rushed forward, pushed her toward the wall, and covered her body with my own just as a rock sailed through the glass. She was small and warm and smelled of herbs—much different from a man, but still strangely alluring. When the glass had finished raining down, I opened my eyes. At the same time, she turned around, bringing us nose to nose, her back against the wall. Fortunately the sound of running footsteps broke the moment.

  “Wait here,” I said.

  Outside the snow was falling fast and thick. There were footprints in the front garden, but no sign of man nor beast. I followed the prints until they disappeared, scanned the snow-covered hills and fields to no avail. When I returned, she was standing amid the wreckage, holding a rock in one hand, and a slip of paper in the other.

  “Exodus 22:18,” she said, holding up the paper. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Wish I could say this was the first time.”

  “It’s happened before?”

  “Not in this village,” she said. She crumpled the paper in her hand. Then her expression turned serious. “Hold very still, Sergeant.”

  “Ouch!” I cried again, as she plucked a shard of glass from beneath my collar. A warm drip of blood ran down my back.

  “That’s going to need stitches,” she said, all flirtation gone from her voice. “Sit down and take off your shirt.”

  I gritted my teeth while she wiped the wound clean, disinfected it, then pulled what had to be a mile of catgut through the skin at the back of my neck. Wind surged through what was left of the window, making the fire in the fireplace leap and dance, scattering powdery snow across the packed earth floor, and plunging the entire room into bitter cold. In summer, a rock through the front window might have been an aggressive prank, but in the violent Cornish winter it was an assault.

  “Has anyone in Penbreigh given you trouble before this?” I asked. She shook her head and reached for a dustpan as I buttoned up my shirt for the second time that morning. “Do you have anyone you can stay with?”

  She let out a long breath. “I’m not worried. Whoever it was, this will come back to them. That’s how the universe works. What I am worried about is that window. There’s no way I can afford to replace it.”

  “I can help you board it up,” I said.

  “Thanks.” She handed me a small jar of the garlic-and-wolfsbane ointment. “Then you can take this, no charge.”

  “Appreciate it,” I said, tucking it into my pocket.

  I crouched down to pick up some of the larger glass shards, and my knees let out a disturbing series of cracks and pops. That same knowing smile returned to her face.

  “Capricorn,” she explained. “Mind your knees.”

  “Right,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “I imagine you’re also quite a letter-writer.”

  I’d been rising, but I stopped mid-crouch. I corresponded regularly with two people in Edinburgh, and it brought me great satisfaction. All the same, it wasn’t exactly a common hobby for a village plod.

  “Best be careful of that,” she continued. “I’m not talking about indiscretion. The Inquisition couldn’t drag a secret out of someone with your chart.”

  “I have a chart?”

  “Mmm.” She nodded. “And more than your share of secrets. Don’t worry. I don’t care. What I’m saying is, if you’re not cautious, those letters of yours could land you in a bit of a pickle.”

  I did stand now, and despite the wind buffeting the house, the room seemed suddenly much too hot.

  “And I know it’s none of my business,” she continued. “But—”

  “You’re right,” I said, placing the large shards into the dustbin. “It isn’t your business. Thank you for the ointment and the stitches. If there’s any more nonsense, or if you think of a name,” I said, nodding toward the rock. “Let me know, and I’ll sort a lad out.”

  “That’s what concerns me,” she said as I made my way out the door. “And mind your knees!”

  •••

  It was almost noon when I found my way back to Dowrick’s tavern. Chief Inspector Landry had expected me back in Bodmin that morning, but I needed to speak to my landlady before I left. Morwenna Dowrick was often the first to know when something was brewing in Penbreigh, especially when it involved the village’s youth. She had several children of her own, including a twelve-year-old named Alan, and none of them so much as lost a button without her knowing about it. If anyone could offer insight about ill-behaved young people in the village and their possi
ble motivations, it would be Mrs. Dowrick.

  She was in the kitchen preparing a plate when I slipped in through the tavern’s back door. Glancing over the top of her head—dark brown waves with one or two gray stragglers—I reached around her plump shoulder and snatched a piece of bread as she sliced it from the loaf. She gave the back of my hand a smack.

  “All patched up now?” she asked. She sliced another piece of bread, set it on the plate and began to carry it out toward the dining room.

  “I am,” I said around a mouth full of bread. “Can’t say the same for Mrs. Gilbert’s front window, though.”

  “Do tell.”

  I followed her out to where Dr. Elizabeth Bell was sitting with Mr. Greenhow. At first glance, they made an unlikely pair of friends. Eliza was a scientist, a Sapphist, and an unapologetic atheist; Mr. Greenhow was the parson. But they shared a level of intellectual curiosity that might have proved isolating in a village this size, had they not found one other. Moreover, Eliza had a soft spot for the socially awkward. She’d taken the young Mr. Greenhow under her wing some time ago, and even I could see the increased confidence with which he now carried himself, and the care he now took picking out his clothing.

  “Good morning, Sergeant,” the parson said.

  “Parson.”

  Eliza said, “Good God, Simon, what the devil happened to you? Sorry, parson.”

  Mr. Greenhow, who was accustomed to Eliza’s sometimes salty tongue, suppressed a smile and turned his attention to the plate Mrs. Dowrick had set in front of him.

  “Line of duty, the usual rubbish,” I said, taking a chair.

  “I’m talking about those stitches.” She peered at the back of my neck, her upper lip curling in distaste. “You didn’t do them yourself, did you?” I gave her a brief summary of the morning’s events. When I’d finished, she said, “You should have come to me for the stitches, instead of letting an amateur hack away at you. That’s going to leave a scar.”

  “Fine. The next time I’m bleeding to death with half a window sticking out of my back, I’ll run through a snowstorm to your house, then expire from blood loss on your doorstep because you’re down the pub. And she’s not an amateur. Her ointments work a treat.”

  “Aye,” she said, momentarily betraying her Scottish roots. “I’ve been making a study of Cornish country remedies. Quite scientifically sound, many of them.” Her nose wrinkled, and she drew closer. “Garlic.”

  “Mmm, and wolfsbane.”

  She nodded. “Excellent. Garlic, in particular, is very powerful against infection. Still, that young woman’s embroidery skills could use some work. Is she all right?”

  “Yes. Apparently it’s happened before. She’s most concerned about her front window, and I can’t say as I blame her. Parson, you haven’t given any sermons about witches, recently, have you?”

  My work gave me an excuse to skip the Sunday services most of the village attended. Dr. Elizabeth Bell, on the other hand, never missed one.

  “Oh, no, Sergeant,” he said. “I find that sort of teaching causes a lot more problems than it solves.”

  “Very sensible,” Elizabeth said.

  The parson smiled again. His plate now empty, he laid down his knife and fork, then put a few coins on the table. “I’ll stop by and visit Mrs. Gilbert on my way home. I’d hate for her to think I’d put someone up to this. Come to think of it, I’ll find some way to work this into the sermon on Sunday. The twenty-second chapter of Exodus is one thing, but attacking one’s neighbor, my friends, is quite another.”

  Thus resolved, the parson gathered his coat, tipped his hat to the ladies, then found his way to the door. Once he had gone, I turned to Mrs. Dowrick.

  “Mrs. Gilbert thought it might be a boy from the village, full of fire and brimstone. Or, more likely, with too much time on his hands. Can you think of anyone who might fit that description?”

  Mrs. Dowrick frowned. “Pritchard likes to thump a Bible from time to time,” she said, invoking the name of the man who had recently opened Penbreigh’s village shop. “He’s got a boy a few years older than Alan, Jeffrey’s his name. Come to think of it, they’ve been going up to Bodmin on Sundays.”

  “To attend services?” I asked.

  Mrs. Dowrick said, “Parson’s not good enough for them anymore, I suppose.”

  “Too much ‘blessed are the meek’ and not enough hellfire?” Elizabeth asked.

  Mrs. Dowrick shrugged. “None of my business. And speaking of none of my business, this came for you.” She pulled a letter out of her apron pocket and handed it to me.

  “Oh,” Elizabeth said. “Who’s that from?”

  For the second time that morning, I broke out in a light sweat. Eliza knew that I preferred the company of men, just as she preferred the company of women. In fact, she and her Alice had introduced me to Theo, my lover of several months, now. Was that the reason, then, that I felt the sudden need to be evasive about a letter from Cal? Cal and I shared nothing but letters anymore. And still….

  “It’s private,” I said primly, tucking the letter into my pocket.

  “Well la-tee-da,” Mrs. Dowrick said over her shoulder as she bore the parson’s plate back into the kitchen.

  Eliza raised an eyebrow. But I didn’t give her the opportunity to follow up with one of her razor-sharp insights. Instead I turned and walked toward the door.

  The snow had died down by that time, though another hour had passed, and now, before I could leave for Bodmin, I had to find and interview Mr. Pritchard. I’d interacted with him, of course; he’d sold me tooth powder, stationery, and the occasional box of chocolates, which I brought to Eliza and Alice when they invited me for dinner. He had always struck me as tight-laced and abstemious, though not unpleasant. It was midmorning, and I found him in his shop.

  “Good morning, Sergeant,” he said as I walked in. “How can I help you?”

  Middle age sat on Pritchard well. He hadn’t gone to fat, like some, though his hair had retreated to a ring of fringe around his skull. His high-quality clothing had seen plenty of wear, but he kept it clean and pressed. A set of silver-rimmed spectacles sat on the bridge of his nose.

  “Good morning, Mr. Pritchard.”

  I set Mrs. Gilbert’s box on the counter. She sold her ointments through one of the chemists in Bodmin, and I’d agreed to deliver this lot on my way to the constabulary.

  Pritchard frowned. “I hope you haven’t come to ask me to sell that rubbish in my shop.”

  “No,” I said, blinking at his unexpected vehemence. A quick glance over his shoulder showed a modest display of similar products, no doubt brought from town. “Though I see that you do carry ointments and creams.”

  “Those are medicines crafted by professional chemists, not roots and berries tossed together under a full moon.”

  “I’m not familiar with Mrs. Gilbert’s manufacturing process,” I said.

  His expression darkened, and the creases around his mouth seemed to deepen. “Mrs. Gilbert’s recipes have been passed down, hand to hand, through generations of so-called wise women. They’re not scientifically formulated.”

  “Actually—”

  “More to the point, Mrs. Gilbert abandoned the church. This puts her, and anyone who uses her little potions on very shaky spiritual ground.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I asked.

  He pursed his lips. “It wouldn’t be Christian to speak ill of one’s neighbor, even—or, some might say especially—if that neighbor is headed down a dangerous path. But I can’t in good conscience stock a product that could lead others down that same path.”

  He turned toward the display of ointments, chose one, and set it on the counter in front of me. It was a small, wide-mouthed bottle with a cork stopper. Inside was an oily white cream. The label said “Dobbs Cream.”

  “It’s the finest on the market,” Mr. Pritchard said. “It should protect your stitches from infection and keep scarring to a minimum. Please, Sergeant, take it with my com
pliments.”

  “What’s in it?” I asked.

  He frowned. “The manufacturer doesn’t provide an exact list of ingredients, but I assure you, these products are produced by chemists under professional and hygienic conditions.”

  “I see,” I said, taking the bottle. “Thank you.”

  “Are you a churchgoer, Sergeant?”

  “I have been meaning to hear Mr. Greenhow speak.”

  He made a dismissive gesture. “Never mind the parson. If you’re interested in spiritual truths you can use, there’s a study group that meets in Bodmin every Thursday night at seven. I can give you the address, if you’re interested.”

  It was Thursday, and I would be in Bodmin that evening—provided I ever managed to leave the village. However, at seven o’clock I’d hoped to be wrapped around the dinner Theo had promised me, then later, I hoped to be wrapped around Theo himself.

  Still, it might pay to drop in and see what Pritchard’s group had to say.

  “Thank you,” I said. As he wrote out the address and passed it to me, I said, “By the way, is your son about? Jeffrey?”

  “He’s at school. Why?”

  “And he has been all morning?”

  There was the slightest pause before he replied, “Yes, of course.”

  That would be easy enough to check. I would do so when I returned from Bodmin.

  “Good. Glad to hear it. Education is important. Good day, Mr. Pritchard.”

  Outside, the snow had stopped falling, but it was thick on the hard-frozen ground. The sky was clear, and the sometimes-muddy road to Bodmin would be solid enough. If I wanted to leave for town, I ought to do it now.

  It had been a strange conversation with Mr. Pritchard. It was difficult to imagine the man casting rocks through people’s windows, though his religious sentiment seemed a bit intense. He hadn’t exactly called Mrs. Gilbert a witch, but “headed down a dangerous path” and “on shaky spiritual ground” wasn’t far off. On the other hand, it seemed unlikely he could have outrun me in the snow, and he hadn’t reacted strangely when I’d walked into his shop. All the same, it might be worthwhile to drop in on that study group of his. Pritchard might not be the only person from Penbreigh who attended. And if the group hadn’t stirred Pritchard to action, perhaps it had stirred someone else.