The Curious Affair of the Witch at Wayside Cross:

by Lisa Tuttle

  She appeared to give the question serious thought. “None of the married women I have met seem to fit your descriptions, but as we are not on intimate terms, I can hardly be certain. But—stealing babies. That reminds me of something. Why would someone steal a baby? Was it something I read, or heard—oh!” Her eyes widened as the memory came back to her.

  “Mr. Felix Ott. He said it. Yes, of course. How could I have forgotten? Well, I did not really forget, only the circumstances are so . . . Well, it was in the talk he gave one evening in Cromer, back in September. Mr. Manning mentioned it, and invited me—” Her sallow cheeks flushed. “Or, more truthfully I should say I invited myself . . . Of course I knew the reverend would not approve, but Mrs. Ringer said I certainly should go to the talk if I liked, she thought it a shame I have so little social life, and as it happened, Miss Goodall was going, she has her own carriage and was kind enough to drive me home afterward; really, they say she is so proud and haughty but I can only say she was entirely kind and accommodating to me.”

  When she paused for breath I broke in. “But what of Mr. Ott’s lecture? What did it have to do with stealing babies?”

  “I beg your pardon. He gave a talk on witchcraft. Did you know, they are not only creatures of legend, but truly exist—and not merely in the past, but even today. They continue to practice their ancient traditions in secret, and although some of their lore is part of the wisdom he wishes to preserve and transmit through his school—the School of British Wisdom, you know—he warned that we must be very careful not to get involved with evil witches.

  “For while many wisewomen and wisemen were called witches and falsely accused of heinous acts and condemned to horrible deaths by the old, misguided church, there were also some who were deservedly feared and hated because they did do evil—when they rejected Christianity (and I had better say he thinks that is a good thing to do—you understand why Doctor Ringer cannot abide the thought of him or his teachings!)—these bad witches, instead of devoting themselves to the purity of their ancient traditions, adopted a sort of negative image of the Church, which became known as satanism.”

  In full flow, she paused to draw breath, but this time I did not dare interrupt.

  “These satanic witches turned the ceremony of communion, in which we consume the metaphorical body of Christ, into actual cannibalism. They practiced human sacrifice. And they still do today—so Mr. Ott declared.”

  Nodding her head, she gave me a strained, excited smile. “He told us a great many horrid details about the wrong sort of witches, the satanic sort, but this is what your question reminded me of: He said witches steal babies.

  “When a new witch is invited to join a coven, as a part of her initiation she is required to provide a baby as a sacrifice to Satan. If she cannot bring one of her own, then she must steal one. The baby will be murdered and then cooked, either to be eaten or to mix with other ingredients to make a magical ointment.”

  Her eyes widened as if she only just realized the implication of her words, and she leaned in closer to me and whispered, “Do you think it is true? Could there be real, live, evil witches living here today? Have they taken Maria’s baby?”

  Chapter 11

  Witchcraft?

  I was some time in Miss Flowerdew’s room, calming her down—I could hardly abandon her in the state she had worked herself into. I told her very firmly that baby-boiling witches were a mythical creation of a more superstitious and fearful age, and that Mr. Ott very likely told such horror stories to attract more interest. He was trying to make money, just like newspapers that published salacious details of gory crimes.

  I changed the subject to favorite novels and then to pets we had known and loved—and heard a great deal about a particular bunny rabbit, dead now thirty years—before she ate her pudding.

  “Would you like a cup of cocoa? Or perhaps some hot milk, just to settle you?”

  “Oh, you are kind, Miss Lane! No, there is no need. I feel quite settled now. I shall brush my teeth and get ready for bed. It has been so lovely to remember Marigold . . . I am sure I will dream of her tonight, frolicking in the summer fields.”

  “I am sure I shall, too. Good night, Miss Flowerdew. Sleep well.”

  When I got back to the kitchen I discovered Mr. Jesperson had nearly finished washing the dishes.

  This was one of the more surprising activities I had seen him perform—I am sure he would never have done so of his own accord back in Gower Street—but I said nothing, and took up a towel to start drying.

  “You have been a long time. I suppose you investigated every nook and cranny in Miss Flowerdew’s room?”

  “Not exactly.” I sighed. “It took her a long time to express her own theory of what has happened to Maria’s baby, and then it took me nearly as long to talk her out of it.”

  “Why, what was it?”

  “Oh, that witches have stolen the baby in order to cook and eat it.”

  He paused, holding a plate suspended and dripping soapsuds over the sink. “You think that is impossible?”

  I gaped at him. “You think it is likely?”

  “The case that brought us to Aylmerton began with a man terrified of witches. No, I do not think it is likely—but I would not dismiss it out of hand.”

  Rinsing the dish, he handed it to me to dry. “Ritual infanticide is one of the standard accusations made against witches down the ages. Sometimes the children are stolen; sometimes they are the offspring of the witches themselves, conceived at bestial orgies. They are sacrificed to the devil, or eaten by the witches in an unholy feast. Dead babies are well known to be the chief ingredient in the ointment that enables witches to fly. Mind you, I do not say that any of this is true, but people have believed it for centuries. And when something is widely believed, someone will try to do it.”

  “I hope not in this case.”

  “So do I. How did Miss Flowerdew come by this idea?”

  “She said Felix Ott spoke of witches stealing babies for sacrifice to Satan.”

  He shook his head. “She must have got the wrong end of the stick. Considering the reverend’s attitude to Ott, that is not surprising. But what Ott really believes—or promotes—is the idea that witchcraft is an old religion, firmly British and worth preserving, nothing at all like the demonic madness it has been painted as.”

  I set my jaw stubbornly. “Miss Flowerdew told me she went to a lecture where Mr. Ott made a distinction between the wisewomen wrongly accused by the church of witchcraft, and evil Satan-worshippers who are also witches, still active in the world today, who must be avoided. According to her, he said they were cannibalistic baby-killers. And, really, I cannot think where else she would have heard such a thing.”

  He emptied the sink, staring down as the water swirled away, and frowned. “How very strange. You do not think she fell asleep halfway through his lecture, and missed the part about how that was the myth, but in truth witches today are all of the highest moral caliber?”

  “No. She got the part about the good witches—but the warnings against the evil sort were certainly more vivid and easier to recall.”

  “Evil is often presented in lurid colors, good in pale pastels. But Ott is canny—I find it hard to think he would make such a mistake. After all, he wants to attract followers—intelligent, civilized, moneyed adherents, not bloodthirsty lunatics. So far as I understand it, he’s selling a new and distinctly British religion—though he calls it a school—rooted in old traditions. He knows he must steer clear of demons and emphasize morality and personal improvement. His aim is ultimately to create a movement that could be at least as powerful as the Established Church. . He positions the Church as the old enemy, for its persecution and demonization of good Britons who refused to give up their own rites and rituals and adopt those of an invading, foreign-born religion.”

  “Well, according to Miss Flowerdew he warned his audience not to be taken in by the wrong sort of witch. The Established Church had tried to wipe out all
those wise folk they called witches—but, he said, there were some who really were worshippers of Satan, and they must avoid them and not be taken in.”

  “I wonder who he had in mind? Does he have competition in the ancient British wisdom arena? It sounds like a message aimed at someone in particular . . . only it hit a few other sensitive souls in its path. It would be useful to know who else attended that particular lecture . . . Could you find out the date?”

  “She said it was in September.”

  He helped me finish drying and putting everything away, restoring the kitchen to a state of tidiness that we both paused for a moment to admire.

  “Mrs. Ringer will think the elves have been in to do the work,” he said.

  I laughed. “She will not give it a moment’s thought—she expects everything to be tidy when she comes down in the morning. Only Maria may be amazed and grateful, and wonder who to thank.”

  He replied solemnly as we left the room, “I hope Maria knows one must never thank the elves, or admit to having seen them at work, or they will go away, never to return.”

  Miss Bulstrode shook her head slowly. “The name means nothing to me.”

  “Maria is the maid-of-all-work at the Vicarage,” I explained. “Are you sure she never came to you for advice, or for any sort of complaint?”

  “Ah, now I know the girl you mean. No, I have never seen her, except in passing. She has certainly never paid a visit to me, but my girls are friendly with her, I believe. But why do you ask?”

  “Last evening, while we were at table, the maid rushed in, shrieking that her baby was gone, and fainted. Her employers thought she had gone mad. They were adamant that there was no baby in the house, and certainly Maria had none of her own—she has worked for them for four years, and hardly a day of sickness. But when Mr. Jesperson and I went out to the stables, we found the stableboy was able to confirm that for the past three days and nights, Maria had kept her baby hidden there, sneaking out to care for it whenever she could. He believed no one else knew about it; he was a witness to the birth, which seems to have been as much a surprise to the mother as to everyone else. He said he had watched the baby while Maria was in the house, and that it had been left alone no more than three or four minutes when it disappeared.”

  Her brows knit and, as I had noticed her do before, she stroked the smooth dome of her carnelian ring with the ball of her thumb. “Could the two young people be in league? Inventing a story about a baby that never was?”

  “Doctor Vokes attended Maria, and he said there was no doubt that she had given birth in the past few days.”

  “Then probably the maid or the stableboy did away with it—or both of them together.”

  Her cool suggestion chilled my blood, but I reminded myself that she knew neither of those involved. “Billy is only a child himself. And if Maria killed her illegitimate baby, the existence of which she had managed to keep secret, why then draw attention to it? Besides, we searched the stables and outbuildings, the garden and grounds and along the roadside, much farther than Maria or Billy could have gone in the short time available, and found nothing. The baby has vanished. Which brings me to my other question: Do you know of anyone in the parish who is desperate for a child?”

  Although she did not move, I felt her pull back. “I would not tell you if I did.”

  “Please, this information—”

  “Is private and personal to the women who confide their troubles in me. I do not betray confidences.”

  “But someone has stolen a child.” I tried to penetrate her coldness, to make her feel the urgency of the matter.

  “So you say. And therefore, is every woman who has ever longed for a baby, or lost one, or tried and failed to conceive one, to fall under suspicion? And what is it to you, Miss Lane?” Her gaze sharpened; I felt she was on the brink of piercing through my thin disguise and ejecting me from her house as a spy.

  “I cannot help but feel sorry for poor little Maria, that is all,” I said. “I was in the house where this happened last night, and although it is nothing to do with me, I want to help if I can. And—a lost child! Surely you feel the urgency of that. There is no time to be wasted; it may be a matter of life and death. Everyone from the household is trying to help.”

  She sighed, and I saw her shoulders relax. “Of course. I understand. And I hope you understand that I feel every bit as protective of my women patients as you do of that maid. I will not hand over anyone’s secrets to be torn apart and used and put on public display.”

  “But a child has been stolen,” I said emphatically.

  “If a child has been stolen, that is a matter for the police,” she said, an edge of steel in her voice. “Have they been informed?”

  “I do not know.” I thought a moment, weighing the situation. “There was some talk of it . . . Doctor Vokes, believing that Maria had done away with her child in a moment of madness, was not inclined to bring in the law. There is certainly the danger that they would accuse her of murder and lock her up. But, after all, there is no evidence of murder—a baby is missing, and the police might have a better chance of finding it. My partner inclines that way, I think; he was intending to go to Cromer later today, and might inform the police if we are still as much in the dark. But surely it would be better—and safer—for all concerned if we could settle matters without bringing in the police. I do not suppose you would be any happier to give the police a list of names . . . ?”

  “I would not,” she said coldly. “The police have their own sources, and will not scruple to use any bit of unfounded gossip or malicious rumor to add to the pain of women who have already suffered quite enough. But they will not find the missing baby in any of their homes. I will tell you this: Although I will not name them, there is no need for me to name them. I would swear upon my very life that no one who has come to me for help with conception, or to prevent another miscarriage, has stolen anyone else’s child.”

  I saw that it would be useless to argue with her. And how likely was it that someone desirous of a baby would have known there was one lying unattended in the stable at the Vicarage? Even Thomas Hardy might have balked at coincidence bringing a bereaved stranger passing by, deciding to take shelter from the cold in a stable at the very moment that the baby was left unattended. Someone must have known about the baby already.

  “You said that your servants are friendly with Maria—might I speak with them?”

  “Of course. Will you come now?”

  I followed her out of the large and rather gloomy parlor to a large kitchen at the back of the house. It was warm and clean and well lighted. Two young women sat at a big, scrubbed wooden table, one polishing silverware, the other engaged in peeling potatoes. I recognized the silver-polisher as the pretty maid who had answered the door to me on two occasions; the other girl was plump and fair but rather cross-looking, with masses of blond hair escaping from an unevenly pinned bun at the back of her head. Our entry had silenced them, but the echo of their voices still hung in the air as they stared up at us.

  “Nancy, Elsie—no, do not get up. This is Miss Lane. She is a visitor from the Vicarage and would like to speak to you, if you do not mind? Good. I should be happy for you to answer her questions, and help her in any way that you can. Meanwhile, I shall put the kettle on, and make a pot of tea for us all.”

  The two young women gave up their previous occupations to fix their attention firmly on me as I asked my first question: “I understand that you are friends with Maria Murry, the young woman who works at the Vicarage?”

  Nancy nodded agreement, but blond Elsie objected: “I should not say friends, exactly.”

  “But you know her.”

  “Oh, aye. What has it been, three years now?”

  “Did you know that Maria had a baby?”

  “What, before she come to Aylmerton?” Elsie’s eyes narrowed, sparkling with interest. “What a dark horse! She must have been awfully young?”

  “No, I mean just recently. Had y
ou any idea that she might be in the family way?”

  “What? No! She never did—she could not—impossible! And her without a sweetheart—she never walked out with anyone!” Their disbelief tumbled out in a jumble of protest and explanation. I learned that Elsie thought Maria fancied herself too good for the local male talent, whereas Nancy felt that the girl was shy, and young for her years—possibly a bit simple.

  “I expect someone took advantage of her,” said Nancy. “The poor soul.”

  “Yes—her brother-in-law, most likely. At least, so the doctor inferred from what she told him, and the dates fit. Maria herself hardly understood what had happened.”

  “You see?” said Nancy to Elsie. “Oh, the poor child. But—we saw her only a fortnight ago.”

  “Bonfire night, that was. Nearly a month.”

  “Even so . . .” She frowned, remembering. “She did not look . . . Well, no one could have guessed . . . How did she manage to hide her condition?”

  “She hid it even from herself, I suspect,” said Miss Bulstrode. “Sometimes, if the baby is small, and carried high, it is not so obvious. And a naïve young woman might manage to ignore the changes in her own body. If that was the situation, how terrified she must have been when the baby came. Some instinct may have driven her to hide herself rather than seek help. And once she saw the baby . . . perhaps she decided to hide it, well aware of the consequences once it was known, but more likely, I think, that she did not plan, only adapted herself to this new demand, and struggled to carry on as best she could.”

  “What will happen to her now?” asked Nancy. “Will the Ringers throw her out? I suppose she’ll have to go to the workhouse.”

  “The baby is gone,” I said.

  The maids stared in astonishment. “What? How?”

  “Last night, when Maria went out to check on her child, hidden as usual behind a pile of hay in the stable, it was not there.”