by Lisa Tuttle
“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?”
For some reason her mild expression of disbelief nettled me. “I am hardly likely to forget. He stared at me as if he had never seen anything so terrifying—me!—and almost shouted, ‘She is a witch!’ ”
Miss Ann gasped and began to turn a silver ring around and around on the third finger of her left hand. I noticed, too, how Miss Bulstrode caressed the smooth, rounded dome of her ring-stone. Only Miss Alys remained absolutely still and silent, eyes cast down as she listened to my tale.
“Mr. Jesperson told him my name and assured the stranger that he had nothing to fear from me, or anyone in the house. He assured him he was safe with us, and offered him a drink, but I am not sure he even heard, he seemed so locked in his own fearful imaginings. He said something more about witches—that it was too late, that he was cursed—and then he collapsed—dead.”
A brooding silence descended. After a time, Miss Bulstrode drew a long, shaky breath. “Why—why did he go to your door—to total strangers—in his distress?”
I had already given some thought to how I should answer this, and began to lay out an explanation I hope she would find plausible:
“Mr. Alexander Manning was sure his brother must have been going to his house—formerly his own address, for where else was he likely to be bound, so late at night? That is in Gordon Square, and Gordon Street is the next one over from Gower Street—in the fog, it is easy enough to lose one’s way.”
From her face, Miss Bulstrode did not buy it. “But his house was in a square, yours in a street—and he had lived there all his life. Even in the pitch dark, he could not be so mistaken.”
“Perhaps. Well, there is another thing that may have drawn him to our door. Although we had yet to meet Mr. Charles Manning, we knew of him from his brother, who happens to be our banker. I mentioned before that Mr. Jesperson and I are business partners. We are in the process of establishing a publishing company. Charles Manning was a writer, and we are interested in commissioning work from new, young writers on topics of interest. There had been talk of meeting, when he was next in London. Two o’clock in the morning is hardly the time for paying a business call, but, as we saw at once, and I am sure you will understand, Charles Manning was not in his right mind. He saw witches wherever he looked. He believed himself pursued and in great danger. Perhaps it is best not to dwell too much on his final moments. He may have been anywhere in the depths of his own mind, living out some sort of nightmare…He was, of course, dying.”
“But of what?” asked Miss Bulstrode. “From your description he was suffering a feverish delirium before his sudden death, for which there could be several causes, but when I saw him on Friday evening he appeared perfectly well. What sort of disease could strike and kill a strong young man so suddenly?”
I watched her gently, perhaps unconsciously, stroking her ring as she gazed into my eyes beseechingly, and I asked, “Why did he go to London?”
Miss Bulstrode looked at her sisters, who looked at each other.
“Why?” said Ann.
“He gave me no explanation,” said Miss Bulstrode. “But…there was an unusual sort of determination about him that evening, and I thought…” She shook her head.
“What did you think?”
“I imagined he meant to try once more to talk his brother into giving him his inheritance.”
“You mean, talk him into selling the house in Gordon Square?”
“I believe there is more than just that house. His brother has control of their parents’ estate, and he tried to use it to control his younger brother as well. When Charles broke away from the life his brother wanted for him, determined to pursue his own interests, Mr. Alexander Manning cut off his allowance and refused him all support.”
She must have heard that from Charles. I thought of the older brother with his sad eyes and the mourning band on his sleeve, standing in a room furnished in the taste of an earlier decade, and I wondered who had been deceived. “It was my understanding that the house was their only legacy, and it was left entirely to Mr. Alexander Manning.”
“No doubt that is what he wished you to understand. Well, money and property alike are all his now—may they bring him little joy—and Charles is beyond needing any material things.” Unshed tears shone in her eyes as she made this bitter pronouncement.
“But Mr. Ott is not beyond needing material things,” said Alys. “He will be sorry for his loss.”
Miss Bulstrode gave her a wounded look. “Alys, how can you? You know perfectly well that Charles was not merely a supporter of the SBW—Felix was his dearest friend.”
Alys gave an unrepentant sniff. “According to Charles.”
“SBW—is that the Society for British Wisdom?” I asked.
“School of British Wisdom,” Miss Bulstrode corrected. “You have heard of it?”
“Yes, but not from an unbiased source. The Reverend Ringer—”
A smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. “Naturally, he cannot like it. The position of the Established Church has always been one of opposition to all pre-Christian beliefs. I have my own bias—on the other side. Although I have not affiliated myself with Mr. Ott’s school, I have come to think it is a good idea. There is a great deal in our native folklore that is well worth preserving, and much of value that has been suppressed or forgotten.”
Alys said, “Charles hoped to become Mr. Ott’s partner as a founding member of the School. But he had no money to put into it. Neither has Mr. Ott. Not even enough to take a long lease on some suitable premises. If the School is to come to anything, he must attract a wealthy patron—or several.”
A thought came to me, and without stopping to think I blurted it out: “Did Charles Manning leave a will?”
They all looked at me with surprise and, I realized, disapproval. I had crossed a line.
“I think you had better take such questions to his brother, Miss Lane.”
“Yes, of course, I only thought, as you were, clearly, so close to him, he may have mentioned…”
“He did not. And even if he had shared such a confidence, I cannot see how it could possibly be any of your concern.” Her dark eyes flashed. In another moment, I feared, I should be told to leave in terms that should end our acquaintance before it had fairly begun.
There was a knock on the door.
“Yes?”
The door opened and the maid put her head in. “It’s Mrs. Poultney. Shall I tell her to wait, or come again later?”
“Give me five minutes, Nancy.”
“Yes, miss.” The door closed quietly.
Miss Bulstrode looked at me. Her gaze was searching. “I cannot believe Alexander Manning sent you to interrogate his brother’s friends. Tell me the truth. Why did you come to Aylmerton?”
I took a deep breath. “Have you ever seen someone drop dead in front of you?”
“Yes. My stepfather died suddenly in this very room.”
“But—a stranger? Someone of whom you knew nothing, not even his name, until you discovered it after his death?” Her look encouraged me to go on. “It is very strange and shocking. Impossible to mourn someone you never knew, and yet to be present at a death is very intimate; such a personal thing that one feels—at least, I felt—that something more was required of me than simply to go about my usual life.”
“I understand,” she said softly, and reached out to touch my hand. Her fingers were not so cold as before. “Thank you for
coming to tell us what happened to our friend—inexplicable and disturbing as it was, I am glad to have heard an eyewitness account. I must ask you to leave now, for one of my patients is waiting, but I hope you will come back, and we may speak more—I will be happy to share with you my memories of Charles, and I think Ann and Alys feel the same.”
The other two had risen from the couch, and although they said nothing to indicate their agreement, they did not appear unfriendly; they walked close beside me, back to the front door, and Alys went to find my coat, and then they both wished me good day.
Chapter 6
An Uncomfortable Conversation
I felt, as I walked down the path away from the front door, that I was being watched, but when I turned around there was no one to be seen at any of the windows. And the feeling did not dissipate when I was on the road: All the way back to the Vicarage, I had that uncomfortable tickling sensation at the back of my neck as if I were being spied upon, but I saw no one, apart from one man on horseback, who tipped his hat to me as he trotted past. I told myself I was imagining things; my interview with the Bulstrode sisters had unsettled me in some way that would prey upon my mind until I managed to work it out.
As I approached the Vicarage, I saw the little boy, Richard, absorbed in some solitary game in front of the house. He looked up and saw me, but instead of smiling or calling a greeting, he simply stared with his mouth hanging open. I had the idea that he was looking at something behind me, but when I whirled around, as before, the road was empty.
Richard ran to meet me at the gate. “Why does he follow you?”
I confess, the absurd idea that I was being pursued by some specter, visible only to the innocent eyes of a child, seized me with icy claws, but I managed to keep my nerve and did not look back.
“There is no one following me, and I am sure your mother could not approve of you saying such things, even in fun.”
He blinked rapidly. “But it’s true, miss! Look, now he is watching from that tree.”
I slowly turned to look where he pointed. The tree was across the road, one of a row of elms, and in the bare winter branches there perched a solitary black bird.
I recalled a remark from Mr. Jesperson once made: “No one in London ever looks up.” And here was I, out in the countryside, beneath the wide open sky, not lifting my eyes even when I felt myself being followed, as unobservant as any dull city dweller—and I fancied myself a detective.
I gave the little boy a stern look. “Was that crow really following me?”
“Yes, miss, honestly. He was right above you, flying low. It looked so strange! Perhaps there is something on your hat that he wants?”
But there were no artificial cherries, shining sequins, or even a feather in my unexceptional hat. Although it was too far away to tell, and one crow looks very like another, I felt certain the black bird watching us from its high perch was Miss Bulstrode’s pet. And I could think of no reason why it should have followed me, except at her instruction. How would he report back to her, I wondered. Could crows be taught to speak?
I shivered. “Let us go into the house, Master Richard. The wind today is too cold to linger outside.”
As we walked together up the path to the front door I recalled that Miss Bulstrode had named her bird Gabriel. Was that after the angel who had brought the good news to Mary? I had not asked just how or when the news of Mr. Manning’s death had reached Wayside Cross.
I scolded myself for my absurd imaginings. The news was more likely to have arrived by telegraph than via a winged messenger. And if the Bulstrodes and Mr. Manning had no mutual friends in London, there was what might be called the “servant telegraph” much closer to home. The Ringers and the Bulstrodes were neighbors, after all, and even if they did not socialize, their servants were almost certainly acquainted.
This simple application of reason relaxed my taut nerves. By the time I entered the Vicarage I felt my feet were firmly back on the ground. A bird had flown slowly over the road while I had walked the same route. That was no reason to let my imagination run away with me.
I settled in the drawing room with paper and pen, intending to write a full account of my conversation with Miss Bulstrode and her sisters while it was fresh in my mind. There was a fire burning cheerfully in the hearth, Hilda was sitting in an armchair, absorbed in her mathematical studies, and Mrs. Ringer was busy with a piece of embroidery. Alas, embroidery work does not require the same mental attention as maths or writing, and Mrs. Ringer welcomed my appearance as an opportunity to exercise her tongue on one subject while her fingers worked at another.
“Oh, leave your letter writing for later, Miss Lane,” she said, “Let us take this opportunity to become better acquainted.”
She began at once to quiz me about my life in London, beginning with my occupation. Fortunately, Mr. Jesperson had said that our publishing venture was still in the planning stages, so I was not forced to invent an imaginary list of books or claim expertise in an occupation about which I was no more informed than any average book reader.
“But why did you think of attempting such a profession?” she pressed. “Please do not imagine for a moment that I object to a woman who works—indeed, I admire you very much. Naturally, I consider motherhood the highest calling of womankind, but not all are called to it. But if I may ask, have you no family? Are you quite alone in the world?”
“Nearly. I have a sister—but our parents are no longer with us. My father was a classics master at Harrow School, and until his death I had quite a happy, settled childhood, full of books and music and games and companionship. I was barely out of childhood when all that ended. We had to move—the house was tied to his job—and there was not enough money for the sort of life we had known before—but I will not bore you with tales of long-ago trials and tribulations. I grew up, as everyone does, and must make my own place in the world.”
“What of your sister? Is she married?”
“No. She has made quite a successful career on the stage. At present she is touring America.”
“How very interesting.” Instead of the disapproval I had more than half expected from the wife of a minister, the light of fascination shone in her eyes. “What is her name, may I ask?”
“Athene Lane.”
She sighed and gave a regretful shake of her head. “I do not recognize the name. Before my marriage I was quite mad for plays—and even more the opera. But I am lucky now if I can get to London for one week in a year. So I doubt I have ever seen your sister. And you, Miss Lane, did you ever think of such a career?”
“No, I have never cared to put myself on show. When we were children, I must play supporting roles to Athene, but I was rather a disappointment to her, I fear. I am not very good at pretending.” I felt my cheeks heat.
“Well, there is nothing to be ashamed of in that,” said the vicar’s wife soothingly. “It means you are an honest, straightforward young woman—which was exactly my first impression of you, and I am a good judge of character. So, tell me, as you did not go on stage with your sister, what did you do, before you met Mr. Jesperson?”
“Oh, this and that. I worked as a companion to an old lady, who was kind enough to pay for me to take a course in shorthand and typewriting. I thought, when she died, that I might work in an office of some sort, but before I could find a position I chanced to meet—”
Mrs. Ringer broke in: “That strangely attractive, energetic, and engagingly eccentric young man who calls himself Jasper Jesperson?”
I was shocked, I confess, by her interruption, especially as her tone was decidedly waspish. I replied reprovingly, “I think you will find everyone calls him that—including his mother. And you are getting ahead of my story—by several years. The person I met was another lady, in a similar position to myself, and we—” But I found that I did not wish to share my life story with Mrs. Ringer. She liked the theater, but I could not count on her approval extending to the realm of spiritualists and psychic phenomena which h
ad been my own for more than four years.
I paused and cleared my throat. “But I think you are not really so interested in me, are you, Mrs. Ringer? I do not blame you—Mr. Jesperson is a far more interesting character—what did you call him? ‘Engagingly eccentric’? Yes, he is. It is not surprising you wish to know more about him. And I am sure he will be only too happy to regale you with stories of his experiences. My own life has been less exotic. I can only apologize for boring you.”
Across the room, Hilda quietly got up, sidled to the door, and let herself out.
Mrs. Ringer looked not only discomfited, but positively mortified. “You have done nothing of the kind! Oh, dear. Miss Lane, please forgive me. I am so sorry to have offended you. Truly, I did not intend anything…I did not mean…Oh, dear.” Making a great fuss with her embroidery, she finally managed to prick her finger, and then had to put her work aside, worried about staining it with her blood before our conversation could resume.
“I am sorry, Miss Lane—”
“Please, no more apologies,” I said, feeling weary. “It is truly of no consequence. I did not ask you to take an interest in me. Now, perhaps I may go back to my writing?”
“You may not believe it, but I am interested in you—and it is that interest, that concern, that leads me to warn you to take care.”
“I have been taking care of myself for a good ten years,” I said coolly.
“I am a mother. If your mother were alive, I know—”
It was my turn to interrupt. “You did not know my mother. Now, what is it that so concerns you?”
“I do not mean to say anything particular against Mr. Jesperson. He may be the best of men, but he is still a man, and a young one, impulsive, ardent—you cannot ignore his red hair!”
I think my mouth may have fallen open at that point.
“Miss Lane, even if this man could be trusted absolutely—which my years of experience make me doubt—you must still bear in mind how it looks.”
“His hair?”
