“You’re not suggesting the book mentions me by name?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. But the description is obvious. The plan was laid a long time ago. Many years before you came here. Before the two of you met. Finding The Garden of Bewitchment in your uncle’s attic, Matthew, was no coincidence. You were meant to find it there.”
“Really?” Matthew sounded as shocked as Evelyn felt.
“Most assuredly.”
“But how did my uncle come to have it in the first place?”
“That is one question for which I have no answer. I have theories but no definite conclusion.”
“And what would your theories be?” Matthew asked.
“Someone gave it to him. Someone connected to the book. From then on a chain of events was set in motion.”
“But how do we break this chain?” Evelyn asked.
The professor sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t have the answer to that either. As far as I can tell it will be difficult if not impossible to do so.”
Evelyn clasped her hands tightly. “Then there is no hope, is there?”
“There is always hope, my dear,” the professor said. “You’ve seen how the book changes to reflect the current state of affairs. It reacts as circumstances alter. Maybe that is how we can eliminate you from the danger it poses.”
“My sister—”
The professor leaned over to Evelyn. “You mustn’t worry about your sister. She is in no danger.” He glanced over at Matthew, who had a bemused look on his face. The professor nodded once. “I must ask you, Miss Wainwright, have you ever been treated by a psychiatrist?”
“A psychiatrist? Never. What would I need a psychiatrist for?”
“Don’t get upset, Evelyn,” Matthew said, “The professor is only trying to help.”
“But I don’t understand. What in the world would I be doing seeing a psychiatrist?”
“Because you are not well, my dear,” the professor said gently, straightening up.
“Not well? I am perfectly well apart from all this worry over Claire and everything that has been happening. And don’t try to tell me I made it all up, because Matthew has been through a number of these experiences with me.”
“I don’t deny that,” Professor Mapplethorpe said. “They certainly happened. The Garden of Bewitchment exists, and Squire Monkton is inextricably bound up with it. I am talking about something else entirely.”
“Such as?” Evelyn knew she sounded defensive, but he had taken her completely by surprise. Mental illness? No, she was of sound mind and body. No question of that.
Matthew was watching her closely. Too closely for Evelyn’s liking. Not for the first time, his expression was impossible to read, and when he spoke, his words did nothing to reassure her.
“It couldn’t do any harm, Evelyn, could it?”
Before she could respond, the professor spoke. “I think that’s enough for today. You are tired, and the stress is almost overwhelming. Now is not the time to pursue this further.”
“You can’t leave it like this. I need to know why you think I need a psychiatrist.”
“Simply because you are not well. Miss Wainwright, I don’t believe you have been well for some considerable time. Many years, in fact. You are aware Matthew here possesses a small box, the contents of which I understand you are most anxious to be made aware.”
“You know about the box?”
“Of course.”
Evelyn looked from one to the other. Matthew avoided her eyes. “What is going on here? I seem to be the only one who hasn’t got a clue.”
“Miss Wainwright, I told you earlier. All the events, your meeting with Matthew, the discovery of The Garden of Bewitchment, the world you created in your stories, Squire Monkton, Matthew’s Uncle Mortimer, Branwell Brontë – all are linked together, and all are contained within the book.”
“Yes, I understand that now.”
“I am aware of the contents of the small box because it’s mine.”
“Yours?” Evelyn and Matthew exclaimed together.
“But how?” Matthew asked. “A friend gave it to me.”
“The same friend who pointed you in my direction. Nicholas Lancaster.”
“Yes, but—”
“I gave it to Nicholas when he was an undergraduate, with instructions for him to give it to you for safekeeping. The box must never be opened, and you were not to know what was in it. Nicholas told you wherever you went you were to bury it in ground off your property. The box is made of gold, silver, copper and lead.”
“Just like the book’s cover,” Evelyn said.
“Precisely.”
“I know it’s heavy for its size,” Matthew said.
“You buried it as Nicholas directed?”
“Wherever I have gone, it has accompanied me. He was so adamant I must follow his instructions to the letter, and I owed him a big favor.”
The professor puffed on his pipe. “And why did you owe him such a favor?”
“He saved my life. I was about nineteen at the time, and we were messing about on the river when I slipped and fell in. My foot twisted in some weeds, and the harder I pulled, the more they dragged me down. He dived in and saved me. The current was so strong he was nearly swept away more than once, but he dived underwater and released my foot.”
“A strange accident as I believe you are normally a strong swimmer?” The professor puffed at his pipe.
“Yes, it was rather odd. As I say, I was dragged down, further and further as if the weeds were actually pulling me.”
“Which indeed they were. Not long afterwards, he asked you to look after the box, didn’t he?”
“A few weeks later. He said he needed to give it to someone he could trust never to let him down.”
“Admirable qualities in a friend. Did he explain why it had to be buried in ground off your property?”
“Not really. He asked me to trust him. I thought it an unusual stipulation, but I went along with it. After all, it was no trouble for me.”
“Where is the box now?”
“I originally buried it up near some crags on the moor, but I recognized that peat bog is unstable. I could have lost the box there, so I dug it up and buried it in the churchyard, too close to an existing gravestone to be disturbed when a new grave was dug.”
“And you have never opened the box?”
“How could I? I don’t have a key.”
The professor reached into his top pocket and produced a small silver key on a chain. “Fortunately I do. Tomorrow morning I should like you to dig it up and bring it here. I believe Miss Wainwright will be most interested in what is inside it as it concerns her directly.”
“Me? But how?”
“All in good time. Now have a good rest this evening, my dear. Tomorrow will be a busy day but, with any luck, a fruitful one.”
Evelyn was not reassured by the serene smile on the professor’s face, nor his words. “And what about Claire?”
“There is nothing for you to worry about. She is perfectly safe.”
He kept repeating that reassurance, but how could he possibly know?
Evelyn left and wandered home.
Alone in her cottage, she sat, deep in thought while the shadows lengthened and night fell.
Eventually she stirred herself and lit the oil lamps before drawing the curtains.
Unprepared for the face that stared in at her, she screamed and jumped back. In a flash it vanished, leaving her trembling and shaking. But for one second, she had recognized that face. It hadn’t morphed or been cloaked in shadow. It hadn’t taken on a reptilian hue.
But it had been the image of Branwell Brontë.
Chapter Sixteen
With shaking hands, she poured herself a small brandy, downed it in one and poured another.
&
nbsp; He had looked exactly like the man in her nightmare before he had transformed into the reptilian creature. The same as had appeared in the book before it too had taken on the features of the Todeswurm. But in the illustration, Claire had appeared transparent. Did Evelyn really need a psychiatrist? The professor seemed to think so, and Matthew appeared all too ready to go along with his suggestion. Evelyn shivered when she remembered newspaper reports she had read of the tortures these doctors put their hapless sufferers through. She had heard some even bored holes in their patients’ heads to let out whatever demons lurked inside. Evelyn poured herself another drink.
She wasn’t used to drinking brandy, and it made her head swirl. She must lie down. Try to get some sleep. Maybe when she knew what the box contained, things would start to make sense.
She swayed a little as she made her way up the stairs, clinging on to the bannister for dear life.
Once in her bedroom, she undressed, leaving her clothes in an untidy heap on the floor. Most uncharacteristic of her. She was normally so fastidious, a stickler for putting things back where they belonged as soon as they were done with. Claire was the untidy one. Claire…
Evelyn slipped on her nightdress and pulled back the covers. She climbed wearily into bed and fell asleep almost before her head hit the pillow.
* * *
She didn’t know what woke her. In the pitch dark, she reached for the candle at her bedside. She struck a match, the dim glow barely penetrating the shadows. Surely they were darker, even denser tonight?
“Good evening, Evelyn.”
Evelyn caught her breath.
He stood at the foot of her bed. Branwell.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
The room shimmered. Evelyn rubbed her eyes with her free hand. She must still be asleep and dreaming. But she knew she wasn’t. A faint headache served as a reminder of the brandy she had drunk. And Branwell Brontë was standing at the foot of her bed.
But then, in the next moment, she had been transported to the moor. In her nightclothes. The wind whistled past her cheeks, but she felt no cold. Branwell stood beside her.
“Take my hand,” he said, offering his.
Evelyn shied away. “No. You’re not real. None of this is real.”
“It’s as real as you are. As real as your sister is. My wife.”
“That’s not true. It can’t be true. You’re dead, and my sister—”
“Your sister. I shall take you to her.”
The moor faded, and they were in the garden of Squire Monkton’s house. The tangled weeds, overgrown trees, exactly as she remembered them. Fear churned in her gut.
“No. I won’t go back in there.”
“As if you had a choice. Of course you will. You want to see your sister, don’t you?”
“Of course I want to see her, but not here. She mustn’t be here either. It’s too dangerous. Who are you, and what do you want with us?”
“You know who I am. I’m Branwell. Your brother-in-law, it would appear.” He laughed.
“Take me back.”
“Not until you have seen your sister. She has asked for you, and I must keep my wife happy.”
“This is all wrong. Lies. Lies.” Evelyn put her head in her hands, willing the scene to go away. Willing herself back in her bedroom. Safe.
Branwell took her arm and frog-marched her in through the ruined door and into the library. A woman stood, reading a book, her back toward Evelyn.
“See, Claire. I have brought your sister to see you. Just as you asked.”
The woman turned. Evelyn screamed.
Claire’s blackened face looked as if she had been severely burned. Her dress was filthy, covered in soot, but even more shocking, her eyes burned red, and, as Evelyn watched, she became less solid, less three-dimensional, and the shelves of books became visible behind her. Evelyn could see straight through her sister.
“No, no, no. This can’t be happening!”
Branwell took his place next to Claire, raised her scorched, translucent hand to his lips and, without a word, lifted her in his arms as if she was weightless.
Under Evelyn’s horrified, tearful gaze, she began to crumple like burned paper. Her body crackled and disintegrated in Branwell’s arms, became ash and floated to the floor like gray snow.
“Claire!” Evelyn screamed, rushing toward her, heedless of Branwell, who laughed uproariously as he brushed flakes of ash off his jacket.
“What have you done?” Evelyn demanded, shaking him by the collar.
Branwell stopped laughing. A terrible transformation started with his eyes. The reptilian stare returned, and his claws dug into Evelyn’s shoulders.
“It will be as if she never existed,” he said and flung Evelyn across the room. She fell to the floor, hitting her head. Blackness descended.
* * *
“Evelyn…Evelyn.”
Matthew’s voice drifted toward her through a fog. Evelyn opened her eyes. She was back in her cottage, slumped on the floor of her hall. The front door stood wide open, and Matthew and the professor were bending over her.
“She’s had a shock,” the professor said. “Get her some hot, sweet tea. Plenty of sugar, Matthew, if you please, but first, let’s get her onto the settee.”
As the bright morning light streamed through the windows, Evelyn felt as if her limbs had become boneless and incapable of holding her up. Matthew and Professor Mapplethorpe eased her down onto the sofa, and she leaned back against the cushions. Matthew went off to make tea.
“Oh, Professor. It was awful. Awful. I don’t know what to make of it.”
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
“It must have been a dream, I suppose, but it felt so real. All of it has seemed so real.”
“That’s because it was, my dear. Now, begin at the beginning.”
Evelyn told her tale, haltingly. As she explained about Branwell she thought how preposterous it must sound to anyone who had not experienced what she had, but the professor sat through it all, occasionally tapping his teeth with the stem of his pipe, but otherwise silent.
“Then I heard Matthew’s voice,” she concluded.
Matthew returned with the tea, the cup gently steaming with the fragrant Ceylon blend. Evelyn accepted it gratefully.
“I heard most of that from the kitchen,” Matthew said, sitting down. “You must have been terrified.”
“It’s what happened to Claire. I mean, I know it can’t have happened, but to watch your sister…” She could not continue.
Matthew touched her hand. “It’s all right, Evelyn.”
The professor frowned and Evelyn shivered. “You don’t agree with Matthew, Professor? You think something has happened to my sister?”
“Oh, no, not at all. Certainly not in the way you mean. Miss Wainwright, once again, I urge you to see a psychiatrist.”
“Oh, no, not that again.”
“Matthew, can you persuade her? It is most important.”
“But why?” Evelyn asked. “Why is it important?”
“Because,” the professor said, “with the right treatment, you would see things differently, and that is critical for you.”
“You clearly suspect something, but you won’t tell me what. Without an explanation I refuse to consult any medical practitioner and certainly not one who will try to get inside my head. Possibly even literally.”
The professor shook his head, sighed and turned to Matthew. “I’m afraid there is only one course of action open to me. Please go and retrieve the box and bring it to me now. Let’s not waste any more time.”
Matthew nodded and left them.
“Miss Wainwright, I had hoped you would agree to seek medical help before I revealed the contents of the box, but, as it is, you leave me with no choice.”
“I don’t understand how you can possess any information on me. We had never met until a couple of days ago.”
“But, as I told you, that is irrelevant. As I have told you before, all that has happened was laid down many years ago. Some of it even before any of us was born. Fate has dealt you a curious hand, a dangerous hand, even. How you play it will be critical.”
“It’s not as if I am anyone of importance. I am Evelyn Wainwright, spinster, living in a small village in the West Riding of Yorkshire with my sister. Why should that make me the center of so much intrigue?”
“Don’t dismiss yourself so easily, Miss Wainwright.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, the door opened.
The professor stirred. “Ah. Matthew. Do you have it?”
Matthew handed over a small box, smeared with damp earth. “I’m sorry I haven’t had time to clean it off.”
“It is of no consequence.” The professor produced the key and inserted it into the lock. It turned easily, and the box sprang open.
Inside lay some folded sheets of paper. The professor selected one and unfolded it. “I want you to listen without interruption, Miss Wainwright. Every word of this applies to you.”
He began to read. “‘The subject is a Miss Evelyn Wainwright, a fourteen-year-old girl from Sugden Heath in the West Riding of Yorkshire. She has been referred to me for consultation following a number of years when she has been suffering from delusions. Her parents reported these first started when she was approximately four years old and insisted she had a twin sister called Claire, even though Evelyn is – and always has been – an only child.’”
“But—”
“Miss Wainwright, please.”
Evelyn closed her mouth. What was this drivel? Only child? Chicanery. It had to be.
Matthew cleared his throat. “Professor, I don’t understand. I can vouch for Claire’s existence. I have met her, spoken to her. I—”
The professor raised his hand. “Matthew, I urge you to let me finish reading out this letter.”
Matthew nodded quickly, but he looked far from comfortable.
The professor continued: “‘At first her parents considered her fantasy to be that of a child with an imaginary friend, common enough and something she would naturally grow out of in a year or two. This did not happen. So strong was Evelyn’s belief in her imaginary twin sister, she was even heard having conversations with her, in two different voices. The personality of the other “sister” was distinctly different to that of Evelyn. Where the real girl tidied her room and took a great pride in her appearance, it would appear Claire was untidy, constantly leaving her clothes and toys lying around and proving something of a burden to Evelyn. Now, with her child at the age of puberty, her mother in particular is noticing differences in the relationship between the two. They occasionally have terrible rows, overheard by servants, as well as the parents. Evelyn has been known to emerge from her bedroom, crying, her hair a mess and insisting Claire has pulled it. On more than one occasion, she has appeared, with her dress ripped, in places it must have been difficult for her to reach. At their wits’ end, Mr. and Mrs. Wainwright have asked me to examine their daughter with a view to determining the state of her mental health.’”
The Garden of Bewitchment Page 22
