The Curious Affair of the Witch at Wayside Cross

by Lisa Tuttle

  “Hardly thwarted, when you have raised your two half sisters.”

  “True.” She drank off her glass in a gulp and then gazed at her hands, resting on the tablecloth. She touched the orange stone of her poison ring, and then covered it with her other hand. “But not quite from infancy. Of course, I love them dearly, they could almost be my own, yet it must be different to hold one’s own newborn baby, the fruit of one’s own womb. I wonder…is it too late for me?”

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I held my breath, not daring to speak, fearing to break the spell of this unexpected intimacy. But then in an instant her mood changed again; she looked at me, smiling, and asked, “Would you like to come and meet my green children now?”

  In truth, I have next to no interest in plants and flowers, but I made a show of eagerness and allowed her to lead me to the back of the house where she made sure we were both equipped with lanterns, although we did not bother with coats or capes against the icy rain for the short distance we must run to the glasshouse.

  By contrast, this time, the warm and humid air was a welcome blessing, and despite my lack of interest in exotic flora, I was happy to spend a little time in this man-made jungle, the litany of botanical names falling from Bella’s lips in musical counterpoint to the drumming of rain against the glass.

  She pointed out fruits and flowers and leaves and spoke of edible qualities and medicinal uses. Some of her “children” I was invited to admire for their vigorous growth or beauty. Many of the plants were descendants of samples her grandfather had brought back from India or a South Sea island; others she had grown from seeds ordered from a catalog.

  “Now take care,” she said, holding up her lantern as we came to the far end of the long, hot room. “We’ve left behind the friendly plants with their pretty flowers and tasty fruits. Do you recognize this one?”

  I saw a bush with soft green leaves and shiny black berries. The berries looked succulent, and I could easily imagine they might be good to eat, although her warning suggested otherwise. “They look like bilberries,” I said. “But you will have to tell me.”

  “This is Atropa belladonna, or deadly nightshade. Eating the berries is a fairly certain route to death, although some get away with a fever, hallucinations, and a rapid heartbeat, possibly a mild seizure.”

  Although I had failed to recognize it, I was familiar with this deadly plant. “Have you nothing good to say about it?” I asked her wryly.

  She laughed. “Well, it is rather pretty, don’t you agree? And small amounts of the chemical—atropine—can be mixed with other ingredients for medicinal purposes. I believe that in the past, women used it for cosmetic purposes—that is supposed to be the origin of the belladonna name.”

  Moving along, she pointed to a small, slender tree in a blue pot. “Strychnos nux-vomica, more commonly known as the strychnine tree. I am sure I do not have to explain further.”

  I frowned. “The only thing you might have to explain is why you should grow your own poison.”

  She gave me an odd look. “You mean, rather than buying it from the chemist, like other people?”

  “Surely it has no beneficial uses?”

  Her lips quirked. “You do not consider the extermination of vermin beneficial? But in fact, in minute doses strychnine is a stimulant. It may also be used to treat intestinal worms. For those reasons—and because we are occasionally troubled by moles in the garden and rats in the pantry—I include strychnine in my pharmacopoeia.”

  “And you are not afraid it might be stolen? I heard that a farmer and his wife both died from strychnine poisoning earlier this year.”

  “I keep all my jars in a locked cabinet, to which no one but myself has access.” She patted her waist, producing a slight, silvery jangle from the keys hanging from her belt. “I am quite certain that it is more secure there than it would be behind the counter in a village pharmacy. Although I have met their daughter, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Goodall—the farmers you mentioned—have ever set foot in this house. Mrs. Goodall’s name is down in the poison register, since she purchased a quantity of strychnine in Cromer, for the declared purpose of exterminating the moles who had ruined her flower beds.”

  “I do not mean to accuse you of anything,” I said, uncomfortable beneath her gaze. “I only thought, the existence of such deadly plants might be a risk…and despite what you said about your medicine cabinet, the door to this glasshouse has no lock.”

  She gestured at the strychnine tree. “Can you explain to me how the would-be murderer would extract the poison from that, even if he recognized the tree?”

  I stared at the tree. “Uh, boil the leaves perhaps?”

  “No.”

  I thought harder. “I suppose there is a fruit, some sort of nut, perhaps.”

  She nodded her approval of my guess. “But not at the moment—as you can see. I have long since taken its paltry harvest—it never has produced many nuts; I keep it warm and watered, so perhaps it is the soil that is at fault—and ground the seeds to powder. So even if someone was aware of its existence, and knew how to extract the poison, and came creeping in here some dark midnight—little good would it do him, or her. Even if someone wished to go to so much trouble to avoid putting his name in the poison register, I hope I shall not have to count too many potential murderers among those I have introduced to my poisonous offspring!”

  She touched my arm. “Come, shall we go back to the house? I am used to this atmosphere, but you are looking flushed.”

  “No, I am fine. There is no need to cut our tour short.”

  “I fear I have overstretched your interest.”

  “No, certainly not.” Glancing around, my eyes fell upon a healthy-looking shrub in the corner. It had glossy, dark-green, blade-shaped leaves and some peculiar, knobby green fruits. “What is that? Not ripe yet, I suppose.” I reached out to touch it, and she stopped my hand.

  “Poisonous?” I asked.

  “Very.” She half turned to walk away, but I made no move to follow. My curiosity was piqued by how much less forthcoming she was regarding this, compared with her other “children.”

  “Cerbera odollam,” she said at last. “Also known as the suicide tree. The meat of one of those nuts would be enough to stop your heart within the hour—although that meat is so bitter, no one could make the mistake of eating it, except with suicidal intent.”

  “But it also has some medicinal use?”

  “Its only use is death. Hardly known in this country at all, on the southwestern coast of India where it grows it has the reputation of providing an easy release for women who have come to feel the conditions of their lives as unbearable. Death is said to be swift and painless, and the bitter taste is easily disguised by mashing the white meat of the nut with the local palm sugar. It may then be added to whatever she has chosen to make her final meal.”

  I found it interesting that she spoke of the imagined suicidal person as female. “Is it only women who kill themselves in that way?”

  She looked puzzled by my question. “I doubt it…although in their society, women undoubtedly have the worst of it. And there is the element of food preparation involved…No, I give you the description of Cerbera odollam as my grandfather gave it to me. Nothing more sinister than that.”

  Yet I did find something sinister in the way she spoke of it. “Why do you keep it? If it has no other purpose, and the fruits are so deadly?”

  “It is part of my grandfather’s collection. It survived him, and it may survive me. I have told you how I feel about my plants. I exaggerate when I call them my children, but they are certainly my pets, and I would find it as hard to destroy any one of them as I would to kill Gabriel, or any other living creature.” She moved closer to me and took my arm, directing me firmly away from the suicide tree and back in the direction of the door. “Few even know of its existence. It is safe here in my glasshouse. It does no harm.”

  But it might be used for harm, I thought, and not only for se
lf-harm. The woman who sweetens the pounded flesh of the nut to make her final meal less bitter could as easily serve it to someone else—perhaps the very person who made her unhappy enough to consider suicide. I could not help noticing that there were three nuts hanging from long, fleshy stems, and that a fourth stem in the cluster terminated abruptly. Had there only ever been three nuts, or had the fourth one been picked?

  I did not dare to ask Bella that question, and I could not get it out of my mind.

  Chapter 17

  Thinking Things Over

  The rain continued through the night, and was still falling when I went downstairs, rather later than usual, the next morning.

  I found Alys breakfasting on toast and tea in the dining room, and joined her. When I asked after her sisters, she told me that Ann never ate anything in the morning, and that Bella had already started upon her day’s work, and was now conducting a private consultation in her office.

  “Her office is your family parlor—do you not find that a bother, to be shut out of the best, most comfortable room in the house?”

  She gave me a look that mingled suspicion, reproach, and amusement. “I think my own room is the most comfortable, actually. Perhaps you mean that you are feeling shut out?”

  I tried not to be flustered by her astute remark. I was aware, too, that had she but known it she might have posed the very same question to Edith Jesperson, who never complained that her son and I had commandeered her sitting room for our office.

  “Do not look so disheartened,” she said more kindly. “Bella rarely has more than one or two visitors of a morning—you will soon be at liberty to go in and browse among the books to your heart’s content. I suppose that is what you wish to do?”

  I sighed with relief. “Yes. I do find time drags—especially on a rainy day like this—without a good book to read, and I brought nothing with me but a guidebook to Norfolk.”

  “Oh, dear. How awkward. I should tell you, there are not many books in the Bulstrode library that I should consider a good read, but come up to my room after you have finished your breakfast, and I can give you something more entertaining than anything from the old admiral’s collection.”

  “Thank you, Alys, that is very kind.” Her invitation would give me the chance I wanted to inspect her room. Even though I no longer expected to find a baby secreted in the house, I wanted to understand more about these three sisters who had featured so prominently in the final months of Charles Manning’s life. I fancy that the rooms where someone lives may offer a glimpse into their soul.

  And Alys, despite the teasing and playacting I had sensed in her earlier, was now, it seemed, quite happy to show me hers. Having finished her own breakfast, she lingered at the table until I was ready, and we went upstairs together.

  Her bedroom contrasted with those of her sisters. It was neat and tidy, with everything in its place, and there were few remnants of childhood on display, no toys or trinkets or dolls, but everywhere evidence of some craft or hobby: a basket of embroidery threads, needlepoint cushions on the chairs; a box of watercolors, framed landscapes on the walls. On the marquetry-topped table (“not very good, I fear, and it took me a very long time,” she said modestly) was a photographic portrait of the three sisters, and a much older picture of a young woman I took to be their mother.

  She directed my attention to her bookcase and invited me to take my pick.

  Apart from a few “how-to” books (Practical Marquetry, The Needlewoman’s Handbook) and some biographies, they were nearly all novels or plays, arranged alphabetically by author. Alys had her own one-volume Complete Shakespeare, and some anthologies, but her taste in fiction tended toward the sensational, with many works by Miss Braddon and Mr. Wilkie Collins. My own interest is more for travel narratives and personal histories—perhaps I encounter enough of the sensational in my profession—and I am afraid Alys found my choice (Mrs. Gaskell’s Life of Charlotte Brontë) somewhat disappointing.

  I took my leave of Alys and went to my own room, not to settle down with Mrs. Gaskell, but to write to Mr. Jesperson. I did not mean to post the letter, but if we had no opportunity for private conversation when next we met, at least he could be brought up to date with my own investigation. Writing a proper letter, rather than simply jotting a few notes to myself, also helped me to think about the significance of my observations.

  Ann had a childish liking for dolls, and Bella was haunted by unfulfilled maternal longings, but I had found nothing to suggest that they had so much as suspected the existence of Maria’s baby; her suggestion that they had taken it could only be the result of superstitious fear, possibly stoked by Mr. Ott’s recent defamatory remarks connecting witches to infant sacrifice.

  In regard to Mr. C. Manning’s death, however, I am not inclined to acquit them of all involvement There are a few things that bother me. For one, Ann is deeply upset by the loss of her fiancé, which is surely natural, yet her sisters continue to make light of her feelings and insist she is self-dramatizing and never truly loved him but only the idea of their love.

  If Bella loved CM as I suspect, this may reflect feelings of jealousy on her part, and a natural desire to dismiss his relations to her sister as being less deep and meaningful than his true feelings for her. Or did his betrayal of her turn her love to hate, in which case—could she have been driven to murder him?

  Certainly, if CM was poisoned, that poison very likely came from this house. Some of B’s most dangerous medicines are kept locked away, but there are also deadly plants in her glasshouse, which is not locked and could easily be accessed by anyone with the knowledge of what is there.

  The berries of the deadly nightshade produce hallucinations, fever, and an increased heart rate with the end result of death. Would the police surgeon have recognized the cause if CM did not eat the berries themselves but consumed them in powdered form, disguised in something else? (I am relying on your encyclopedic knowledge.)

  Another death-dealing plant is Cerbera odollam, also known as the suicide tree. Miss B showed me this plant, which is practically unknown in our country (where it would surely not survive outside a glasshouse); it is known to the people of the part of India where it grows for nutmeats that will provide a swift death from heart failure. The nuts are very bitter to taste, but quite palatable when sweetened, and easily disguised in a sauce. No one would ever guess the death that resulted was not by natural causes.

  Mr. O surely knows of Miss B’s poisonous plants, and would have had easy access to them. If he was with CM the evening of his death, drinking and dining with him at his club, he would have had the opportunity to administer the killing dose. Only—what is his motive?

  I am eager to hear what you have learned in London. I can get no further on my own. How I long to discuss it all with you. I hope we may speak soon.

  AL

  I had been aware, while writing, of movements downstairs, voices in the entrance hall, the opening and shutting of the front door, but now all was quiet again. As I folded my letter and put it away in my pocketbook, I dared to hope that Miss Bulstrode had entertained her last client of the day, and that the coast was now clear for further investigations.

  Downstairs, I knocked on the parlor door. Then I knocked again. I waited a few moments, but answer came there none. Retreat, or go ahead? I had already made my choice, and turned the handle.

  “Miss Bulstrode? Bella?” Even as I spoke, I stepped inside and saw I was alone in the room. With a rapidly beating heart, I shut the door behind me and walked swiftly to the cabinet that had been so much on my mind since my discussion with its owner about poisons.

  The doors on the front of the case were of tawny, varnished wood set with heavy, leaded glass; old, greenish, pocked with little bubbles, but through it the rows of pottery jars and smaller blue glass bottles were easily visible, lined up on the shelves within. The labels were in the usual abbreviated Latin and mostly incomprehensible to me, although some I recognized from chemists’ shops, including the
deadly STRYCH. NUS-VOM.

  I moved closer to inspect the keyhole. It was small and looked similar to one in a cabinet from my childhood home. I remembered when the key had been lost, how easy my sister and I had found it to open using a hammered nail.

  A shadow fell across me and there was a sudden, terrifying commotion in the air. Instinctively I cowered, my hands up to protect my face, as I felt the beating of wings and glimpsed the brutal beak of the crow aimed at my eyes, the claws about to snatch at my hair.

  I shrieked and crouched and scuttled backward before I turned and rose, still cowering with my hands above my head for protection as I hobbled toward the door.

  There I stopped. Realizing I had not been pursued, and was in fact unharmed, I straightened, let my hands fall away from my face, turned round, and looked back.

  Gabriel was perched on top of the cabinet, looking nearly twice his size with feathers ruffled up and his neck extended as he glared a warning at me. This time, he had not drawn blood, but if I dared try to touch this cabinet again, it would be a different story—or so I interpreted his posture. Now I understood why Bella had no fear that her drugs might be stolen.

  “So you are Bella’s watchdog,” I said shakily. “Pity the poor thief who tried to break in here—he would think himself attacked by devils!”

  Pride made me stay—I would not be banished by a bird! Although I kept a nervous eye on him as I walked slowly to the bookcases, I guessed I would be safe enough if I avoided that corner, and so it proved: Gabriel’s remit did not extend to protecting anything left on the open shelves.

  Just to prove to myself that it had been no fluke, I found the fabled grimoire in the same place where I had come across it before, and had another look through it. The writing was like nothing I had ever encountered elsewhere. Some elements appeared to be illustrative, like Egyptian hieroglyphs: I recognized a slug, a fish, a mushroom, and a cup or bowl. Then there were some that more resembled primitive alphabets, constructed of straight lines, dots, and curved lines. Of course, I was no expert, and could not claim to be able to recognize every written language in existence—but the more I saw of this one, turning page after page, the more I suspected that it was too varied and odd for a real language. Could it be code? Or perhaps it was a private language, never meant to be read or understood by anyone but its creator. The whole book was a work of art. The pictures were lovely, and clearly representational, even the ones of things I could not name.