by Lisa Tuttle
Returning it to its place, I browsed contentedly for the next half an hour, and was absorbed by a book about an expedition through Outer Mongolia when Bella finally entered.
“Oh, here you are,” she said pleasantly. “I am glad you have found something to read—but now here is something else, a letter for you.” When she gave it to me, I recognized Mr. Jesperson’s handwriting, and I was eager to read it in privacy.
My Dear Miss Lane
I write to you in transit, on the train, and will drop this by the house, or send someone to deliver it to you so you may be up-to-date with my latest findings even before I see you in Cromer this evening.
Upon my arrival in London I went directly to the club Col. Mallet had given as his address & by good fortune he was there. (He practically lives there, since the death of his wife.) He was pleased to see me—sends his best regards to you—and immediately confirmed my suspicions: Yes, he had taken liberty of ordering another printing of our business card, for wider distribution—he hoped we did not mind—I assured him we considered it a great kindness & indeed I learned when I got to Gower St. that we have had three inquiries already, undoubtedly attributable to his missionary activity—but I digress.
Col. Mallet is acquainted with Felix Ott & remembered giving cards to him and his friend. Of Manning (whom he had never seen before) he had the impression that he was in business with Ott, and subordinate to him; also that there was a tension or rivalry between them.
Over the course of the evening, this erupted into a quarrel.
All our friend could tell me about it was that the argument was over a woman. Manning said something that caused Ott to erupt with fury: “You cad! You do not mean to ruin her?”
Manning said he meant to marry her. His words: “I mean to make sure of her—she will have to marry me.”
Unfortunately, the colonel had no reason to know how grateful we should have been for more information, or he might have listened, hiding behind his newspaper. Instead, uncomfortable at being privy to revelations of unworthy behavior, he rattled his paper and coughed to let them know he was there. They continued to argue, although they lowered their voices. Rather than risk being made into an eavesdropper again, he withdrew to the smoking room, and the two men were left alone together.
Tho’ I pressed Col. Mallet for more details, he could recall nothing else that was said, but was able to give me his impression of the affair, which I consider trustworthy. He thought Manning was hurt and surprised by Ott’s reaction—the suggestion being that M told O his plans expecting his full approval.
The colonel naturally thought it quite shocking that one gentleman would expect another to approve of his plan to force an innocent woman into marriage. He hazarded a guess that the lady in question was in possession of a large fortune, but unless Ott and Manning had been brothers, and the marriage was intended to save an old family estate or something like that, he could not imagine why Manning should reveal his caddish designs to another man.
But if we replace the idea of “family” with that of “School” we may easily imagine how much Ott might stand to benefit from any advantageous marriage made by Manning. And if Manning considered the School their joint venture, he might have been willing to sacrifice much for it, including his own marital happiness.
Col. Mallet did not hear the end of the argument, but he witnessed Manning leaving the club, alone and looking very grim; then, only a minute or two later, he saw Ott go hurrying outside, and he wondered if he was going after his friend, presumably, for he did not look friendly, intending to pursue their quarrel.
No wonder Ott lied about when he last saw Manning. This does not look good for him.
I let the letter fall to my lap and stared unseeing at rain outside my window, imagining Felix Ott in a fury, charging through the foggy London streets after the man he had decided to kill, rather than allow him to harm an innocent woman.
That scenario would have made more sense if Charles Manning had been bludgeoned to death with a walking stick, had his throat cut, or been strangled. But the manner of his death had been one that left no mark for a police surgeon to find. His heart had been stopped—by nature, by poison, or perhaps by magic.
Charles Manning had seemed to think he was being killed by witchcraft. And even though he had been looking at me when he reeled back in horror from the witch he imagined I was, it would not do to forget that witches could be men as well as women.
Was Felix Ott himself a practitioner of the dark arts?
I was glad I did not have too many more hours to wait before I could speak with Mr. Jesperson, but as I gazed at the rain, I could not help imagining how wet I would get, walking to Cromer, if the rain did not stop in the next few hours. The Bulstrodes kept a carriage, I remembered. Would they think me awfully forward if I begged the use of it tonight?
Then I had a better idea. I would invite them to come as my guests to the talk my friend was giving tonight in Cromer. I hurried downstairs and, my mind already leaping ahead to compose the invitation, went into the parlor without stopping to knock.
The three sisters stood in a huddle before the fireplace, turning startled faces on me as I entered. Was it because the flames lit their faces, otherwise shadowed by the dimness of the room, so strangely, or was it the way they stood, tensed almost aggressively at my appearance, that I found myself reminded of the three weird sisters in Macbeth?
“I do beg your pardon,” I cried. “I should have knocked; I have interrupted—” I turned to go, but Bella called me back. When I turned again, they had moved apart and the strangeness was dispersed—perhaps it had never really been, except in my imagination.
“Come in, come and join us—you are not interrupting anything; we three can meet and talk anytime; it is lovely to have you here. Please, sit.” To encourage me, Bella sank onto a couch and patted the cushion beside her.
I took the place she offered as Alys and Ann found other seats for themselves.
“I do not wish to keep you from your work,” I said, still feeling I was an intruder.
“Work? No, I have finished with my work for today,” Bella replied. “As for my sisters, they are like the lilies of the field, who toil not and neither do they spin.”
“That is so unfair!” cried Alys. “It is true, I have not yet learned to spin, but—”
“And I have been helping Elsie in the kitchen this morning,” said Ann. “I was going to bake a cake, but after such a remark, you do not deserve it. Perhaps I shall make a small one, just enough for me and Alys and Artemis, but not you, Bella,” she concluded, giving a popping emphasis to the B.
The barely repressed smiles made it clear they all enjoyed such routine teasing of one another, and I felt a sudden, sharp, entirely unexpected pang and missed my own sister. Can anything ever replace the loving relationship with someone who has known you forever?
“I have just come in to ask you,” I began, and then started again, “I mean, to invite you to come as my guests to a lecture in Cromer this evening. I hope it might be something that interests you.”
“A lecture,” said Alys with a suspicious frown. “In Cromer. Not in the Templars Hall, by any chance?”
“Yes.”
“And a Thursday evening, too.” She sighed. “You mean well, I have no doubt, dear Artemis, but I must tell you that a lecture by Mr. Felix Ott is not something I have ever enjoyed. Bella feels differently, of course. But when Mr. Ott is at the podium, if he does not make me feel stupid, he simply puts me to sleep. I know Ann feels the same.”
“Oh, but Mr. Ott will not be giving this evening’s lecture,” I said quickly. “He has invited a guest speaker—my friend, Mr. Jasper Jesperson. He is to give a talk in memory of the late Charles Manning, based on notes he left concerning his investigations into the shrieking pits. I think it will be very interesting.”
“We must go, of course,” said Ann, sounding unusually determined. “Charles would have wished it.”
“I should like it ve
ry much,” said Bella. “Thank you, Di. Alys, you need not come, of course.”
Alys scowled. “Do not think you can leave me out.”
“But you have said you are not interested.”
“I am not interested in the stupid old holes in the ground they call the shrieking pits, no indeed; but I am very interested in seeing your Mr. Jesperson,” she said, with a bright, mocking look at me. “Your friend, you call him. Your fellow lodger. Is he your lover?”
My cheeks felt very hot, although I tried to keep my expression neutral.
Bella chided her: “Alys! You are impertinent.”
“I think my question is very pertinent,” she said smartly. “And I suppose Mrs. Ringer thought he was…and that is why she threw you out—am I right, Artemis?”
“You had better ask Mrs. Ringer her reasons,” I said coolly. “I would not like to pretend to know her mind.”
“We will take the carriage,” said Bella, clearly determined to change the subject. “It will not matter if the rain continues. What time is the lecture? We had better have something to eat before we go…I must have a word with Elsie.” She rose. “Alys, will you go out to the stables? Ann, I need your help in the kitchen. Come along, girls!”
Chapter 18
Mr. Jesperson Gives a Lecture
The rain had cleared before sunset, and when I arrived in company with the Misses Bulstrode there was a queue at the door of the Templars Hall, and more people approaching, eager to pay their shilling for enlightenment.
As we waited to get in I examined the countenances of nearby strangers, wondering how many were members of Mr. Ott’s School of British Wisdom, and how many others had been driven by idle curiosity or boredom to one of the few entertainments on offer in this seaside resort out of season.
A poster had been plastered repeatedly on the walls and doors of the hall, showing a lurid illustration of a woman in ragged dress, her hair wild, arms uplifted, and mouth open wide in a scream of anguish. Below this picture, in large letters:
Discover the TRUTH about the “Shrieking Pits”
As revealed through the research of the late Charles Manning (SBW), presented by Jasper Jesperson, Esq. Introduced by Felix Ott, Founder and President, School of BritishWisdom.
TONIGHT ONLY
Applications available on the door to join School of British Wisdom. ½ price entry to registered students.
On the door (I was surprised to discover) was Felix Ott himself, collecting the admission fee and dispensing brochures advertising his School.
“Bella,” he cried, his businesslike demeanor transformed at once into a look I could almost call worshipful. “What a lovely surprise! But I will not take your money. Had I known you might come, I should have sent tickets with my compliments.” He made a gesture, pushing away her attempt to pay. “There is no charge for you.”
“And my sisters?” Without taking her eyes from his face, she indicated the two young women standing behind me.
“Certainly—you must know I hold your entire family in the highest esteem. I am flattered by this attention! Miss Lane, of course, is a friend to Mr. Jesperson—”
Alys spoke up sharply. “Please, may we come in? You are blocking the entrance, sister dear. There are people behind us, you know.”
“Yes, yes, quite so,” murmured Mr. Ott, still in a rapt exchange of looks with Bella, and at the same moment, each reached out to the other; he seized her hand in his, then bent his head over it, brushing her knuckles with his lips.
Once again, I noticed Mr. Ott wore a ring on his little finger, and now, seeing their hands joined, I realized the stone in his ring was, as in hers, a carnelian. Before I could make sense of this connection, their hands had parted, and I was forced ahead, propelled by a determined push from Alys.
“Look at this crowd,” said Alys peevishly. “We shall never find seats together; I wish we had not come.”
“Stay with Ann—you will find two seats easily. Do not worry about us.” Not giving Alys a chance to object, Bella swept me away to the front of the hall, and secured two seats for us in the second row. “Will this be all right for you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I thought you might like to be closer to the speaker—since he is your friend. It does not matter where the girls sit, and certainly there is no necessity for us to sit like a line of ducks.” She gave me an appealing glance, as if she feared she had done wrong, so I hastened to thank her for her thoughtfulness in finding me a seat near the front.
“They are too possessive of me, I fear,” she went on. “Perhaps it is not unusual, having been orphaned so young, that they should cling…but they are grown up now. They must learn. They will soon be embarking on their own adventures.” From her words, it seemed she was still preoccupied by her sisters, but there was a brightness in her eyes and color in her cheeks that had nothing to do with them.
A full-figured, fair-haired young woman had arrived to claim a seat in the front row, and it was clear by the muted flurry of excitement that greeted her that it had been saved for her, as a person of some consequence. It was, evidently, the best seat in the house, and she preened and smiled with satisfaction, nodding regally as she accepted the greetings of her admirers. She was dressed in half mourning, and as she adjusted the fine black woolen shawl, I saw that it was pinned with a carnelian brooch.
It could hardly be coincidence, unless the stone were a particular Norfolk fad.
“Who is she?” I whispered to Bella.
“Miss Goodall.”
I remembered that was the name of the farmer who had been poisoned by his wife—and also a name from Mr. Manning’s address book—just as Bella leaned closer to murmur in my ear, “The daughter of the late farmer, and now owner of the farm. She is a student in Mr. Ott’s School, and one of his chief benefactors. She has given him land on which his School might be built—if he can raise the funds.”
“Did Mr. Ott give her that brooch?”
She nodded, and I saw her give a surreptitious stroke to her own ring. “Carnelian, the stone of the sun and Venus, is his personal talisman. He has the habit of giving some sort of token incorporating the stone to his friends and close associates. Mr. Manning had a small silver box that he always carried about his person, although he could not display it as obviously as I do this.”
Only then did I understand how wrong I had been about her feelings for Charles Manning. If she loved anyone, it was Felix Ott: That was obvious from her heightened color, the look they had exchanged, and the way she treasured his ring. She had refused his offer of marriage, choosing to remain single, dedicated to her profession. And he had not taken that rejection well, judging by the vindictive remarks he had made in his September lecture. Yet he had probably repented of that, and hoped it might be forgotten. I felt certain from his adoring gaze and the kissing of her hand that Mr. Ott was still deeply in love with the woman who sat beside me.
This went some way toward explaining his quarrel with Manning. Would that love have been enough to drive him to murder? When he discovered Manning’s despicable plan—whichever one of the sisters it was aimed at—had a jealous, protective rage made him kill his former friend, either by poison or by mental force, as the only certain way to stop him? Such an emotion was a powerful driver, and Ott had certainly had the opportunity to kill Manning on the night he died.
The buzz of conversation in the hall died down as Felix Ott approached the podium at the front.
“Welcome all,” he said, his voice booming out and silencing the last few chatterers. “What a pleasure it is to see so many of you have decided to venture out on such a cold night—it makes me feel that my message is getting through, and reaching the very people I wish to attract to our School. I hope those of you who have not yet done so will join the School of British Wisdom after tonight’s lecture, whether as a novice scholar or as a supporting member. The information is all in the brochure, so I will not take up any more time on that now.” He cleared his throat.
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“Tonight’s lecture is given in memory of my late friend Charles Manning. His death was sudden and unexpected, and has taken away a fine young man who had given evidence of much promise, which he sadly was not able to live long enough to fulfill. Even in his short residence in Aylmerton, he made many friends who mourn him. He was, as well as being a close personal friend of mine, one of the most diligent and devoted of all students in our fledgling School, which is much the poorer for his loss.
“How well I remember our first meeting with this ardent young scholar. Charles had come to Cromer for a short holiday, two or three days to walk along the beach, think about his writing, and let the sea air clear the soot and grime of London from his lungs. On one of his walks he encountered another young man, Albert Cooke, who told him about my School. Charles was immediately intrigued, his own studies having suggested to him that there must be a source of hidden knowledge closer than India or Tibet; ancient wisdom that could be found right here in his native land. Albert brought him along to meet me, and we three talked long into the night. By dawn, his course was set; Charles returned to London just long enough to resign his job and pack his things, then he came back here to begin an exciting new phase of his life, dedicated to the rediscovery and transmission of ancient British wisdom. Alas, that life was cut short.”
With a tragic expression, Ott paused to compose himself. He repeated, “Alas, that life was cut short. However, before he left us, Charles Manning had time to research a subject little known outside these parts, but of potentially great interest: the mystery of the shrieking pits. Who made them, for what purpose, and when? What can folklore and legend tell us about this peculiar feature of the north Norfolk landscape?
