The Curious Affair of the Witch at Wayside Cross

by Lisa Tuttle

  He shut the door. “Here’s the rain! And my train will not be far behind. Farewell, Miss Lane, until tomorrow.”

  I leaned back as the cab rolled away, and remembered our brief meeting with Colonel Robert Mallet in a London street where Mr. Jesperson had performed his “trifling favor”—climbing up the side of a house to rescue a stranded kitten. The kitten was the pet of the old gentleman’s granddaughter, and he had been extremely grateful, promising to treat Mr. Jesperson to dinner at his club, eager to repay the favor. Well, if my friend was right—and I did not doubt it—Colonel Mallet had repaid it more than handsomely now.

  Chapter 16

  Poisonous Babies

  Opening the door to me at Wayside Cross, this time Nancy looked not merely startled but dismayed. “Oh, miss, you needn’t knock—you are a guest here, so you may come in as you please.” Hurrying me in out of the rain, she relieved me of my coat, which she patted and shook in an attempt to rid it of water before hanging it on the hall coat-tree.

  “Do you need me to show you to your room?” she asked.

  “No, thank you, Nancy, I think I remember where it is.”

  My words, although joking, gave me an idea as I mounted the stairs. To learn if there was anything in Maria’s suspicion of her neighbors I really ought to search the house, and sooner rather than later. If I was discovered poking into somewhere I should not have been, I might get away with the claim of being lost today but not tomorrow.

  Thus, rather than going directly to my room when I reached the top of the stairs, I walked to the other end of the passage, and (the words I beg your pardon, I thought this was the bathroom waiting to be uttered) took hold of a door handle and boldly opened it.

  Within was dark and shadowy, only the late-afternoon daylight streaming through a single window. I saw a canopied four-poster bed, a wardrobe, a dressing table, and a few other items of furniture, one of which at first I took for an unusual coat-and-hat stand designed to resemble a bare, leafless tree. But as I absorbed more details—a purple shawl, a red scarf, the hint of a familiar perfume, and books, everywhere, piled on the bed and floor, ribbons and bits of paper protruding as place markers—I felt certain this was Miss Bulstrode’s bedroom.

  Cautiously, I entered, pulling the door to behind me, and began to search, opening the wardrobe, looking underneath the bed—with every move I made, I felt more and more the guilty spy, prying into an innocent woman’s private space, and I hurried, eager to get away as soon as I managed to convince myself that there was most certainly no living creature but myself anywhere in the room.

  Back in the corridor, I opened the next door and found what was probably known as the lumber room. Here were trunks and boxes, a folding table, extra chairs, other bits and pieces that would only be taken out on special occasions, or were awaiting repair. I saw at once that it would be impossible for me to investigate further without moving things about and making noise—and I could think of no acceptable explanation for a guest to go digging through the things stored away here, so I satisfied myself with sniffing the air. Although my olfactory sense was not as keen as that of Mr. Jesperson, I could smell dust and wood, old furniture wax, a trace of silver polish, but nothing that suggested a baby.

  The next door I tried was the bathroom. Immediately beside it was a door labeled WC.

  That left three rooms. One was mine; the other two must belong to Miss Ann and Miss Alys. Were they in residence? I stood listening to the steady drumming of the rain on the roof, and decided that they certainly were.

  Rather than risk embarrassment, I went into my own room. It was warm and welcoming. While I had been out, someone had lit a fire in the grate. I added more coal, and sat down to write some notes. Soon, though, the warmth of the room, the comfort of the padded armchair, and the aftereffects of a good dinner and wine lulled me into setting aside my notebook and pen and I closed my eyes for just a moment…

  The sound of knocking roused me. The room was quite dark, the fire nearly out. So much for my “moment”! But who had knocked? I held my breath to listen. From the passage outside I heard a woman’s voice, low but penetrating, call, “Annie!”

  I nearly jumped out of my skin. In fact, I did leap out of my chair and was on my feet, half crouching and tensely alert, in one swift, unconscious motion.

  Annie was the name of Maria’s baby. This was my first, overwhelming thought. The voice came again: “Oh, open up, Annie dear! Do come down and have some supper.”

  I recognized the voice of Miss Alys, and realized she must be speaking to her sister Ann, whose room must be the one next to mine. When I heard the impatient rattle of the door handle, I guessed Ann had locked herself in.

  “Ann, please.”

  Miss Ann’s response was too muffled for me to make out, but Alys heard it well enough, and gave a derisory snort. “Nonsense! Don’t be such a child. You will make yourself ill. Come down now—if not for yourself, then for the sake of our guest.”

  A key turned, and I heard Ann say in a tragic voice, “How can you expect me to care about food or company? My life is over—ruined. I shall never love again.”

  “Don’t be such a big silly.”

  “You would not talk like that to me if I had been his widow.”

  “Thank goodness you are not. Listen to me: He did not love you, and you only played at loving him. Now you are playing at grief. I know. Be a good girl and come with me—or do I have to send Gabriel up to pull you down by your hair?”

  Ann shocked me by giggling. “Beastly thing!”

  “Yes, he is a beast, but he is Bella’s beast.”

  “I meant you.”

  “Ah, but I am your beast.”

  Another giggle, then footsteps and a rustling of dresses: I envisioned the sisters in an embrace as they made up their disagreement, and listened to them walking away together down the stairs.

  I had not heard Ann lock her door after she came out. My heart raced; I could not resist, I would not miss the chance to search her room. Grief could drive people to do extraordinary things. What if Ann, half mad with grief over her dead lover, had gone for some reason to the Vicarage stables; might she not have imagined she was rescuing an abandoned baby? I must seize the moment and learn the truth.

  Quickly, and as quietly as I could, I slipped out of my room and into the one next door. She had left a lamp burning, and I saw at a glance something that appeared to be a child’s bedroom, rather than one of a woman of an age to be married. Everything was in soft pastel hues of pink, yellow, and lavender. The walls were adorned with sentimental pictures of kittens and puppies being embraced or bathed or dressed by cherubic children. At least half a dozen dolls were on display, staring at me with shiny wide eyes and pursed painted lips. There was a baby doll and a stuffed dog on a pillow. The bookshelf contained mostly school stories and old-fashioned novels like The Wide, Wide World and Dorothy’s Vocation, but there was also a complete Shakespeare and a number of poetry anthologies.

  I looked beneath the bed. Stuffed away behind the dust ruffle was a pair of knitted pink slippers, a cheap novel with a lurid cover, a crumpled handkerchief, and a silver cake tin. I did not open it, deciding Ann’s treasures might remain her secret, but rose and quickly went to peek behind the heavy curtains that enclosed a window seat, upon which rested more dolls, more novels, and a box of chocolates. I no longer expected to find anything incriminating, but for the sake of thoroughness, I opened the wardrobe, which was filled just as it should be with dresses, skirts, scarves, and shoes. It had been absurd of me to imagine she might have stolen a baby, but at least I could put that idea to rest now. I departed as circumspectly as I had entered, and returned to my own room to fix my hair and otherwise make myself tidy before going downstairs to join the others.

  Although we ate from fine china in the dining room, supper was, as I had been told it would be, a simple meal: soup and bread, with cheese and fruit or cake to follow.

  “Or both,” said Miss Bulstrode.

 
; “Beware of cheese before bedtime,” warned Alys. “It can give you nightmares. Cake is a safer choice, and always delicious when made by sister Ann.”

  Ann flushed and dropped her eyes, the picture of modesty.

  “Did Ann also make this lovely carrot soup?” I asked.

  “Elsie made it, but all of us can cook,” said Alys. “Of course we have our specialties; Ann does love her sweets. I like baking, and also making stews and roast meats. Bella is happiest when she can serve us the fruits and vegetables she has grown herself.”

  “This is not the best time of year for me,” said Miss Bulstrode. “Unless you include my pickles and preserves.”

  I relaxed, enjoying the food and the company, relieved I need no longer suspect my hosts of any involvement in the disappearance of Maria’s child. She must have been influenced by evil rumors about witchcraft and her neighbors, and for that I blamed Felix Ott.

  However, I told myself I must not forget why I was here. They might be able to give me some useful information about Charles Manning and his other acquaintances in the county. I was particularly interested in what they might have to say with regard to Felix Ott, for the revelation that he had lied to us about his last meeting with Mr. Manning, and his whereabouts on the night he died, had, in my mind at least, moved Mr. Ott to first place as a suspect. That two of his closest associates should have died so unexpectedly, in mysterious circumstances, could hardly be a matter of chance.

  But as soon as I tried to raise the subjects of most interest to me, I was foiled by Alys. I understood, and sympathized with, her desire to protect her sister by avoiding sensitive topics. Remembering how Alys had needed to coax Ann to join us this evening, I realized she would require careful handling, and I resolved to give it more time. It would not help my cause if I upset her with clumsy questions; I could too easily imagine how her sisters would close ranks against me. It was bad enough to have been evicted from the Vicarage; I should be most heartily ashamed if I made myself a pariah in a second household today.

  “I cannot go on calling you ‘Miss Lane,’ ” said Alys. “You know our names—I call that unfair, until you tell us yours.”

  This question was one I always dreaded, for the name my father bestowed upon me, although well intended, had always felt wrong—I am no Aphrodite. I took a deep breath and replied, “My friends call me Di.”

  “Diana, the huntress, goddess of the moon, the Roman equivalent of the Greek Artemis,” said Alys, her eyes alight. “May we call you Artemis? A is for Arabella, Alys, Ann, and Artemis!”

  I hardly knew how to respond, and was grateful when Miss Bulstrode leaned toward me, saying, “I should like to call you Di, if you will call me Bella.”

  “I should like that very much, Bella.”

  “Well, I shall call you Artemis,” said Alys, a stubborn set to her jaw.

  “I shall take it as a mark of your special favor,” I murmured.

  Bella chuckled. “Never underestimate the value of that.”

  Taking this as good advice, I allowed Alys to set the direction of the table talk, and, although I never liked being the center of attention, I accepted this as the price I must pay. Since I was not admitting to my present occupation, I spoke of my previous one, as companion and assistant to Gabrielle Fox, aka “Miss X,” working for the Society for Psychical Research, and related some amusing anecdotes about fraudulent mediums and make-believe spirits.

  “And are they all frauds and make-believe?” Bella asked.

  “No. I should not like to give that impression. The real work of the SPR is not to uncover fraud but to expand our understanding of the world, to show how many things generally considered impossible according to the physical laws of science may actually take place—thought transference, creating physical effects by force of will alone, the existence of other states of being, the survival of the personality after death, even perhaps such things as witchcraft and magic spells.”

  Bella did not look pleased at my attempt to connect her own field with spiritualism. “Witchcraft is nothing like that—we do not make the claims that mediums do,” she said sternly. “Naturally, superstitious people may believe what they like, but I assure you, everything a so-called witch, wisewoman, or cunning man does—or ever did—can be explained in scientific terms. Some people are too inclined to give the label magic to anything they do not understand.”

  “Is that Mr. Ott’s belief, too?”

  “You mean, the principles behind his School? Well, I should not speak for him, but it is certainly my understanding that—”

  Alys gave a dramatic groan. “Please, may we speak of something else for a change? I am sick to death of that silly School! Artemis, what of your personal life? Your parents are dead, but have you no family?”

  “Only my sister. We saw much of each other when we both lived in London, but she is often traveling. Currently she is on tour in America.” Seeing her look of puzzlement, I explained: “Athene is an actress.” I was quite unprepared for the excitement with which this information was greeted, as Ann and Alys burst out with a volley of comments and questions:

  “On the stage. How wonderful! How proud of her you must be! Do you attend all her opening nights? Of course not! In London, I mean. Is she a leading lady, the ingénue, or does she take character parts? I wonder if we have ever seen her? Who has she acted with? What is her favorite role?”

  The questions came thick and fast. Only Bella abstained, sitting back in her chair, casting a fond, tolerant look at her siblings. Gradually they wound down and stopped, watching me expectantly.

  “I hardly know where to begin,” I said, with a little laugh. “Of course, I am very proud of my sister, and happy to speak of her, but we do lead our own lives; I have not seen her every performance…”

  “Forgive us,” said Alys. “But we do so adore the theater…The great sadness of my life—really, the only fault I find with Wayside Cross—is that it is so far from theater-land. Sometimes in the summer there may be a traveling troupe in Cromer, or we attend plays in Norwich, but—as you must know—nothing compares to London. And it is all but impossible to convince Bella to leave Aylmerton for a week or two in the city.”

  “I can live quite well without the bright lights and spectacles of London,” said Bella. “And you girls are quite old enough now to go there without me, whenever you feel you must have another dose of theater. Of course, you are right to consider the expense, but there are ways to economize. It might be cheaper to stay in lodgings with half board for a month—in that time, you could have such a surfeit of theater and other cultural events that it would last you a whole year.”

  “Or why not simply move to London?” I said helpfully. “You could surely find some gainful employment there—maybe even something to do with the theater.”

  Alys gave me a dark look. “You are very flattering, but I could never be an actress.”

  “There are other jobs besides that—I did not mean—”

  She did not wait for my apology. “I love theater, but it is not my life. My life is here.”

  Remembering that not everyone shared my feelings about the importance of a meaningful occupation, I did not pursue the question of what she actually did with her life in her sister’s household, but asked, “When were you last in London?”

  She gave a heavy sigh. “So long ago, I can scarcely recall it. Just after Easter. We had hoped to go again before Christmas, but”—she cast a sidelong glance at Ann—“that is probably out of the question now.”

  Ann had been looking pensive, and now spoke almost to herself: “Charles promised to take me to the theater. He knew how I loved Shakespeare. But no one is playing Romeo and Juliet. Surely next year there will be a new production. If we lived in Gordon Square after our marriage we could see everything, and Alys could come to stay as long as she liked. Oh why, why?” She jerked her head back and looked about wildly. “Why am I still here? Why did I not die with my beloved? Oh, Charles, Charles! Why did you leave me, Cha
rles?”

  Alys got up and rushed to embrace her sister as Ann burst out in noisy, racking sobs. Bella rose, too, and calmly took charge. “Take her to bed, Alys, and stay with her. I will bring up something to help her sleep.” Even amid the turmoil, she did not forget her duties as hostess, telling me to help myself to cheese and biscuits or a piece of cake from the stand on the sideboard while I waited for her return.

  I had not long to wait; rather to my surprise, Bella swept back into the room a few minutes later, carrying a decanter.

  “All is under control,” she said briskly. “Alys will stay with her until Ann falls asleep. Poor girl…It is mostly self-dramatics, of course, but when she works herself into a state like that there is no point in trying to reason with her.”

  This struck me as rather insensitive response, and I could not help objecting: “Surely there is never any point in applying reason to an emotion as powerful as grief. Especially when the wound is still so raw. The man she loved is dead.”

  “She did not love him. You think me cruel and unfeeling—I am not. I know my little sisters. Ann is still a child, and more interested in her own fascinating emotions than in another real person. She was in love with being in love, and now that Charles is dead, it is not him she grieves over, but the loss of all the fantasies that she had built around him.” She held out the decanter toward me, asking, “Will you try a glass of my plum brandy? It goes very nicely with Ann’s poppy-seed cake.”

  “Thank you, I will. From your own plums? You are multitalented, indeed.”

  She laughed as she poured out two small crystal glasses of the dark-purple liquid. “I suggest you taste it before you decide if liquor-making is one of my skills.”

  “I am no expert on brandy, but I like this,” I said after taking a sip. “And you are by all accounts a skilled gardener.”

  “I love tending my plants and watching them thrive,” she replied. “I suppose some might say I find in them an outlet for my thwarted maternal emotions.”