The Curious Affair of the Witch at Wayside Cross

by Lisa Tuttle

  “Of course—the idea that witches today are the descendants of a matriarchal, goddess-worshipping cult,” said Bella.

  Felix Ott looked at her anxiously. “You do not think it might be so?”

  “Oh, it might be so,” she said. “I do not worship, and am not qualified to pronounce on the matter. For I am not a witch—despite your best attempts to paint me as such in the eyes of the village.”

  His eyes widened and he leaned forward. “What?”

  “You know what. Those dreadful remarks you made about witches—modern-day worshippers of Satan! Baby-murderers and cannibals! Did you think your libels would not get back to me?”

  The color drained from his face. “Oh, my dear, my dear, can you forgive me? It was a moment of madness…I did not think…Can you ever forgive me?”

  “I have forgiven you,” she replied, in a distant, regal manner. “It took time, I admit, but I realized you spoke as a child lashes out in furious disappointment, not meaning it, and without thinking of consequences.”

  “I should have given anything to be able to take those words back!” he exclaimed. “Fortunately, the meeting was not well attended. And of course, I mentioned no names.”

  “There was no need for you to name names when your unpleasant little acolyte, Miss Goodall, was more than happy to do it for you. How could you have imagined I would not hear of it, when she set out to turn the villagers against me?”

  He groaned. “I had words with her—I explained she had misunderstood—and threatened her with expulsion if she ever—”

  Miss Bulstrode rose to her feet, and Mr. Ott scrambled to his. “Let it go,” she said briskly. “It is all over now. You have apologized and I have forgiven you—and none of it is anything to do with the case Mr. Jesperson and Miss Lane came here to solve.” She looked at us. “You are satisfied that you have discovered the cause of Mr. Manning’s death?”

  I looked at Mr. Jesperson and was surprised to find him staring at the two younger sisters, rather than attending to Miss Bulstrode. “Hmm?” He roused himself from his thoughts. “Yes. Although it is not fair to blame him for the death, Cunning Verrell should be warned to dispense his powders only one at a time, no matter how much he is offered, and he might want to reassess his own skill at reading a man’s physical health. Manning may have had a slight weakness of the heart; the combined stresses of his encounters that evening, his determination to go against his own nature, hallucinatory fears, and the combination of drugs was more than his heart could take. We need look no farther than Manning himself to find the villain responsible.”

  Chapter 23

  Second Thoughts

  We returned to London that same day.

  It should have been a triumphant return, for we had solved not only the mystery we had gone to Norfolk to investigate, but at least two others as well. Yet Mr. Jesperson was unusually quiet on the journey.

  I tried to discover what was preying on his mind. “Are you thinking of what to tell his brother? Of course, the truth is not pleasant, and Charles may fall still lower in his esteem, but there must be some relief in learning his death was not the result of murder.”

  “Oh, yes. This is the best result we can have hoped for. To have victim and villain one and the same, and not be required to bring the police into the matter,” he replied, without enthusiasm.

  His mention of the police reminded me. “You have not spoken with Sergeant Canright again, have you? Will you write to him?”

  “No, why should I? If he is curious, he knows where to reach me. But he never had anything to do with investigating Manning’s death.”

  “I was thinking not of Manning, but of Albert Cooke.”

  The familiar sparkle returned to his eyes, and he grinned at me. “Ah! You think I should tell him that Cooke’s lifeless body was removed from the shrieking pit where he struck his head, and laid out respectfully in the center of the Poison Ring, possibly following the ancient funerary rituals of their race, by fairies?”

  I bit my lip. “When you put it like that…”

  “However I put it, Canright would not be able to swallow it, and instead of seeing me as a bright and promising fellow detective, he should dismiss me as a lunatic. You may think it ridiculously vain of me to mind, but I should rather keep his good opinion. Let him solve the mystery in his own way—if he can.”

  He had entirely recovered his usual good spirits by the time we reached Liverpool Street, and our evening meal prepared by his mother back in Gower Street was quite the celebration, marking the successful end of another curious affair.

  —

  We had been home for nearly a week when I received a letter from Bella Bulstrode.

  Since she had already replied to my thank-you letter with her own brief note, this was unexpected, but although surprised, I was not displeased by the idea that we might develop an epistolary relationship, for I had found her to be an interesting and intelligent woman.

  Mr. Jesperson appeared utterly absorbed in his newspaper, and did not look up when I reached across the desk for the letter opener. As soon as I read the first lines, I exclaimed aloud: “What do you think of that? Miss Bulstrode has agreed to marry Felix Ott!”

  There was a great crackling of newspapers as Mr. Jesperson jumped to his feet. “What? Who says so?” His blue eyes fairly blazed.

  His intensity took me by surprise. “Why, Bella herself—she has written to tell me.”

  “Have they set a date?”

  I was already scanning the brief missive for more information. “She says as they are both of an age to know their own minds, there is no reason to put it off, or to make a big production of it. Probably before Christmas—”

  “We must go.”

  I laughed, puzzled by his reaction. “Do you really think we shall be invited?”

  “Not to the wedding. We must go now, today—before it is too late.”

  “Too late for what?”

  But he was too impatient to explain what seemed to him obvious, and headed for the door, tossing instructions at me as he went. “Pack a few things—we shan’t need to be away more than a night or two. And hurry. We might still get the last train to Cromer if we leave within the hour.”

  Although it was maddening to be kept in the dark, and to feel so slow-witted that I could not imagine any reason that our presence in Cromer—or Aylmerton—should suddenly be so urgently required, it seemed sensible to follow his lead, and I wasted no more time in questions or protests, but hurried upstairs to throw a few necessities into my bag.

  Less than an hour later we were at Liverpool Street, and while I queued for tickets, Jesperson sent telegrams to Felix Ott and to the ladies at Wayside Cross announcing our impending arrival.

  “But not to the Vicarage?” I noted.

  He wrinkled his nose. “I had rather not impose on the Ringers again. We will find it more comfortable to take lodgings in Cromer.”

  “But you wish Mr. Ott and Miss Bulstrode to expect us.”

  “It may be that word that we are coming will be enough,” he said.

  “Enough for what? Mr. Jesperson, please—will you tell me why we are making this journey?”

  He did not seem to hear me in his concentration on the barely comprehensible announcements of arrivals and departures. He seized my arm. “Our train,” he muttered, and rushed me along to a distant platform.

  When we were settled inside our compartment, I tried again to make him be more forthcoming as to the reason for our urgent journey, but we were immediately interrupted by the arrival of a large and excessively sociable party of travelers, who put paid to any hope of private conversation.

  Chameleon-like, Mr. Jesperson quickly became one of the crowd, complimenting the young ladies on their hats and discussing fly-fishing and cricket scores with the gentlemen—although I felt he was attending to it all with only a small part of his mind. As I had no desire to do the same, I took a copy of Aurora Leigh from my bag and lost myself in Mrs. Barrett Browning’s ver
ses.

  In Norwich there was no time to waste; we raced to catch the last train to Cromer. It was packed with locals returning home after a day in the city, laden with parcels, and once again there was no opportunity to question Mr. Jesperson as to his plans. But it no longer bothered me; soon enough, I knew, all would become clear.

  My thoughts ran ahead to Aylmerton and Wayside Cross. Remembering Bella’s flushed cheeks and melting gaze, I was not really surprised by her announcement, for it was clear that she adored Felix Ott. Of his feelings for her, I was less certain. He struck me as selfish and self-absorbed, the sort of man who would love a woman not for herself, but for what she reflected back to him when he gazed at her. And perhaps, despite his denials, he wanted her for her property, and the good he imagined she would do for his School. She had forgiven him for his underhanded attack that had libeled her as a witch, but I could not forget it, and wondered if she was right to trust him.

  Ott had been our first suspect. Even before we had met him, we had heard him blamed for Charles Manning’s death by Mr. Alexander Manning and implicated by the Reverend Ringer. And Ott had lied to us, trying to keep his final meeting with Manning in London a secret. I wondered if Mr. Jesperson had had second thoughts; if he suspected Ott of having more of a hand in Charles’s death—if Bella, having agreed to marry him, was now in danger.

  Upon arriving in Cromer, Mr. Jesperson did not head for the cab-rank as I had expected, but immediately strode out of the station and along the lamplit street toward the seafront.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To see Mr. Ott.”

  I asked no more questions but saved my breath to keep up with his rapid pace. But when we reached the fine stone house overlooking the sea, we found the windows all dark, and Mr. Jesperson’s fusillade of determined knocking elicited no response.

  “Perhaps he has gone out to dine? It is the hour for it,” I reminded him. “We might do the same, and try again later.” I was feeling hungry, and from past experience that should have meant my friend was positively famished, for we’d had no refreshments on our journey.

  But Mr. Jesperson did not take up my suggestion. “We had better get to Wayside Cross as quickly as possible.”

  “May I be of service?” A woman’s voice addressed us unexpectedly; as we turned, a woman in a long dark cloak stepped out of the shadows.

  “Miss Goodall,” said Mr. Jesperson, and now I recognized the woman I had seen in the first row at his lecture. “I hope you may, indeed. Do you know where we may find Mr. Ott?”

  “I had hoped to find him here myself,” she said. “But he has been spending much less time in his own quarters of late, and much more at the house I heard you mention. I must say I find his reasons hard to comprehend, although I understand the library there is meant to be a great attraction.”

  As soon as she paused for breath Mr. Jesperson said impatiently, “Thank you for your thoughts on the matter, Miss Goodall, but now you must excuse us. We have urgent business with Mr. Ott; I hope there may still be a cab for hire at the station.”

  “There is no need for a cab—as you see, I have my own carriage,” she said, turning to indicate where it waited on the road below. “It was not for nothing that I offered you my help. I am not on calling terms with Miss Bulstrode or her sisters, but, in company with you, perhaps I might dare drive out to Wayside Cross, for once?”

  “Thank you, that is most kind of you,” he said quickly. “We will—forgive me; you are, I think, acquainted with my friend Miss Lane?”

  She turned on me such a blank stare that I almost believed it was the first time she had registered my presence. “How d’ye do, Miss Lane. Are you a member of the School?”

  “No.”

  “Never mind; if you are a friend of Mr. Jesperson, ’tis good enough for me. Come along, let us not tarry, I hate this cold night air.”

  She led the way down to her carriage, a one-horse cabriolet that she must have driven herself, despite her distaste for the cold; but as we drew near, she turned her sly smile on Mr. Jesperson and with much fluttering of eyelashes invited him to drive.

  “It will be a treat for me to sit inside and keep warm, and Stormy will appreciate a man’s surer hands upon the reins—you look like a good driver; I am not so bad, for a lady, but he can be a bit naughty with me, especially at night, when he’s longing to get back home to his warm stall,” she gushed.

  “My pleasure,” he murmured, opening the door for us.

  She gestured for me to go inside first, pausing to instruct him: “Go as fast as you like! We shall be quite comfortable and safe with you, I know.”

  He took her at her word; scarcely had the door closed before we were moving off with a lurch that threw her against me. She didn’t mind it, only laughed and advised me to “Hang on tight! Pity you haven’t got your fella to hold on to, eh?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, don’t be an old maid! He may be young, but you make a handsome pair. Ain’t he your fella?”

  “He is not,” I said firmly. “We are good friends.”

  “Oh, yes? Felix and I, we are good friends, too. I wish I could call Felix my fella, but with the business of organizing the School and spreading the word and teaching, and research, and study, and all of that, he has no time for courting. He as good as told me he could never even think of marriage until the School is well established. But when that day comes, he is sure to want a woman who understands and has been a part of it from the beginning to stand by his side and share his name.”

  I felt a prickle of unease. “Has he spoken of marriage?”

  “No, I told you—he cannot think of it for years.”

  “But you are friends.”

  “Haven’t I said so? How can you doubt it? I have been a supporter of the School since I first met Mr. Ott. And it is not just words with me, like it is with some folk—I have given him a parcel of land—an outright gift—where I hope he will build a physical home for the School. He is very grateful for my support—he has told me so often enough.”

  I looked at her and spoke tentatively: “It must be hurtful, then, if he doesn’t always keep his appointments with you.”

  She looked puzzled, then took my meaning. “Appointment? Oh, but there was no appointment—we had not arranged to meet this evening; not at all! It only chanced that I was driving past his house, and thought I would call in. Naturally, I saw at once that he was not at home, but I stopped, thinking he might come along at any minute, and thinking perhaps I might write a note to slip under his door. Then I saw you and Mr. Jesperson approach and…You understand?”

  I did. I also wondered how many times a week she “chanced” to drive past his house—but of course I could not ask. I wondered how she would take the news of Mr. Ott’s intended marriage to Miss Bulstrode.

  Peering out the window, I saw that we were already on the outskirts of Aylmerton.

  “Have you never been to Wayside Cross?” I asked her.

  She sniffed. “Well, once—on a matter of business, as you might say; you know of her business?” She gave me a sideways look and then nodded. “Yes, it is true. She is a witch—although Mr. Ott does not like us to use that word. But when I asked her to cast a spell for me, she would not. I know she has done such things for others, but she would not for me. She was not friendly at all—spoke to me as if—well, I fancy she looked down on me, the little country bumpkin, farmer’s daughter—but of course, that was before I came into my inheritance.” She smoothed the fur collar of her cloak as if it were a darling pet. “I am a landowner now, a woman of means, as well as a close personal friend of Mr. Ott. I fancy she won’t be so high and mighty with me now.”

  “You mean to call on her this evening?” I asked, rather bemused.

  “She’ll have to have me, if she invites you. And if Felix is there, she would not dare insult him by refusing me. I am certain he would not allow it.”

  The pace of the carriage slowed; looking out, I saw Wayside Cros
s, the house and walled gardens illuminated by moonlight.

  There was a horse and carriage waiting at the gate, and as ours pulled up beside it, Miss Goodall recognized it as belonging to Mr. Ott.

  And there was the man himself: a coated, hatted figure leaving the house. As he walked down the path he dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief, which he then tucked away in a pocket.

  I felt the carriage rock as Mr. Jesperson leapt down from the driver’s seat, calling out, “I say, Ott. Might I have a word?”

  Miss Goodall scrambled to exit and I made haste to follow.

  “Felix!” she called eagerly. “What a lovely surprise!”

  The two men stopped and turned.

  “Miss Goodall,” responded Mr. Ott, with a curt nod of his head. “Good evening. I fear I cannot stop.”

  “But—we have only just arrived!” She fluttered her hands and gazed at him imploringly. “Surely you will not go so soon?”

  He glanced back at the house. “It seems I must. I had better warn you, this is no time for a social call. One of the young ladies is indisposed, and Miss Bulstrode must attend to her needs.” His tone made it clear he took this as a personal affront. Had Miss Bulstrode understood that in agreeing to marry him, she had accepted the role of handmaiden to her lord and master above all else? I hoped she would reconsider their engagement. If her work was as important to her as she had claimed, how could she give it up in order to attend to one selfish man? His demands would only increase once they were married; that was clear to me, even if her love had made her blind.

  “You may call on me tomorrow, Jesperson.” Mr. Ott took no further notice of Miss Goodall, and none at all of me. “Whatever your business, it can wait until the morning.”

  Jesperson kept his searching gaze fixed upon the other man as if trying to draw something more from him. “If you say so.”

  Ott shook his head impatiently. “Good night,” he said, and in a few strides he had reached his carriage where he swiftly mounted to the driver’s seat.

  “We may as well also return to Cromer,” said Mr. Jesperson. “That is, if Miss Goodall will be so kind?”