The Curious Affair of the Witch at Wayside Cross

by Lisa Tuttle

  We had only a short wait in Thorpe Station at Norwich before catching the train to Cromer. That journey took barely an hour, and thus it was still daylight when our cab deposited us in front of the Vicarage in Aylmerton.

  I say “cab,” but the vehicle we hired outside Cromer Station was really more a cart. It was a big open carriage, the sort of thing hired by groups of holiday-makers wishing to see the local sights on a summer’s day, and although it was comfortable enough, it was hardly suitable to the weather, which had turned very cold. I could be pleased that it was neither raining nor snowing, but the buffeting wind had an icy edge to it that made me shiver and pull my woolen scarf up over my face.

  Mr. Jesperson, as usual, appeared indifferent to the cold, and obviously enjoyed the unimpeded views of the countryside and did not mind the slow pace of the old cart horse. He was always keen to explore and learn about new places, and the elderly driver (he and his horse were a well-matched set) indulged his interest with a story about everything we passed, no matter how ordinary or uninspiring in appearance. To me, his accent was a challenge, especially with the wind whistling about my ears, but I could see that Mr. Jesperson understood him well enough, and I was happy to leave them to their half-comprehensible conversation.

  Norfolk is traditionally known for its flatness, but it is not uniformly so, especially in the northeast parts of the county. This area would undoubtedly provide many charming excursions in warm, dry weather, I thought, knocking my feet together in a vain attempt to warm them. I was glad when the road descended into an area of woodland, where we were sheltered from the wind.

  My ears pricked up when I heard the phrase shrieking pits and I looked to where the driver was indicating but could make out nothing in the shadowy depths of the forest.

  “Are they only in the woods?” Mr. Jesperson inquired.

  “Nay, nay, master. Hardly. They used to be everywhere, especially on the heath. There are still some to be seen over Beeston way, and one right in Aylmerton—that one is in a field close by the Vicarage. If that’s what you came to see, you won’t miss it.”

  He gave a gusty sigh. “Can’t see what the interest is, but the visitors do always ask about the pits. Back in me grandfather’s day, there must have been hundreds, but not now.”

  “Why? What has become of them?”

  “Oh, the farmers filled ’em in, mostly. So they could plow their land more handily, you see. And some got dug out. Or planted over.” He waved a vague hand. “Anyways, most were disappeared before I was born. I suppose nobody cares about the one in the woods, no call to fill it in, even though it is said to be the deepest of all.”

  Mr. Jesperson quizzed him further about the pits, asking his opinion of their origins and purpose, and it was clear by his ready replies that our driver had dealt with the same questions many times before. It was generally said, although you might not think it to look at them, that they were the remains of ancient dwellings, where our prehistoric ancestors had lived. Furthermore, he added, quite a few of the local people believed these subterranean homes were still inhabited—by some sort of elves or boggarts, although he did not hold with such nonsense himself.

  Mr. Jesperson looked interested. “You surprise me. I had thought such tales of an underground race were confined to the Celtic fringe, and connected with chambered cairns and hollow hills, rather than hut-circles.”

  Our guide frowned, thrown off his stride. “Eh? Well, I cannot explain it except to say that folk round here know what they know, and that’s all there is to it. Anyways, it may be you’ve heard of our famous ghost?”

  “The shrieking woman?”

  “No one can say when or how it happened, but long ago this poor creature was deprived of her baby, and ever since, her ghost haunts the pits, weeping and wailing and searching in vain for her lost child. If the wind is in the right direction, you may hear her yourself some dark night…only pray you never set eyes on her, for it is said that no one ever survives that experience.”

  “So I suppose that people generally avoid going anywhere near the pits after dark?”

  “Oh, yes indeed, master. They surely do.”

  “Even you?” he pressed.

  “Why ever should I want to go roaming around the woods and fields at night?” the man replied, sounding indignant.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  The driver frowned. “I don’t say that I do, but I won’t say that I don’t. I have heard her shrieking—and the sound fair gives you the chills, whatever you may say you believe, I tell you that.”

  By this time we had come out of the woods and were approaching a crossroads with an inn. Although not mentioned in the guidebook, it looked a reasonably comfortable place, and I thought we could do worse than lodge there, if there was no room at the Vicarage, although I imagined that as soon as we had learned all we could about the late Mr. Manning from his former hosts we would move on to Cromer and tackle the mysterious Mr. Ott. A signpost pointed straight ahead to Holt, right to West Runton, and left to Aylmerton.

  As soon as we had turned down the Aylmerton road I saw, straight ahead and on top of a hill, a building with a ruined tower.

  “Church of St. John the Baptist—Aylmerton Parish Church,” our guide announced. “But you want the Vicarage, you said, master?”

  “Yes, I do, although I will confess to you we have not been invited, and must throw ourselves on the Christian mercy of the minister, who will, I hope, be kind enough to take in two wandering pilgrims.”

  The driver cackled with laughter at Mr. Jesperson’s words. “Pilgrims, are ye? For by ye’ve come to the wrong place and I should take ye to Wayside Cross instead.”

  “What is that?”

  “Nay, I was only fooling,” he said, abruptly sober.

  “But what is Wayside Cross?”

  He frowned and fidgeted, obviously wishing he had kept quiet, but as Mr. Jesperson would not drop it, finally he said, “ ’Tis a house by the old stump cross, said to mark the old pilgrims’ route to Walsingham—the house takes its name from that. I meant nothing by it. And here is the Vicarage.” His tone lifted. “Mrs. Reverend Ringer will be happy to have more visitors from London. She finds it dull here out of season. And you’ll both be very comfortable, I’m sure, so long as you don’t object to a bit of preaching from the reverend.”

  We came to a halt by the front gate of a large and comfortable-looking house. Mr. Jesperson jumped down nimbly, unloaded both our bags, and paid the driver as I was getting down myself. My feet were hardly on the ground before the driver clucked to his horse and they were away at what seemed to me a brisker pace than any the old nag had managed throughout our journey.

  A maid answered Mr. Jesperson’s knock on the front door and, incurious as to our names or business, scarcely looked at us before ushering us inside and depositing us in a neat and pleasantly furnished yet chilly sitting room. The fire in the hearth had burnt down nearly to ash. I suppose it was rather late in the day for callers; at any rate, the maid did not stay to build up the fire but merely told us the vicar would be with us shortly, before she left us, almost banging the door shut in her haste.

  While I took a seat, Mr. Jesperson discovered some coals lurking in the copper scuttle and set to work reviving the fire. It was soon blazing cheerfully and warmth was stealing back into the chilly room when someone else entered the room.

  The newcomer was a short, powerfully built man, round-faced, clean-shaven, and bald, a surviving fringe of light-brown hair appearing like a monk’s tonsure. His collar marked him as a man of the cloth, but his face did not wear the pacific, welcoming expression one might expect. He looked rather pugnacious, in a righteous way, as if we had come to pick a quarrel with him—and he had decided to strike the first blow.

  Without a greeting, without giving us the chance to introduce ourselves, he sternly announced, “You are not members of my congregation. Nor are you residents of this parish.” He swept us both with a penetrating gaze, lingering a b
it longer on my face than on Mr. Jesperson’s. “I venture to guess that you have no friends or relatives here, yet you have come from Norwich—no, you have come all the way from London.”

  I was baffled by his approach; even, I confess, rather intimidated, but when I looked at Mr. Jesperson, I saw by his alert, amused expression that he was enjoying it.

  “Bravo!” exclaimed Mr. Jesperson. “I perceive you are a devotee of detective fiction, Doctor Ringer. And you are quite right—so far. Can you deduce our purpose in coming to see you?”

  “Nothing could be more obvious,” snapped the vicar. “Do you imagine I have not met your kind before? Although I admit I do not understand why you should have chosen Aylmerton, rather than some more scenic village with a more celebrated church—there are several within as easy reach of Cromer.”

  “We did not come here for the church, Doctor Ringer.” My friend smiled mischievously. “And I fear we are at cross purposes. Pray tell us, will you, the obvious reason?”

  “Why, that you want to be married!” he growled.

  I gasped, Mr. Jesperson laughed, and the vicar for the first time looked uncertain. He frowned. “No? I…I beg your pardon, but the maid told me…”

  “The maid did not even ask our business!” I cried indignantly.

  “Had she not been in such a hurry, I should have given her our card,” said my partner, producing one with a flourish. “Jesperson and Lane, at your service.”

  The vicar glanced up from the card, to search our faces once more. “Private investigators? You are real detectives, then? You were quite right to say I am a devotee. But what can interest you here? What is your business with me?”

  Mr. Jesperson took his seat again. “Charles Manning gave this as his address.”

  “Yes, he has boarded with us since midsummer. But I am afraid you’ve had a wasted journey, for he went down to London two days ago and has not returned.”

  “Nor will he,” said Mr. Jesperson somberly. “We bring unhappy news. Charles Manning is dead.”

  “How? Why? What happened?” The vicar leaned forward, his eyes fixed upon Mr. Jesperson’s face.

  “He arrived at our door in a state of fear and distress, and died before he could explain.”

  “Was he poisoned?”

  The two men stared at each other for a long, charged moment before Mr. Jesperson replied, “The police do not think so.”

  “How was it explained?”

  “Heart failure.”

  The vicar made a sound of disbelief. “But he is—was—a strong, healthy young man. I never saw any signs of physical weakness in him.”

  “His brother agrees with you,” I said. “Tell me, why did you suggest poisoning? Is that simply due to your interest in mystery stories?”

  Dr. Ringer regarded me gravely. “I wish it were only that. But there have been three mysterious deaths in the parish this past year.”

  Mr. Jesperson gave an exclamation. “What! Three unsolved murders in this quiet, rural place?”

  The vicar looked a bit abashed. “Well…not precisely. The first death was that of William Goodall, a farmer. He was undoubtedly poisoned. His wife was suspected of his murder, although she was not charged, and when she died the same way, seemingly by her own hand, this was taken as her remorseful confession. The third victim was not a local man, although he had resided for a time in Cromer. His body was found in the woods near here, after he had been missing for several days, and no one could say for certain how he died. Possibly it was an accident…the police are not looking for anyone in connection with the case, but the village gossip has it that he was killed. He was an acquaintance of Charles Manning, so I wondered…”

  “But Manning died in London.”

  “Yes, but—why did he go to London? Could he have been fleeing someone, an enemy, who caught up with him there?”

  Mr. Jesperson glanced at me, and I raised my eyebrows. He returned his attention to the Reverend Dr. Ringer.

  “Did he seem to you to be afraid? Did he say why he was going to London?”

  His shoulders slumped, and the vicar sighed. “No…He seemed much as ever. He told my wife he was going to London, but as he took no luggage, we expected him to come straight back. When he did not…well, we saw no reason to worry. I never imagined anything like this.”

  “No, of course, why should you? Did you know Mr. Manning well? Did he speak to you about his work?”

  “His work? You mean his studies.” The vicar’s expression became more reserved. “He did at first, but soon realized that I did not share his interest in local superstitions; that in fact I felt his interest to be misguided—and dangerous. I do not believe it can do any good, and indeed may do much harm, to poke and pry into those dark recesses of the human soul, the lingering beliefs in magic and witchcraft, ghosts and fairies and other un-Christian things.

  “I liked Mr. Manning—do not misunderstand me. I thought he was a gifted and intelligent young man who would soon get tired of investigating ancient obscenities—I beg your pardon!—and take up more wholesome pursuits. Some of his poetry was quite good—I used to think he might have written some rousing new hymns, if he’d been that way inclined.”

  “Did he attend your services?”

  The vicar sadly shook his head. “Never.”

  “Do you know why he chose to live here?”

  “He came to Aylmerton because of the shrieking pits—you have heard of them?”

  We both indicated that we had.

  “You probably know they are reckoned to be the remains of prehistoric dwellings. Some have been excavated, but nothing of interest ever found. However, Charles was interested in them less from a historic or archaeological view than for their reputation in local folklore. The well-known legend attached to them is of a shrieking woman who haunts the pits, searching for the body of her murdered child, but Charles told me he had learned of another tradition, believed but not widely reported, that the pits are actually the habitations of the little people—fairies, you might say, as long as you don’t think of anything like Shakespeare’s Titania and Oberon. Here in Norfolk there is a tradition of a pygmy, troglodytic race, small folk who may be kind and helpful if it pleases them, but who are more likely to do you harm—or steal your baby.”

  I sighed. “You say it is not widely reported, but we heard the same story from the old man who drove us here from the station.”

  “That would be Royston Kettle,” said the vicar. “Why am I not surprised? Although whether he was Charles’s informant or had the story from Charles is anyone’s guess.”

  “Did Mr. Manning often interview local people about such things?”

  “Yes, of course. He meant to write a paper—or perhaps even a book. That was why he came here. He began with the shrieking pits, but he was interested in all the local folklore.”

  Mr. Jesperson said, “Do you know a man called Felix Ott?”

  As if the name has been a handful of grit flung in his face, the vicar jerked his head back, muscles tensing, and blinked rapidly. “Ott! What of him?”

  “You know him?”

  “Not to speak to. I am aware of his occupation and his repulsive ideas.”

  “Repulsive?”

  “His description of Christianity is unspeakable. If he could, he would bring down the Established Church of England and replace it with devil-worship. He has said as much.” He stared hard at Mr. Jesperson. “Why do you mention his name in this house?”

  Seeing the power in his tensed arms, and the unforgiving glare in his eyes, I thought that Christian he might be, but not of the meek and mild, turn-the-other-cheek variety.

  “It was my understanding that Charles Manning decided to move to Norfolk after a meeting with Felix Ott.”

  The other man nodded slowly, and some of the tension vanished. “I see. Well, it is no surprise, considering the area Charles had chosen to study. No surprise, either, that he should never have mentioned him to me.”

  “Alexander Manning was i
nclined to blame Ott for his brother’s death.”

  I expected Dr. Ringer to agree, but he was dismissive. “No, no. The man is poisonous, but I doubt he bothers with strychnine or cyanide. And Ott would not destroy a useful tool.”

  “What if Charles Manning was not so amenable as Ott desired. What if he turned against him, threatened to expose him or spoil his plans in some way? Might not that have made him angry enough to kill?”

  “Perhaps. Ott strikes me as a thoroughly immoral, utterly selfish creature. He would not balk at murder. And a man so interested in witchcraft might decide to cast a killing spell on his enemy—this would serve the purpose of demonstrating his powers to his followers while keeping clear of the law. I hardly think that in this modern day anyone would be tried for, let alone be found guilty of, murder by witchcraft.”

  “Do you really think Felix Ott—or anyone—could do that?” I asked him. “That he—or anyone—could have cast a spell to stop Mr. Manning’s heart?”

  The vicar turned his gaze on me and nodded soberly. “I believe in the power of evil, just as I believe in the power of good. ‘And if ye hath faith as a mustard seed, nothing shall be impossible’—this is unfortunately true for those who are determined to do evil as for the pure of heart. We are spiritual as well as material creatures; if I did not believe that, how could I devote my life to preaching the word of God? If witchcraft weren’t dangerous, why would I want to warn Charles away from it? If it had only been a waste of his time, I might have shrugged it off…but it was worse than that. It was far more dangerous than he knew…and in a different way than I expected. I was concerned about the state of his soul, you see; it never occurred to me that witchcraft might kill him.”

  Chapter 4

  A Night at the Vicarage

  Reverend Ringer invited us to stay, and to consider his home ours for however long our investigation should detain us.