by Lisa Tuttle
In due course we met the rest of the family in a more comfortable parlor than the one into which we had first been shown. Mrs. Ringer was a stout, capable-appearing woman whose hair of faded gold and shrewd blue eyes hinted at the beauty she had possessed in her youth. The eldest daughter, Hilda, aged thirteen, brown-haired and blue-eyed, always had a book in her hand or tucked into a fold of her skirt to be perused in any idle moment. The other girls, Louisa and Beth, were golden-haired children who took small interest in the adult conversation, preferring the game they were playing with their brother, a boy of about six years old called Richard. There were also three other sons away at school; we were told their names, scholastic interests, and sporting achievements and shown their photographs in a red velvet album.
The reverend broke the news of their erstwhile lodger’s death to his family, presenting the official verdict of heart failure without any hint of doubt. We were introduced as acquaintances of Mr. Alexander Manning, sent to collect his brother’s effects and learn what we could about the last days of his life.
Mr. Jesperson had told Dr. Ringer that for the purposes of our investigation, we thought it best to remain incognito, and although I had not expected he would conceal the truth from his own family, it made good sense. Children may talk, or servants overhear, and thus the secret might be revealed to the very person we should least like to know.
Although all expressed shock and sorrow for a young life cut so suddenly short, none seemed personally affected, and the news did not cast a lasting pall over the evening. We spoke at first of Mr. Manning, as seemed only proper, but as the family shared their memories of him with us I realized how little they had known him. He always took his breakfast in his room, and rarely dined with the family. Although invited to treat the drawing room as his own, he did not. If he was not in his room, working or sleeping, he was out—and he went out most days, and stayed out late into the evening.
Dr. Ringer had made some attempts to become better acquainted with the stranger living under his roof, but their conversations had been largely dedicated to intellectual matters. They were on first-name terms, but were little more than acquaintances. Who Charles’s friends were, with whom he dined, or where he went at night, the vicar and his wife could not say. He was under no obligation to inform them of his movements, of course, Mrs. Ringer interjected, but in the past, when they had taken lodgers, even if only for a month in the summer, the visitors had quickly come to feel like part of the family. But Mr. Manning had not wished for that.
The maid who had answered the door to us now stepped into the room to announce: “Dinner is ready, Cook says, if you please.”
As we were about to make our way to the dining room, I noticed Mrs. Ringer catch hold of her daughter’s hand. “Not at table, Hilda.”
With a sigh, the girl put down her beloved book and walked on. Always curious, I slowed my steps enough to discover what this fascinating novel could be, and was very surprised to find it was a mathematical text—quite incomprehensible to me.
Mr. Jesperson saw—of course, he had also noticed Miss Hilda’s surreptitious study going on while we grown-ups conversed, and with his sharp eyes he had divined the nature of the book before I could. He winked at me; I bit my lip and hoped no one else had seen.
Dinner was a more formal meal than the vicar had led us to expect, presented in a series of courses to the seven of us at table. The younger children were excused, but in addition to Hilda and her parents there were two others. Mr. Mavesin was a thin, pale young man in spectacles, introduced as Dr. Ringer’s secretary, and youthful-seeming but gray-haired Miss Flowerdew was the family governess.
During the first course—a creamy leek and potato soup—Mr. Jesperson and I became the conversational focus, as Mrs. Ringer wished to understand our connection with Mr. Manning, and asked immediately what was our relationship?
I had not given any thought to an answer, the decision to conceal our true occupation having been made on the fly. Fortunately, her questions came just as I had taken a spoonful of soup, so Mr. Jesperson answered for me.
“We are business partners,” he replied. “We are in the process of establishing a new publishing imprint, as Jesperson and Lane. Mr. Alexander Manning is our banker, and he brought the poetry of his brother to our attention. It was our intention to publish his first collection.”
“I hope you will not abandon that idea,” responded Mrs. Ringer. “It would be lovely to have such a memorial of his brief life.”
“We must discover whether he left a sufficient quantity of work behind . . . and if all the poems are of the same quality.” He gave a sideways glance at the vicar to encourage him to join in.
“I have told Mr. Jesperson he should feel free to sort through and examine all of Mr. Manning’s papers. I’m sure his brother could have no objection.”
His wife nodded her agreement, and the conversation moved on to more general observations about poetry, publishing, and the need for more suitable and well-paid occupations for unmarried women. The talk was sufficiently engaging that it was quite some time before our hostess noticed that we had all long finished our soup, and that the empty bowls still sat before us, with no sign of the next course.
“Maria,” she said, raising her voice to call that name again. She frowned. “Where is that girl? Never there when you want her. She has become so unreliable lately.”
Pushing back her chair, she got up and went to the sideboard for a bell, which she gave a vigorous shake. The clapper swung and the summons of the handbell pealed. Then she sat down again, and we all waited in silence.
After a few moments the door opened and a stout, red-faced woman appeared, hands on her hips, frowning.
“I am sorry, Cook,” said Mrs. Ringer with a pacifying air. “I did not mean to disturb you. Only . . . we are ready for our next course, as you can see, and—”
“And I am ready for you to have it, and all!” the cook exclaimed fiercely. “The fish will be that dry and cold, a-waitin’, and I made it so lovely.”
Distantly, there came the sound of a slammed door, then hasty footsteps approaching.
Cook turned. “And where have you been, I’d like to know? Keeping the gentlefolk waiting.”
“I’m very sorry, I’m sure.” It was the same maid who had taken us for an eloping couple when she let us into the house. She spoke distractedly, short of breath, wisps of hair escaping from under her cap, her clothing disarranged, with dark spots down her front, as if she’d splashed water on herself. “Please, I’m sorry, ma’am, but I had to—I had to go—”
“That will be enough, Maria,” her mistress said loudly, cutting her off. “We do not wish for an explanation. Clear the plates and bring in the next course, and try to be more aware of the time, in future.”
The fish was colder than it should have been, but perfectly cooked, with a lovely sauce. All the food was delicious and plentiful—not even the addition of two unexpected guests had forced a reduction in portions. I wondered if the Ringers ate so well every night, and if Charles Manning had known what he was missing, and where, on what, and with whom he had dined instead.
I received a partial answer to my question later that night, from Hilda.
Despite the vicar’s cheery assurance that there were plenty of rooms, and that the girls were accustomed to moving, his wife had a different plan. She might accept me as Mr. Jesperson’s business partner and express her support for the idea of gainful employment for women, but she did not trust my morals enough to put me alone in a room overnight. Hilda was to be my bed-partner, to protect me from my traveling companion, or my own worse nature, or any suspicion of wrongdoing. She probably meant well, so I did not reveal my annoyance at her presumption, and pretended to believe that this was the best she had to offer, and I should be “most comfortable” sharing with Hilda.
It did not help that, although the bed was large enough for two, young Hilda was a thrasher, given to rolling over suddenly and kicking out with her long
, skinny legs.
The one benefit of sharing was that she told me things about Mr. Manning that her parents did not know. For instance, that he had a sweetheart whom he had visited most evenings.
We were in bed when this conversation began, lying in the dark.
“Do you know who she is?” I asked.
“She is one of the Bulstrode sisters. They live alone since their parents died, at Wayside Cross. Miss Bulstrode, Alys and Ann.”
I bit my lip, thinking of the a engraved on the silver cigarette case. “Which one?”
“Most likely Ann. She is the youngest and prettiest. Alys is pretty, too, but she has a sharp tongue. I’m sure she has frightened off more than one suitor already.”
“Mr. Manning’s brother had no idea of his brother’s engagement. He cannot have written to her . . . They will not have heard the news,” I said. “I should pay a call and let them know. Is their house far?”
“You may see it if you look up the road. They are our nearest neighbors.”
“Oh—well, perhaps your mother or your father would be kind enough to introduce me. The sad news might better come from their vicar.”
She giggled and drummed her feet, making the mattress bounce beneath us. “Papa is not their vicar! And we never socialize with them.”
“Why not?”
I felt the movement of her shoulders as she shrugged. “Mama will not explain. But they never come to church—not to our church. But I think I know why, and—oh!” She gave a little gasp, and drummed her feet again. “Perhaps that is the reason why Mr. Manning never would attend Papa’s services.”
“What is?”
“Why, if he was a Roman. For I think they are. And she wouldn’t agree to marry him if he were not, would she? Or unless he converted.”
“You mean they are Roman Catholic?”
My own pillow shook under the force of her heavily nodding head. “I think they must be. And it is quite a distance to the nearest RC church—Norwich, perhaps—so even if they are quite devout, they could not often attend a service. But I think the Bulstrodes are Christians—just different from our kind of Christian—and it is nonsense what some people say.”
I almost did not ask, for I had no need to hear the usual ignorant, prejudicial slander directed by pious Anglicans against the equally pious neighbors who had never abandoned the original Mother Church, but I wanted to keep her talking. “What do some people say?”
“That Miss Bulstrode is a witch. Because she has a raven for a pet—it is a very clever bird—silly, ignorant folk call that her familiar. They say it is an implet. And because people go to her for powders and poultices and potions—but that is not witchcraft, you know, but medicine. She knows all about plants, the wild ones she gathers in the woods, and the ones she grows in her garden. And that is called botany. So you see—what she does is science, not witchcraft.”
“Do you believe in witchcraft?”
She squirmed and paddled her feet. “I don’t know. Define witchcraft. If A gives a mixture to B and B dies, does that make A a witch?”
“First I’d like to know the purpose of the mixture, and the relationship between A and B.”
“Very good. Is A a registered chemist, a trained doctor, a medical student . . . or a spinster with a raven perched on her shoulder?”
I gave a startled laugh. “This is the lady that Charles Manning wanted to marry?”
“Of course not. I told you—Miss Bulstrode is too old for Mr. Manning. And she is too clever. Mama says men do not like very clever women. But sometimes men must wish to talk to women they do not wish to marry. I think Mr. Manning first called upon Miss Bulstrode to ask her about her knowledge, and to look at her books.” Her voice turned wistful on that word. “They have a very fine library at Wayside Cross. People come from far and wide to consult it. I wish Mama would let me go . . . but she says we have more than enough books here.” She flopped onto her side. “Anyway, Mr. Manning went there for information—for the books, and maybe to ask Miss B where she’d learned to cast spells, but then Miss Ann cast her spell on him.” She giggled sleepily. “Isn’t it funny how people talk about ladies casting spells to make men fall in love with them? If spells were real and I could do them, I wouldn’t waste any of them on anything as silly as that.”
“What would you use your spells for?”
“To go into space, to travel to other planets, to go deep under the sea and find out all the secrets of the universe.”
I smiled. I liked Hilda.
“But they’re not real.” She yawned. “When Miss Bulstrode helps somebody who goes to her, she doesn’t do it with magic, but with medicine—because she’s been studying plants and learning about the effects of chemical compounds on the human body. And it would be the same if she ever harmed anyone. People who say she is a witch—or that all the sisters are witches—are simply superstitious, ignorant fools. Even Miss Flowerdew.” She yawned again, heaved herself up, and turned onto her other side, facing away from me.
I asked another question before she could fall asleep. “What is Miss Bulstrode’s Christian name?”
“Arabella,” she murmured drowsily.
Arabella, Alys, and Ann. Three candidates for Mr. Manning’s “dearest A.” In the morning, I hoped to learn which one—and much more besides.
Chapter 5
In a House of Women
The problem with living incognito in a family home was that it made any private exchange of information with Mr. Jesperson next to impossible. I was eager next morning to share what I had learned from Hilda, and to discuss our plan of action, but there were always others about, and, as we were still a novelty in the household, we were the center of attention.
Breakfast was a family affair, with all the children present as well as their governess. The disheveled, harassed-looking maid rushed in and out with bowls of porridge, plates of eggs and bacon, more tea and toast for us all. I felt sorry for her, and hoped she’d had her own breakfast already, although I suspected the food would have gone cold before she had time to eat.
“What are your plans for today, Jasper?” inquired Dr. Ringer. “I hope you do not mind if I call you Jasper.”
“It is my name,” he said equably, tucking into his bacon and eggs. “But I fear you may change your mind when I tell you who I plan to visit.”
“Felix Ott.” Dr. Ringer spoke the name in withering tones, but his disapproval did not extend to his new young friend. “I understand. He should be able to tell you much more about Charles’s investigations, his comings and goings, and much more besides—if he is of a mind to be helpful. But I should not be too ready to believe whatever he says. And I hope you will take care, for I am certain he will do his best to involve you in his own scheme. Can you ride a bicycle?”
Mr. Jesperson looked up alertly. “I can.”
“Then you may take mine. It will get you to Cromer in under half an hour if you take it steady.”
“Thank you. That is most kind. I enjoy a good spin.”
As the two men beamed at each other across the table, I fumed in silence, trying and failing to catch Mr. Jesperson’s eye as I wondered why he did not mention me—did he expect me to toil along in his dust? Or did he imagine I should be happy to balance on the handlebars as he struggled to propel the overburdened machine . . .
I was still at a loss for words when Mrs. Ringer intervened. “What a happy thought, Robert. And do not worry about your friend, Mr. Jesperson; Miss Lane and I shall enjoy ourselves together, and have a good, long gossip—stay in Cromer as long as you like.”
As she made to pat my hand, I pulled away, just managing to put on a conciliatory smile before she could feel the snub. “That is very kind of you, Mrs. Ringer, but I am afraid I cannot stay. I must pay another call today. There are other friends of Mr. Manning who must be told of his demise.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What friends? When you questioned us yesterday you implied—more than implied; I am certain you were entirely ignorant o
f any friends Charles may have made in Norfolk.”
“Perhaps friends is the wrong word. Indeed, we know nothing of his relationships,” I answered calmly, taking care not to look in Hilda’s direction. “But we have his address book, you know. And Mr. Manning—his brother, I mean—was most eager for us to speak with anyone who had known him. We are only trying to carry out his wishes. Although you did not mention it, one address in his book is very near—Wayside Cross. Do you know the family?”
Mrs. Ringer looked as if she had met with a bad smell. “I know of them. Three sisters live there. If Mr. Manning visited Wayside Cross, it can only have been for the library. The ladies inherited a large collection of books from their grandfather. He was a seafaring man who brought back a great many exotic plants from his travels around the world, and after he retired he settled down to collecting books and tending his garden.”
“Certainly Charles visited Wayside Cross, and more than once,” said the vicar. I wondered why he had not mentioned it earlier, but instead professed ignorance about where the late Mr. Manning had spent his time, and perhaps he realized that he owed us an explanation, for he continued, “The library was the great attraction to him, undoubtedly, and not for the volumes that most people would prize—works of natural history, botany, chemistry, geography, and medical studies—but for a small collection of books in several languages dealing with magic and witchcraft.”
“Part of the ‘obscenities’ you wished he would abandon?” Mr. Jesperson suggested as he buttered a piece of toast.
“You do understand.” Dr. Ringer sighed. “One never likes to speak ill of the dead; I was so fond of Charles, it hurts me to say anything that would make others think badly of him. And—” He hesitated, then plunged into further justification for his previous prevarications. “After all, you did ask specifically about his friends—and regardless of how much time he spent in her house, he could never have counted Miss Bulstrode as his friend.”
“Why not?”
Although it was I who had asked the question, he continued to speak as if confiding in Mr. Jesperson alone. “Because she was an enemy to Felix Ott.”
