by Lisa Tuttle
“But who would take a baby?” asked Nancy.
“No one,” said Elsie, looking at me with narrowed eyes. “Did you see this baby, miss?”
“No.”
“Did no one else but Maria see it?”
“Only the stableboy.”
“She is lying,” said Elsie flatly. “And she’s got Billy to believe a piece of wood wrapped in a blanket was her babby. Don’t kick me, Nance. I do not blame her. Look at her life! I could never have stuck it at the Vicarage for half the time she’s put up with being their overworked, underappreciated slavey. I don’t reckon she’s as simple as you say, either. For once she is the center of attention, and at the end of it they’ll all feel sorry for her, and she’ll still have her job. There never was a baby.”
“But there was a baby,” I told them. “According to Doctor Vokes, Maria had given birth within the past few days. And Billy saw it. He is the reason we know almost to the minute when the baby went missing.”
This silenced them for a few moments. Miss Bulstrode was about to speak when Elsie got there first. “But who is to know if the baby was born dead . . . or died soon after? Billy saw Maria tending to something wrapped in a blanket . . . and only slowly realized she was caring for something that required no care. Maybe he is the one who finally took the cold body away and buried it. That would explain her hysterics.”
I was impressed by Elsie’s reasoning abilities, and found her theory more likely than any other I had heard or managed to come up with myself. It was more reassuring to think that the baby had died of natural causes—it may have been too small and sickly to survive. Maria was thereby cleared of infanticide, and her grief and horror at the loss of the baby (which she had gone on trying to nurse in her simple-minded way) was explained. The only problem with this story was Billy. Having seen the boy, I did not believe he had anything to hide. He was as surprised by the disappearance as Maria. I did not think the boy could be such a skilled actor—and even if he had been, where was the baby? Surely there had been no time for him to dig a hole and bury it.
I was still turning Elsie’s suggestion over in my mind, preparing to argue it out point by point, when Miss Bulstrode took over again.
“Thank you very much, girls,” she said, rising from the table. “We’ll not detain you from your work any longer. The kettle is on the boil—Nancy, please make the tea and bring it to us in my office; Miss Lane will stay long enough to enjoy a cup, and we are not to be disturbed except for some emergency.”
As soon as we were inside her parlor, she shut the door and turned her back on it to regard me with a grave expression.
“Miss Lane, you are very good to take up Maria’s case like this, but the best thing you can do for her now is to lay it down again. Above all, do not bring the police into it.”
I stared at her, bewildered. “Why?”
“Maria never had a baby.”
“But Doctor Vokes said—”
She cut me off. “Yes, and whatever I think of him, he is not such a fool as to make a mistake like that. But it may be she had a miscarriage, or the child was stillborn—either might explain why no one suspected she was enceinte. At present, no one but Maria and Billy can say they saw it. There is no body. If a body is found, the police will be involved, it will be treated as a crime—and Maria will bear all the blame. For bearing life, for dealing death.” I tried to speak but she would not let me. “No, listen to me; it does not matter what ‘really’ happened. If it was born dead, or Maria smothered it by accident, or in a moment of panic or fear. Doctor Vokes will not go to the police. I will not. Maria will not. If you care about the girl, you will not. The best thing for her is that she should forget it ever happened.”
“But the baby!”
“The baby is dead.”
A fusillade of sharp raps, like a scattering of gravel against glass, startled us both. Turning toward the sound, I saw a crow perched on the ledge outside the window. It cocked its head.
“Oh! Gabriel,” Miss Bulstrode cried, and hastened to open the window. “Come in my dear, come in!”
The black bird hopped inside, and she shut the window again. “Too cold outside, I quite agree. Now, I have left a treat for you on the shelf—fly up and get it.”
With a single loud “caw!” the bird launched and flew to the top of the bookcase, where I saw it pick up something with its beak, then put its head back as it swallowed. It cawed again.
Miss Bulstrode turned back to me, smiling and relaxed now, the intensity of our confrontation in the past. Although I wanted to argue against her assertion that Maria’s baby was dead, I had no compelling counterargument to make. I did not think my hostess would respond favorably to Miss Flowerdew’s idea of cannibalistic witches.
I went to stand before the fire, and as I warmed myself I looked around the room, noticing things I had not seen before. In particular, there was a glass-fronted case—a medicine cabinet, it must have been, for the shelves were filled with labeled jars and other containers, some of which were like those you see behind the counter at the chemist’s shop. I could not quite read the labels, but thought they were in Latin.
“How do your clients respond to your pet crow?” I asked.
“Some are nervous, some are charmed by him. At least one lady considers Gabriel more in the role of my colleague, rather than a pet.”
“And some, I suppose, must think he is your familiar?” I turned around so I could see her expression. “Have you ever been accused of being a witch?”
She did not seem at all put out by my question, but almost pleased. “Oh, yes, indeed,” she said calmly. “Accused is an interesting word. Should I be accused of being a doctor or a midwife? I could accept the title of healer or wisewoman with pride. But witch? That is still considered beyond the pale. I should be happy to reclaim the title. The Church did a good job of demonizing us.”
“‘Us’? You include your sisters?”
“My sisters in the tradition, not Alys and Ann. Our mother taught me, but neither of them has ever been interested—although Alys has a bit of a green thumb, so she likes to help me in the garden and the glasshouse.”
“So you learned your skills from your mother—and she from hers?”
“No, she was instructed by a childless old woman in the village. The tradition is not only transmitted by right of birth; it requires devotion and dedicated practice. Bearing children, raising them, looking after a family, do not really fit with having a true vocation. To have one child, perhaps, under the right circumstances . . . but not the obligations imposed on most wives and mothers. My mother was unmarried; I have no father. Fortunately, her own father was an unusually tolerant man who let her make her own choices, and he had money enough to pay servants, giving her leisure to work and study. I was a curious child, eager for instruction; I was her apprentice before I was four years old.”
It was a delicate subject—an unmarried woman with three children—but I had to ask. “Your sisters?”
“When I was thirteen, my grandfather died. Less than a year later, my mother married a man by the name of Joseph Peacock. He arrived one day to look at her late father’s library, with the plan of buying it. She had no wish to sell it, but nevertheless he ended up in possession of it—and the house—and her. Their first child was born about a month after their marriage. Ann came along two years later. Two years after that, our mother died in childbed. The baby she carried was badly deformed and did not survive.” Her hands clenched in her lap, and her mouth was a tight line as she spoke. “She should have known better. She knew ways to prevent conception, but the Peacock wanted a son to carry on his name.”
“I am sorry,” I murmured.
“Ancient history,” she said. “But it shaped me. It was a powerful lesson about the dangers of letting a man rule over you. I saw, too, how the demands of motherhood, even more than those of being a wife, wore her down and took her away from her vocation. Fortunately, by then I was old enough to assume her mantle in both he
r occupations—witch and mother.”
“And what of Mr. Peacock?”
Her nose wrinkled. “What of him? Well, he died, eventually. None too soon—but at least before he could sell the house from under us, or marry a wicked stepmother.”
“Your sisters do not bear his name.”
“Are you surprised? No, they look upon me almost as their mother, and naturally wished we should share the same surname.”
“But that will change with marriage.”
“Yes, when they marry—and I think they will—although it would not surprise me if Alys did not insist on her husband taking her name as part of the conditions of their betrothal.” She laughed, and I could not tell how serious she was.
“And what about you?”
“I shall never marry,” she said firmly. “I have been asked, and I have refused, so this is no idle promise. I told you about my mother’s experience. It made me determined never to allow a man to have dominion over me, making my choices, absorbing all my energies, and telling me what to do.”
“All men are not like Mr. Peacock.”
“I know that. But why risk it? I have my vocation.”
“You speak as if you were a nun. Is witchcraft so like a religion?”
She looked thoughtful, turning the ring around on her finger. “There are elements that have some similarities, I think—devotion, ritual observances—but in truth I know very little about religion. I was not raised in any church. My grandfather was proudly atheistical. My mother . . . had her private spiritual beliefs. However, Mr. Ott thinks that witchcraft should be considered one of the ancient religions of our land, along with druidism. And unlike druidism, the truth of which has been entirely lost to us, many of the rituals of witchcraft have been handed down over the generations and continue to be practiced in secret.”
I was fascinated by the movement of the ring on her finger. “Was that ring your mother’s?”
“This? Oh, no. It was a gift, from a gentleman—given in friendship. It is certainly no engagement ring.” My attention sharpened at this—surely unnecessary—denial. I noticed how her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes seemed brighter as she contemplated the large orange stone, turning her hand so it caught the light, and I felt more certain than ever that it had been a present from Charles Manning, echoing the pretty little bibelot she had given to him. Judging by her words, she could not have been engaged to him, but her looks spoke of a fonder emotion than friendship. Perhaps they had been lovers, and this had roused jealousy in another, and led to his death.
“It is certainly unusual—and attractive. Why should it not be an engagement ring?” I said, speaking almost at random as I tried to think of how to question her about her relationship and who had known of it.
She turned her hand from side to side. “It is not what most people would choose as a friendship ring, either,” she said. “Let me show you.”
She touched the side of the stone, caught with her fingernail at a gap beneath the setting, and flipped it open, revealing a small, hidden compartment. It was empty—I thought again of Mr. Manning’s pillbox.
“That might hold a lock of the beloved friend’s hair,” I suggested.
“A pretty idea,” she said, looking amused. “Much prettier than the truth! In fact it is designed to hold a lethal dose, in pills or powder. Have you never seen a poison ring before?”
Chapter 12
Still Seeking Answers
Miss Bulstrode checked the time on the gold watch pinned to her lapel. “I hope you will not think me inhospitable, but other matters compel my attention. Please do not feel you must rush off.”
When she rose, I did, too. “Thank you . . . While I am here, I had hoped I might speak to your sisters.”
Like a shadow, an expression of wariness crossed her face. “You are not still pursuing the phantom baby? I can assure you, my sisters know nothing.”
I spoke quickly. “No, it is about Charles Manning.”
She did not look reassured—and I confess, she was right to suspect my intentions—so I pressed on. “You know why I have come to Aylmerton. And you have been very kind. If Ann or Alys had memories of Charles Manning they could share, I know his brother would be grateful.”
“Do you? I do not think he would be glad to learn of a connection between his brother and my sister.”
I recalled the cigarette case with date and initial. “Do you mean to suggest there was one? A special understanding, or—”
“That is not for me to say.” She gave a weary sigh. “Oh, very well, I shall tell them. Let it be their decision.”
“Thank you, but this is your office—I do not wish to discommode you—”
“No, not at all, I have to go out. Please, make yourself comfortable. And while you wait, feel free to explore the library. Not all the works are scholarly tomes; you may find something here to divert you. Good day, Miss Lane.”
I was glad to have her permission, for I should have found it impossible to resist having a browse once I was left alone in that room full of temptations. The only difficulty was in knowing where to begin, since I did not even know by what plan they were organized. As I wandered, searching for a familiar title by which to orient myself, I found that the volumes were in a variety of languages, including Latin, German, and Arabic, ancient and modern, and although mostly grouped according to subject matter (medicine, astronomy, botany, for example), some seemed to have been shelved at random.
Seeing the name of Sir Walter Scott on a dark-blue spine was like glimpsing an old friend in a room full of strangers, but this was not one of his novels, but a copy of Demonology and Witchcraft. Beside it, three leather-bound volumes comprising the Compendium Maleficarum of Fr. Francesco Maria Guazzo. I pulled one out and opened it to a woodcut illustration. It showed a devilish beaked, horned, tailed man welcoming a group of men and women dressed in the style of the seventeenth century, with a fat naked baby lying at their feet. I did not need to be able to read the Latin text to understand. A few pages later I came upon another woodcut, this one far more horrible, showing one infant being turned on a spit over a blazing fire, and another about to be dropped into a boiling cauldron.
Had they ever been true, those accusations of infanticide and cannibalism, the confessions of sacrifice and devil-worship elicited under torture? Or were they nightmares and deliberate lies invented to demonize the followers of an older religion?
I closed the book and put it back in its place. I wondered if the woman-and-murdered-child legend of the shrieking pits had anything to do with witches. Who, after all, had killed her child? From there, my mind jumped to Felix Ott, and whether he’d had anyone particular in mind when he warned his audience against the wrong sort of witches—Satan-worshipping, child-murdering women at large in the world today. Miss Bulstrode claimed to be happy with the maligned name of witch, but she was a healer, a wisewoman who helped other women with their problems—wasn’t she? I believed her. But what made me think I was such an expert at recognizing goodness and seeing through lies? If people’s sins were written on their faces for all to read, no criminal would ever escape the consequences of his evil deeds.
I moved away from the Compendium Maleficarum and its companions, walked right to the end of the room, and looked up. On the shelf above my head I saw Bewick’s A History of British Birds beside nine volumes of American Ornithology and felt this would be a more calming section in which to browse. I stretched up, meaning to take hold of The Dodo and Its Kindred but my fumbling fingers caught hold of something else.
It was a small, slim book bound in soft, pinkish skin. There was no lettering on the spine or the cover, and when I opened it, I discovered the heavy rag-paper pages were handwritten, in a language I could not read or even recognize.
Turning a few more pages, I discovered the text was frequently broken up by small, carefully drawn sketches of various plant parts—mostly detailed depictions of roots and seeds. There were also mushrooms, and one picture that took up half a
page showed a ring of Amanita muscaria, the red caps lurid and bright as drops of fresh blood.
This coincidence—a depiction of what might be the very same Poison Ring I had seen yesterday, in a book picked up by chance in the room where its owner had showed me her own poison ring a few minutes earlier—made my skin crawl, and I quickly closed the book and went up on my tiptoes to replace it.
I had only just done so when the door opened behind me. I turned around, my heart pounding ridiculously fast, as if I had been caught spying.
“Hello again,” said the smiling girl. As before, she was dressed in black, but today the somber impression was undercut by a coral necklace, even redder than her full lips. She looked both younger and more beautiful than I had recalled, and for a moment I was uncertain which of the sisters she was.
“Miss Alys?”
She pouted at the implied question. “Who else? Surely you did not mistake me for that baby Ann, two years younger and one whole inch shorter than I. And she has a crooked tooth—although you only see it when she laughs—and lacks my beauty mark.” She touched the little brown mole beneath her mouth.
“I do beg your pardon—why, I see now you are so distinctly different in appearance, one would never dream you were sisters,” I said drily, and she giggled. “But I had hoped to speak with Ann as well.”
“Ann is not well,” she replied. “She is grieving, of course. I am sure you will forgive her reluctance to speak with a stranger about the man who was all in all to her.”
I could not get the measure of her; was she mocking me, or her sister, or was her arch manner a reflection of her own discomfort? I spoke cautiously, feeling my way: “I understand. Naturally, his death was a shock. I am very grateful to you for agreeing to speak to me, as I know Mr. Alexander Manning will be, when I am able to share your recollections with him.”
She gave a careless shrug and plopped down on the nearest sofa, then patted the seat. “Come, let us be friends. Standing here reminds me too much of being called in for a scolding—or worse—from Mr. Peacock.”
