The Curious Affair of the Witch at Wayside Cross

by Lisa Tuttle

  “Undoubtedly she was desperate, terrified of losing her position and being turned out with nowhere to go. Her mind may have been affected by her travails—I have seen it before,” said Dr. Vokes. He swirled the brandy in the glass, sniffed, and then took a healthy gulp.

  I was beginning to feel a bit desperate myself at the leisurely pace set by the physician. “What about the baby? I think we should send for the police at once.”

  He shook his head and looked at Mr. Jesperson. “Where did you search?”

  “The privy and the stables. Also, immediately outside those buildings. Billy was certain that the baby was not left unattended for more than two or three minutes. There were no signs of violence, and I saw no footprints.”

  “It is dark,” replied the doctor. “Who knows what you may have missed? In the morning, the body will be discovered under a bush, or thrust into the hedge, or in some other nearby hiding place.”

  My skin crawled with horror. “You think the baby is dead?”

  “Of course it is, my dear,” he said kindly, really looking at me for the first time. “You do not want to think it, because you are gentle and softhearted, like all good women. I have seen a great many terrible things in my time. You imagine an abduction, but who would wish to steal a servant girl’s illegitimate baby?”

  “Who would wish to kill that baby?” I snapped back at him.

  “Who else but the poor, desperate mother?”

  “Oh, how horrible!” cried Mrs. Ringer. “Maria could not be so wicked! What about her maternal instincts?”

  “I consider it a matter not of wickedness, but self-preservation,” responded Dr. Vokes. “to give her child a mercifully quick death as an alternative to slow starvation.”

  “Doctor, you must know we would never have let them starve to death—no one would, not in England,” cried Mrs. Ringer.

  “There are people starving to death all over England. A quick death can be a mercy. Such things happen more often in the lower classes than those of us who are comfortably situated like to think.”

  “You may explain the reason for some infanticides, Doctor Vokes, but it does not answer the facts in this case,” I said, my voice as reasonable as his. “If she had smothered it immediately, perhaps, but she kept the baby, and took care of her, and when she found her gone—oh, if you had seen her anguish you could never accuse her of murder.”

  “You seem to forget that I did see her. I spoke with her and questioned her long enough to be certain she was not acting—she has no memory of what she did. Her grief and bewilderment are genuine.”

  “Are you suggesting she may have a split personality?” Mr. Jesperson’s face lit with excitement.

  Dr. Ringer sprang up from his seat, put another log on the fire, then seized the poker and stirred vigorously. “Surely you do not suggest our meek little maidservant is in actuality some sort of Miss Jekyll and Miss Hyde? Do you suppose our cook prepared the potion to cause the transformation?”

  Dr. Vokes gave a rumbling laugh. “Excellent—I can see that as a cartoon in Punch. I am sorry you do not include so many jokes in your sermons, Doctor Ringer. No, no, R. L. Stevenson’s yarn was an allegory, of course. There are no such potions. But the premise is not entirely fantastical. Indeed, I have it on good authority that the author was inspired by the first diagnosed case of multiple personalities in one man.”

  “Louis Vivet, 1885,” said Mr. Jesperson.

  The doctor looked at him in surprise. “You are a medical student?”

  “No. But I take a close interest in mental disorders, and read all the literature that I can find on the subject. A deal of good work is being done in France. I suppose your reasoning is that the trauma of unexpected motherhood, the necessity of keeping it a secret, could have caused a mental split to occur, and therefore it would be wrong to blame Maria for any act committed by her second self. She has no memory of it, and would never have harmed her child.”

  “Well, someone did,” Reverend Ringer retorted, throwing down the poker.

  “And no one except the desperate mother could have any reason to kill a baby,” said Dr. Vokes, and finished his brandy.

  “But we do not know that the baby is dead,” I objected, a little desperately. “Unless we find it—”

  In an instant Mr. Jesperson was on his feet. “We must go out and search.”

  “In darkness? Pointless. Much more sensible to wait until morning,” said the doctor.

  “And aid in murder? Only think, sir. How would such a death be effected, especially in a divided soul? By smothering, beating, strangulation—or without violence, the way Spartan mothers were said to leave their less-than-perfect infants, to die of exposure.”

  “She may still be alive,” I cried, understanding, and joining Mr. Jesperson on his way to the door. “Oh, we must hurry, before it is too late.”

  Chapter 10

  The Search

  Soon, wrapped up and equipped with lanterns, Dr. Ringer, Dr. Vokes, Mr. Jesperson, Billy, Mrs. Ringer, and myself were searching the grounds, gardens, and roadside areas near the house. From the stableboy’s testimony we knew that there were only a few minutes in which anyone could have done away with or hidden the baby, and although it felt very cold, especially after the warmth of the fireside, we were all hopeful that even naked on a bed of leaves or under a bush, the baby would yet have survived.

  We hunted with a will, and Dr. Vokes, who had been so reluctant at first, was possibly the most energetic and determined of us all, his reluctance vanished as soon as he realized that he might be proved right about what happened and yet save the child.

  We must have spent more than an hour going over the gardens and the area around the barn and the privy, investigating every nook and cranny. The moon was almost full, in a sky with fitful clouds, and it gave so much light that our lanterns were scarcely necessary.

  The men searched the roadside to a distance much farther than Maria herself could have gone in only a few minutes; they not only looked along the bare verges, but clambered into ditches and hedges. Mr. Jesperson went across the road into the field, as far as the shallow depression we had explored only that morning: The connection between a mother wailing for her lost child and shrieking pits was too obvious to ignore. But he returned empty-handed.

  At last we all—except Mrs. Ringer, who had already given it up as a lost cause and returned to the house—stood indecisively by the front gate, unable to think of any possible hiding places we had overlooked, and feeling despondent.

  “You go off to bed now, Billy,” said Dr. Ringer. “Keep yourself warm. You’ll do no one any good by catching a chill.”

  “What can have become of the little ’un?” the boy asked. “Who’d steal a baby?”

  By then, even Dr. Vokes must acknowledge that Maria had not done away with her child; there had not been enough time for her to have gone farther than our searches had taken us, or to have dug even the shallowest of graves.

  “Book of Kings, chapter three,” replied the vicar. “And this woman’s child died in the night; because she overlaid it. And she arose at midnight, and took my son from beside me, while thine handmaiden slept, and laid it in her bosom, and laid her dead child in my bosom.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Jesperson. “A bereaved parent might well be tempted to take another baby as a replacement.”

  “A pretty theory,” said Dr. Vokes in a tone that belied his words. “However, I am certain the reverend will confirm he has not officiated at an infant funeral in recent months.”

  “The last was a child of three,” agreed Dr. Ringer. “But—”

  “Nor have I attended any stillbirths this year.”

  “Praise the Lord for that. But it may be that some woman in the neighborhood has recently miscarried? Or even a barren woman, trying for years to conceive, finally driven to take what the Lord has not been pleased to grant her?”

  “If so, she has not sought my confidence,” Dr. Vokes said flatly. “You would be better
to question Miss Bulstrode, for I understand that many women apply to her for tonics and traditional cures, even spells, to overcome fertility problems.”

  I said nothing, of course, but inwardly resolved to return to Wayside Cross in the morning and do just that.

  “Perhaps we are looking at this question the wrong way round,” said Mr. Jesperson. “We might come up with a list of women desirous of a child, and one of them might have been desperate enough to take what she considered an unwanted baby—but how would she have known of its existence?”

  “Maria told no one,” I said. “Billy was a witness—the only witness, we presume, but if anyone else was in the stables over the past few days they might have discovered a baby hidden in the hay.”

  “Billy, have you seen anyone hanging about the stables? Any visitors I don’t know about?” Dr. Ringer asked.

  “No, sir. Not until these two.” He indicated Mr. Jesperson and myself by a nod of his head.

  “We have had no other guests.”

  “That leaves your employees,” said Mr. Jesperson. “Did Mr. Mavesin have any cause to visit the stables?”

  “That’s absurd! No one could suspect my secretary of—”

  “No one suspects him of any wrongdoing, Reverend. Remember, we are simply trying to ascertain if anyone beside Maria and Billy knew about the baby. Rumors may have spread, and allowed someone to plan the abduction. Otherwise, we are left with an opportunistic kidnapper, a passing stranger, or someone known to the family who entered the stables for some other reason, and made a spontaneous decision to take the baby they saw there. Does that sound likely?”

  “Nothing about this situation is likely,” grumbled Dr. Vokes, adjusting his scarf and turning up his collar against the wind. “I can do nothing more tonight. I will stop by to see Maria tomorrow. Good night.”

  We bid him good night. Billy having vanished to his hayloft, we went to the front door, and discovered it locked.

  “My wife must have gone to bed,” said the vicar. “Undoubtedly, she was overcome by the emotional stress of this evening. She will not have locked the kitchen door.”

  This proved to be the case, and it seemed likely that Mrs. Ringer had not so much as looked into the back regions of the house before she made her retreat upstairs, for we found the kitchen in the same state as when we had left it, piles of dirty dishes stacked to await the attention of the unconscious maid. Dr. Ringer scarcely paused—such was his concern for his wife’s fragile nerves—as he hurried through.

  I considered it an unexpected gift to have more time to discuss matters with Mr. Jesperson.

  “Someone has been at the pudding,” he said.

  Indeed, one of the seven little bowls was now empty. “Perhaps whoever cleared the table took it as her right. Who do you think: Mrs. Ringer or Miss Flowerdew?”

  “Hilda,” he replied, picking up one of the bowls and attacking the pudding with a clean spoon. I opened my mouth to remonstrate, but he pushed another bowl across the counter toward me, saying, his mouth half full, “It is too good to waste.”

  He was right. The sweet, custardy dessert was as delicious as everything else prepared by the Ringers’ excellent cook. When he had finished his first bowl, Mr. Jesperson took a second, and I confess I did the same. If there was any fault at all to be found, it could only be the size of the portions.

  “Could Miss Flowerdew have known about the child?” he asked between mouthfuls. “Remember, she was almost late for dinner, and I thought she looked flustered. What if she had been out to the stables, and whisked the baby up to her room? I really should have insisted that the house should be searched, but with everyone else convinced it was murder rather than abduction…”

  I stared in astonishment. “But why on earth should she want to steal a baby?”

  “I do not claim any expertise in female psychology, but she is a spinster of a certain age who has seen her chances of marriage and motherhood disappear. I sensed an air of deep sadness about her. Did you not remark it?” He waved his spoon vaguely. “Of course, it may be something else that haunts her…but unfulfilled longings can become obsessions, and lead to rash actions.”

  Miss Flowerdew was sad and clearly dissatisfied, which struck me as entirely natural to one in her position. Governess was a role in life to which many women were driven by financial need, and few were temperamentally suited to it.

  “Miss Flowerdew already has three children—four counting Hilda—to look after; why should she want more?”

  He pushed aside his empty bowl and reached for another. “It is hardly logical, and yet I believe it is a fact that mothers often miss their babies when they grow up into little boys and girls. Women of all ages and ranks, even those who might flinch in distaste from a grubby four-year-old, coo and sigh at the sight of a new baby.”

  I had noticed it myself, but…“But Miss Flowerdew?”

  He grinned. “I know. But someone stole the baby. And no one has been able to name a single likely suspect. Living together in the same house, perhaps Miss Flowerdew noticed signs and suspected Maria’s condition. Or Cook!” He paused, spoon suspended before his lips. “Talented, irreplaceable Cook…She strikes me as altogether more down-to-earth than Miss Flowerdew. Maybe Cook knew and, although disinclined to inform her employers, gossiped with her cronies? If so, the news may have spread to the one woman in the village who might be desperate and driven enough to take a child she thought no one else wanted.” He licked his spoon. “Must ask Cook tomorrow. If she did gossip, she might know who might have done something with the information. Must take it carefully, though; important she should feel we are on the same side and there is no blame attached to her. I am certain the Ringers would never forgive us if we hurt her feelings.”

  “You are good at sweet-talking cooks,” I said. “So I will leave that to you…For me, another visit to Wayside Cross is in order. Miss Bulstrode may know which poor, desperate woman may have been driven to steal a baby.”

  “Will you have some more of this delicious pudding?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Sure?” He wiggled the bowl.

  “Quite sure,” I said. “Now, about Miss Flowerdew…”

  His eyes lit up. “Of course! Take this with you. If she lets you in, you can sound her out, and look around for any sign of the child; if she refuses, we will know she has something to hide.”

  I did not think it would be that simple. If Miss Flowerdew had already cleaned her teeth she probably would not want anything more to eat. I was barely an acquaintance; there was no reason for her to welcome my visit. Still, there was no reason not to try.

  I carried the bowl and a spoon upstairs and knocked at her door—hoping that memory served, and this was her room rather than one of the children’s.

  “What do you want?” Miss Flowerdew’s pinched, startled little face appeared in the space between the door and frame, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. “Oh! Miss Lane. I thought it must be one of the children. What is the matter?”

  “May I come in?”

  “Of course.” Without the slightest hesitation she opened the door wide. I took a swift look around as I entered, noticing many places in which a baby might have been hidden: in the wardrobe, behind the curtains, under the bed, even in a dresser drawer. Unless the child cried, an “accidental” discovery might be impossible. I could drop my handkerchief and steal a glance beneath the bed when I picked it up, but what excuse could I have to look inside her wardrobe?

  I held out my offering. “A bit late, I know, but I thought you might like it.”

  To my amazement, tears welled up in her pale-blue eyes. “How very kind you are,” she whispered. Then, rapidly blinking, she cleared her throat and said in a more normal tone, “But what about you?”

  I think I blushed, recalling the secret feast so recently shared with Mr. Jesperson. “Oh, I was too greedy to wait, I’m afraid. Please, do eat yours.”

  “Thank you, I will. Later. Won’t you sit down, and stay for
a while? If you don’t mind?”

  “I should like that.” I settled into the rocking chair she indicated, and she perched on the cushioned bench in front of the dressing table, on top of which she set the dish and spoon gently, almost reverently, down.

  “So very upsetting,” she murmured.

  “I suppose Mrs. Ringer told you…?”

  “Oh, yes. If not for the children—we must keep it from them, of course—I would have joined you in the search. You found nothing?”

  “Nothing. If not for the doctor’s confirmation, we might have thought the whole thing no more than a mad fantasy. Did you never suspect that Maria was in the family way?”

  Her eyes widened. “Not in the least. She seemed such a good girl, quiet, docile—and there were no young men hanging around. Never any cause for concern. Yet somehow it happened. Not here, of course. The brother-in-law, I believe? Dreadful goings-on.”

  “And you noticed no physical signs? No changes in her?”

  Miss Flowerdew’s head-shake was emphatically negative. “She did not get fat; she looked no different, and made no complaints; she continued to work as usual. I have never known such a thing. And when it came to her time—well, I have been in this family for two confinements, and—such a fuss, I simply cannot imagine how anyone could keep it a secret! Do you suppose the doctor could have been mistaken? Do you remember that great scandal at court—no, you are probably too young to have heard about it—but one of Queen Victoria’s own physicians declared a certain lady—and she was a widowed lady—was to become a mother? And it was not until she died of it that he realized he had mistaken a tumor for a child.”

  “No, there is no mistake—unless the stableboy is lying. And why would he? He saw it all. He believed that she told no one, and that no one else knew, but he was wrong.”

  “Why do you think so?”

  “Because someone took the baby.”

  She did not perceive my logic. “Well, someone might have felt they were doing it a kindness, rescuing a foundling. Babies do get left on doorsteps.”