by Lisa Tuttle
“How can we find out?”
He glanced down at me. “I hope to have a telegram tomorrow with a complete list of ingredients.”
I gaped at him, and he took pity on my slowness and explained: “I left the mixture with a chemist in London who agreed to analyze it for me. I hope you did not think I purchased that concoction for my own use.” His eyes glittered in the moonlight. I suddenly felt unaccountably nervous, and looked away at the empty, tree-lined road ahead.
“It may be that we will find the answer there,” he said. “Maybe even a bit of the old Cerbera odollam mashed up with powdered oyster shells and a bit of gingerroot. You say the glasshouse is not locked; Verrell might have crept in one night and stolen anything that took his fancy. It would be a pity, though, if in his foolishness he has caused a man’s death.”
A pity for the old cunning man, who would certainly have to be stopped from selling any more of his deadly medicines, but poetic justice if Charles Manning had brought about his own death by attempting to commit an outrage against an innocent young woman, I thought grimly.
—
One thing of which we did not speak, and which preyed upon my mind, was the question of Ann Bulstrode’s involvement, and how much she or her sisters knew.
They had made it clear to me that visits to London were not usual for any of them, and it had been plainly stated that they had not been there for months. I could hardly blame them for not telling me about Ann’s unhappy final encounter with Charles Manning—a meeting I felt certain must have taken place, or why else would he have consumed the aphrodisiacs?
Any attempt I made to question Ann seemed likely to end with her in hysterics, so I thought my best hope was to try to find out what I could from Bella, and thus, the following morning, I followed her in to her office, assuring her that I would leave as soon as “a client appears—or a patient—or whatever you call the people who come to you for help?”
She smiled. “I call them by their names.”
“It is only women who come, is that right?”
“With their problems, yes.”
“Men, in similar situations, visit a cunning man instead, I understand. Are you acquainted with Cunning Verrell?”
“I know who he is.”
A coolness in her manner warned me to try a different approach. I said, “Do women ever ask you for love potions?”
She gave me a curious look. “Is that what you want?”
“I? No, certainly not! I was talking about other people,” I responded, flustered by this unexpectedly personal turn.
“Perhaps you would be surprised to learn how often someone may feel embarrassed by their own desires, unable to ask for what they want except ‘for a friend.’ ”
“Bella, I assure you, I had no thought of asking you to make up anything for me, least of all a love potion!”
Repressing a smile, she dropped her gaze and moved away to add more coal to the fire.
“Love potions like the one in the story of Tristan and Iseult do not really exist,” she said, without looking at me. “There is nothing anyone can buy to make someone fall in love. But there are ways of achieving the same end. A spell can be cast—but not by someone who is not involved. If a woman comes to me, desperate to win the heart of a man she loves, or to lure back a straying lover, I can instruct her in various ways and means. I might provide a recipe—it might be for a cake, or a warming drink—and if it is made of the right ingredients, and prepared with care and concentration and complete commitment on the part of the woman, then, when that cake or that drink is consumed by the object of her affections, there is a very good chance that it will cause a change in him, and the scales will fall from his eyes, and the next time he looks at her he will realize she is his own true love.”
“But men go to the cunning man, and he gives them something right away,” I said.
“Oh, but that is quite different.” She returned to her seat. “He does not offer love potions, but aphrodisiacs.”
I knew the term aphrodisiac came from my namesake goddess, Aphrodite, the goddess of love. “Are they not the same thing?”
“Not at all.” She wrinkled her nose. “What the cunning man sells has nothing to do with love, but only lust—and not even honest lust, but a simulation. It tricks a man’s body into performing—and much as they would like to believe otherwise, it only works on men, not women. Do you understand? Let me explain.”
And then, to my embarrassment, but even greater interest, she proceeded to give me a lecture on human sexuality, with the aid of illustrations in a medical textbook. Although I thought I knew the basics of biology, it was quite an eye-opener.
“So now you see,” she concluded. “When the male organ is engorged, and the man’s heart races, he may believe himself to be excited—but it is a trick played upon his body. It can be a dangerous trick, and painful, but men who are foolish enough to think they can compel a woman’s love, or buy it, are likely to treat their own bodies with similar brutality, as if they are stubborn creatures to be forced into performing…as if physical performance was the most important thing.”
She looked at me searchingly. “No man who truly loved a woman should resort to such things as the cunning man supplies. If he has problems, there are better ways—”
A knock on the door startled us both; with an apologetic gesture to me, she called out, “Yes? Come in.”
Nancy came in, holding out a folded piece of paper between finger and thumb with a look of distaste. “For you, miss. A strange man is at the door. He wants to look at some of your books.”
“Strange?”
“Very.”
Bella smiled and opened the note. Her eyebrows rose as she scanned it. “Well, well! If he has sent you, perhaps I may forgive you dropping by without warning,” she murmured, and told the maid to show him in.
I got up to leave, but Bella detained me. “Please, on no account leave me alone with this strange man.”
“Of course I will stay if you wish it. But—who is he?”
“A scholar, seemingly, and one with friends in high places. Usually I would expect to have a letter some weeks in advance, but sometimes—more often in the summer—someone who was formerly acquainted with my grandfather, or has simply heard about his collection, will call by in the hope of seeing the library. Often there is a book they wish to purchase, or borrow—but in that case, they must be sent away disappointed.
“He may look at whatever he likes, but we will not leave him alone, to be sure he is not tempted to take anything away. I have discovered to my cost that even the most respectable address in Cambridge and even the most highly regarded scholars are not to be trusted if bibliophilia has them in its grip.”
She stopped speaking just before the door opened, and we waited in attentive silence as an odd-looking gentleman entered the room.
Now Nancy’s reaction made sense, for I, too, found something very strange about this dirty, disreputable-looking character. Considering that he’d had his introduction from someone Bella respected, it seemed likely that his attire had more to do with the unworldliness of a dedicated scholar than outright poverty. He could not be blamed for the hunchback that made him keep his head twisted to one side, and the green-glass spectacles he wore must be due to poor eyesight. I only wondered why, if he cared so little for appearances as his attire suggested, he spent money on perfumed grease to comb through his thick black hair. He smelled of attar of roses and stale clothes.
“Miss Bulstrode?” Noticing there were two women in the room, he moved his head slowly from one side to the other, reminding me of a tortoise. “And, er, I beg your pardon.” His voice was rough and low, with a hint of Irish. “I did not expect—your sister? Well, I am Seamus Rafferty, and sure I shall be eternally grateful for your kindness.”
“I am Miss Bulstrode, and this is Miss Lane. Let us not waste time; if you will tell me your area of interest, or which books you should like to consult…?”
He nodded his h
ead and bobbed a little as he rubbed his gloved hands together. “Sure, sure. I am a philologist. You have, I believe, one or two Sanskrit texts? I should greatly love to see them.”
She looked surprised. “Sanskrit. Yes…I could not tell you what they are, but I think I know where they are. Give me a moment.” She moved toward the bookcases and after a brief search returned with one large, bound volume, and two small ones.
He rubbed his hands again and made small squeaking sounds. I looked away, uncomfortable but also puzzled by something I could not quite put my finger on, as Bella showed him to a table with a reading lamp.
“I hope you will not let our presence disturb you,” she said. “Miss Lane and I will speak quietly and try not to interrupt your reading.” She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and took a deep breath before saying firmly, “You may have two hours. I hope that will be enough? If it is not, I will be happy to receive you another day.”
“Thank you,” he rasped, too entranced by the treasures now in his possession to look at anything else. He took no more notice of us as we retreated to the other side of the room, where Bella had her writing desk, upon the top of which Gabriel perched, as still as a statue.
Bella and I looked at each other. I could think of nothing to say, and although she may have been better than I at making polite conversation, she also appeared at a loss. Even if Mr. Rafferty was effectively deaf in his absorption in Sanskrit texts, still, his presence limited our potential topics of conversation. We sat in silence for a few moments before she seized upon the usual recourse of the hostess and offered tea. I accepted with alacrity.
“Then—if you do not mind? I shall only be a few minutes in the kitchen.”
We both turned and cast our eyes in the direction of the oblivious scholar.
“I am happy to wait,” I said.
“Feel free to take any book down for yourself,” she offered.
“Thank you. There really is no need for you to hurry back. A cup of tea would be lovely.”
“Perhaps there will be cake as well,” she said, and gave me a grateful smile as she left. The heavy wooden door clicked quietly shut behind her, closing me in the library with Gabriel before me, and the silent, studious Mr. Rafferty behind me. I was still gazing at the beady-eyed crow when I heard Mr. Jesperson’s voice, clear and close at hand: “Quick, where is it? The grimoire—which shelf?”
Startled, astonished, I jerked around and saw the bent figure of the Irish scholar standing up straight and miraculously tall, the bright-blue eyes of Mr. Jesperson peering over the top of the green-glass spectacles.
“Don’t say I fooled you? You looked at me so suspiciously, I was afraid you’d give the game away! Now come, before Miss Bulstrode returns—where is the book?”
Thrown by this unexpected turn of events, for a moment I could not remember, but as I gazed up hopelessly at the row upon row of volumes, the memory returned, and I pointed.
“There, see that fat green book? Next to that, between two books about birds, although you can hardly see it. It has a pinkish-brown spine.”
He went straight to the right place and extracted the slender volume, which he opened at random. I hastened to his side, and we looked together at a few of the handwritten, illustrated pages. Then he closed it and stuffed it away inside his shirt.
My stomach gave an uneasy twist as I understood he meant to steal it. “Why?”
“For a very good purpose.” He gave me a serious stare. “I thought there might not be enough time to explain, so I’ve written you a letter.” From somewhere else amid the layers of old clothes draped about him, he produced an envelope and handed it to me. “Read it later. Now—I must resume my role—it would look suspicious if I left a moment before my two hours were up—we can speak again when we meet at four o’clock.” He adjusted the green-glass spectacles so they once more obscured his eyes.
“Where?”
“You remember where we left the road for the path to the Poison Ring? I will meet you there, or on the road. It’s all explained in the letter.” As he turned away, his posture changed, a shoulder coming up on one side and his neck twisting to transform himself into the Sanskrit scholar once more.
I could hardly believe it, staring at the man in the chair, bent over an open book, his nose almost touching the page, lips moving slightly as he read. If not for the letter in my hand, I could have thought the last few minutes were nothing more than a waking dream.
The letter! I could think of no way to explain its sudden appearance to Bella, so I made haste to find a book of the right size in which to hide it. I was reading the book, and hoped I appeared engrossed in it, when Bella came back in with the tea tray.
“Scones in the oven for this afternoon, so we are to have nothing with our tea now,” she informed me. “What have you found to read?”
I displayed the cover: “Ghosts and Legends of Norfolk.”
She smiled. “I would wager there’s nothing in there about the little people—at least, not in connection with the shrieking pits. Did you ask your friend where he came up with such an outlandish idea?”
Feeling uncomfortable because I knew he could hear us, I muttered an evasive reply. “I suppose he found it in Mr. Manning’s notes. They were fragmentary and a bit of a jumble, but he made what sense of them he could.”
She poured out the tea, and I quickly changed the subject. “You have your work here, but your sisters must find it rather quiet. Do they go out much? I suppose there must be some society in Cromer…or do they have friends they visit in Norwich?”
“Sugar?”
“Just one, thank you.”
“My sisters are rather homebodies, I suppose,” she said, handing me a cup and saucer. “Although it is not quite so dull here from April through September, and they do often go to Cromer and even Norwich. You probably remember yesterday they spoke so yearningly of London, and how long it had been since we were there.”
“Yes, and Ann became so upset as she recalled that Mr. Manning had promised to take her to the theater. Was that something they had planned to do soon?” My heart beat a little faster as I put forward this leading question, and I watched her intently for any signs of dissimulation.
But she answered calmly, “I would not go so far as to call it a plan. They had spoken of it. He knew how much she loved the theater, and naturally wished to please her. I think he offered it as a Christmas treat; Ann may have taken it as a more serious possibility than it really was. Of course, she could not have gone unchaperoned, and although he said we could all stay at the house in Gordon Square, I do not think his relations with his brother were friendly enough to make that likely—not in the immediate future, anyway.”
“Why did he go to London? Do you think he intended to lay the ground for reconciliation with his brother?”
“I have told you, I had no idea he intended to go to London. He said nothing about it.”
“He might have told Ann.”
Her manner cooled more rapidly than the tea. “If he had, I am certain she would have mentioned it. Charles may have been Ann’s suitor, but he was not a member of our family, and he did not live here; he did not even call every day. I would venture to say he was far more intimate with Felix Ott than with us—even if Ann was his intended bride.”
“I beg your pardon; I hope I have not offended—”
“Not at all. I understand your interest—naturally, his brother would be glad to know if Charles had been on his way to make up their differences before he died—but I cannot help you. There is no point in interrogating me or my sisters—and it is particularly upsetting to Ann, as you must realize.”
“I am very sorry—”
She stopped me with a gesture. “Say no more about it.”
I drank the rest of my tea in silence. It was a relief when she mentioned a letter she had to write, and said she would not detain me any longer. One glance from her eloquent eyes was enough to tell me she felt there was no need for the continued “pro
tection” offered by my presence.
I was happy to get away to read my letter from Mr. Jesperson. When I opened it, I found a page torn from his notebook, quickly scrawled without even a salutation:
Maria is gone. She said nothing to anyone, and no one heard her go, but she was nowhere to be found this morning. She may, like her baby, have been taken, but I believe she went of her own free will—taking her pathetically few belongings. Miss Flowerdew was probably the last person to see her. While making herself a cup of cocoa before bedtime, Miss F gave Maria a dramatic account of the main points of my lecture. I expected this might happen, but did not anticipate how soon. Anyway, it is done; and there is no time to waste if we are to get her and her baby safely back. It may be helpful to have something to trade, so I have come for the so-called grimoire, which I believe was theirs before the cunning man dug it up. If bribery does not work we must resort to threats.
Meet me at 4 P.M. on the road beside the woods where the path to the Poison Ring/shrieking pit comes out. Dress warmly, bring a lantern, & be prepared for a long, cold wait.
JJ
Chapter 21
In the Woods
“It is almost sunset,” said Reverend Ringer with a grunt of dismay. “And the mists are rising. In a few minutes, we shall be able to see even less in these dark woods than we can now.” To express his disapproval, he lashed out with his sturdy walking stick and decapitated several spotted mushrooms, breaking the ring and making me wince, although, as an act of destruction, it was very mild.
“I do not understand, Jasper,” he went on, his grumbles gaining force. “If you suspected Maria had come here, why not tell me at once? At noon we might have had some chance—why in heaven’s name leave it so late?”
“If we had arrived at noon we should have had a good deal longer to wait,” calmly responded Mr. Jesperson, straightening up from a close inspection of the leaf mold that carpeted the forest floor. “The wee folk do not come out in daylight. They rely on darkness and mist to hide them from our eyes. Our only chance of inducing one of them to come out and parley is after sunset.”
