by Lisa Tuttle
“Charles Manning?”
“Who else? And to see him find solace, so swiftly, in her sister . . .”
“Such inconstancy is brutal,” he mused. “It might make her wonder if he had ever truly loved her.”
“Billy told me that Mr. Manning boasted to him that he would be married and living at Wayside Cross by Christmas.” Something about that boast still jarred, and now I knew why. “Do you not think that a man in love would speak of his lover? Would say, ‘I shall be married to Ann Bulstrode,’ rather than name her house?”
He met my eyes and once again I felt that little spark of connection, of shared intellectual excitement, that was a feature of our relationship. “I do,” he said quietly. “He gives himself away in his words, speaking only of what he considers important and wasting no breath on anything else.”
Leaning back in his seat, he said, “In whose interest would it be to scotch his plans? Was the action inspired by jealousy, or something else? Was Cooke’s death really an accident? I wonder . . . Perhaps the real target all along has been Felix Ott and his School of British Wisdom.”
Chapter 14
The Cunning Man
The sweet course consisted of treacle tart with heavy cream. I found it excessively sweet, but it seemed to please Mr. Jesperson, and he consumed every scrap, telling me, between mouthfuls, what he planned for the afternoon.
“A visit to Cunning Verrell is the next thing,” he said. “Although he did not mention him to me, I have discovered from my other informants that Felix Ott considers him someone of great importance, and has been trying to engage him in the development of his School.”
I smiled. “People do have the most original names in Norfolk, do they not?”
“Possibly so. However, in this case, Cunning is not his Christian name, but a title, like Doctor or Professor. The cunning man is the male equivalent of the wisewoman—but never call him a witch, for one of his most vaunted powers is the ability to discover, trap, and destroy evil witches.”
“Ah, I wonder if it was he that Billy meant when he spoke of the male counterpart of the wisewoman. And if he is actively opposed to witches, I suppose he is no friend to Miss Bulstrode.”
“Correct. He claims to be unable to set foot in Wayside Cross, which is rather a hardship for him, because there is something in that house that he considers his rightful property. He must therefore use go-betweens, and this has become a bargaining chip with Ott, who thinks he might name his price, if only he can find the book.”
“What book?”
“It is supposed to be an ancient grimoire—something Ott naturally feels would be of great importance as an addition to his knowledge, although as it is apparently written in some unknown and so far undecipherable language, it may be of more symbolic than practical use. Verrell was unable to make any better use of it than to sell it; now, knowing how keen Ott is to have it, he declares that it is still rightfully his own—that he never meant to sell, but only to lend it to old Admiral Bulstrode in the expectation that that learned and much-traveled gentleman would be able to decipher it for him. But the admiral was unable to oblige—the thing is either in code, or written in a language he has never encountered anywhere else in the world. The cunning man admits he was paid a goodly sum for the thing, but insists it was always understood between the two of them to be a loan—the admiral, of course, is no longer here to confirm or deny.”
“Is this a handwritten book?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Illustrated?” At his nod I continued: “A small book bound in soft skin, without a title or anything else on the spine or the cover?”
Eyes wide, he put down his fork. “Are you speaking of a book you have seen?”
“I found it quite by chance tucked between two books on ornithology. I was actually meaning to pull down one of the others, but suddenly found myself with this odd little volume in my hand. I could not read a word of it, but there were pictures—one looked just like the Amanita muscaria fairy ring in the woods near here, which made for a rather spooky coincidence.”
“Amazing,” he said. “You found it, and in a way that fits the prophecy—well, the first half, anyway.”
“What prophecy?”
He ate the last bite of his dessert before replying. “According to Simon Crisp, who had it directly from the mouth of Felix Ott, there is an ancient prophecy about this book—which Ott described in typically grandiose fashion as one of the lost sacred books of England (I do wonder about the others). The prophecy is only a bit of doggerel, which Ott probably made up on the spot: It claims that this book would be found, when the time was right, by one who searched without knowing that they were searching, and the finder would be one who had need of it, again unknowing, not for himself, but to redeem something else that had been stolen, referred to as The Book of Life.”
“Well done, me,” I said sarcastically. “Do you suppose I would be able to put my hand upon it again, if I went looking for it, this time knowing what I am looking for? Or will it have magically relocated to another shelf?”
The waiter came to ask if we wanted anything more. Mr. Jefferson gave me an inquiring look. “Coffee?”
“Yes, a cup of coffee would be very nice,” I agreed. When the waiter had gone away again, I reverted to the subject of the missing book. “Is there really a prophecy? Because if Mr. Ott made it up, he is a fool, to deny himself any prospect of finding the book he wants so badly. And if the prophecy exists, and he believes it, then he should have known from the start that his search would be hopeless. And by telling followers like Mr. Crisp, does he not realize he has made it likewise impossible for them? They can never find the book so long as they know they are looking for it. He may as well give up.”
Mr. Jesperson looked as if he was enjoying my little rant, and I was encouraged to go on.
“Does he believe the things he preaches?” I felt a burst of distaste for this man I had never met, this self-styled preacher who would promote witchcraft as a religion one day and denounce witches as demons the next. “He must be a complete hypocrite—or very selective in his beliefs, changing as the wind blows.”
“You are a harsh judge, Miss Lane,” he said gently. “I do not think he is a hypocrite. Deluded, certainly. But the desire to find wisdom and certainty is not to be sneered at. Perhaps he is more a tourist than a genuine explorer, one who picks up gaudy souvenirs and takes trash for treasure. He has no reliable guide. As to the prophecy, he says it came to him in a vision, and he is most interested in the second part, which he interprets as referring to the old religion of these islands—the precious thing that has been lost—The Book of Life that will allow us to understand the journey we are on. Thus, in his interpretation, the book that Cunning Verrell sold to Admiral Bulstrode, when it has been found and reclaimed, will offer a first step toward rescuing the great lost religion of the British Isles, returning it to the people whose birthright it should have been. It is they, us, the people, who do not know what we have lost, nor why we are all searching—and it is he, Felix Ott, who believes he can give us what we need.”
Cunning Verrell lived in one of the narrow houses that lined a mean, sloping street with a stink of drains. The buildings there were packed so closely together that the sea breeze that lightened the atmosphere everywhere else in the town was kept out, and the laundry displayed from upper windows hung limp and dispirited in the damp, chilly air.
Although his address was not recorded in Charles Manning’s address book, Mr. Jesperson told me that among the dead man’s papers were directions to the cunning man’s house.
“But there were no questions, and no notes about their conversation, which inclines me to believe that Manning went there for an entirely personal reason,” he explained, keeping his voice low as we picked our way carefully along the rough cobblestones.
“Perhaps he had been feeling unwell,” I suggested. “He might have felt the first symptoms of the heart trouble that was to kill him.”
&nb
sp; Mr. Jesperson stopped abruptly to peer at one of the wooden doors, and although I saw no number or anything else to mark this particular hovel out from its neighbors, he rapped his knuckles against the boards.
The man who opened the door to us was old and dressed in clothes that were even older than he. He wore a linen smock of coarse weave, woolen knee-breeches, black stockings, and flat felt slippers. His hair, thick and white, fell in heavy waves to his shoulders, but his face was clean-shaven, and apart from the nests of fine lines around his gray-green eyes, the skin was taut and unwrinkled.
“Good day to you, Cunning Verrell. My name is Jasper Jesperson, and this is Miss Lane. If it is not inconvenient, we would like to speak with you.”
“You’ve come a long way to speak to old Verrell,” said the man. “London, is it? It must be serious. I won’t ask you to spill your business on my doorstep.” He stepped back to allow us entry.
I almost held my breath, expecting the interior to be as noisome as the street, but in fact the room we entered was as neat as a pin and scented with smoke from the resinous logs crackling in the hearth and dried lavender hanging in bunches from the rafters.
Indicating two wooden chairs for us, the old man perched on a three-legged stool and fixed his sharp gaze on me.
“Women don’t usually come to me with their troubles,” he said. “I don’t know as I could help you.”
“We are not here about any personal problems,” said Mr. Jesperson. “I believe you met Charles Manning? We should like to know—”
The old man narrowed his eyes. “His business with me is his business.”
“So it must die with him?”
The thin, arched brows arched higher. “Ah! Dead? How?”
“It was very sudden. Heart failure, according to the surgeon.”
“No!” He thrust out his lower lip and shook his head vigorously. “His heart was sound. And he was a young man, and well—quite well—when I saw him. The eye does not lie.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean what I say. I looked him in the eye, and saw no ailments there. The eye is the key, young man. The eye is the key to the whole. Not all can read it—but I can. I need no book to tell me how to read the eye.”
He looked at me as he finished, and I felt he laid a heavy emphasis on book, as if he knew . . . But that was absurd.
“Did Manning come to you about the state of his health?” asked Mr. Jesperson.
The old man snorted. “No. He told me he was very well indeed, no cause for any alarm—but I looked very carefully into his eyes—as I always do, when—” He shut his mouth suddenly, his eyes shifting away.
“What did he come to see you about?”
“His private business.”
“Manning is dead. There can be no objection—”
“I object! Who are you, anyway, to come poking and prying into another man’s affairs?” He glared fiercely, but if he expected Mr. Jesperson to flinch or apologize he was sadly mistaken.
“We were present at his death, which was sudden and unexpected. His brother asked us to come to Norfolk, to learn about the final days of his life, and if anything that happened might hold some clue to the reason for his demise.”
This cool explanation had its effect; the suspicion with which the cunning man had regarded us faded away. “He died in London?”
“He did.”
“Then you should look in London for the cause.”
“Perhaps. But first, we think there is more to be learned from the people he associated with since he came to live in Norfolk.”
“I could tell you how he died if I could see his corpse,” the old man muttered. “For certain, I could, if I had seen him die.” He frowned, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and peered closely at Mr. Jesperson. “You were there. Tell me how it happened—and when.”
“It was nearly two hours past midnight—Saturday night. I opened the door to a furious knocking, and a stranger in great distress rushed in. He begged us for help. He believed he was pursued by witches.”
Cunning Verrell exhaled gustily. “There be witches in London?”
“That is not generally believed to be the case,” my friend responded drily.
“You think they followed him from Norfolk?”
“I think he was hallucinating, in the grip of some nightmare. His pupils were dilated, he was perspiring heavily, clearly terrified—but before he could explain more, he dropped dead. The police surgeon said he died from heart failure, but could not say what caused the heart of this healthy young man to fail.”
“A witch’s spell. He said so himself.”
“Who was the witch?”
The cunning man leaned back again. “Why ask me?”
“I understood that witch-finding was one of your talents. Is that not so?”
“Oh, aye, but hunting a witch takes time and a deal of preparation. If you want me to name the witch who sent death to strike down that young man . . .” Holding up his left hand, he made the familiar sign for money.
“We can pay,” Jesperson said coldly.
“But I do not want your money. There is something else I would have.” He turned his calculating eyes on me as he spoke, and I flinched. “You have been to Wayside Cross, miss.”
“How do you know that?”
He cackled. “’Tis my business to know.”
I felt annoyed with myself for letting him surprise me. “Mr. Manning probably told you how often he visited that house.”
“He never told me. No need. I have my ways.” He tapped the side of his nose with a long, knobbly forefinger. “There is something that belongs to me in that house. I want it back. If you fetch it here to me, I will tell you everything you want to know about the death of that poor young man.”
Mr. Jesperson tapped the side of his own nose and spoke in an imitation of the cunning man’s Norfolk drawl: “It is a book you want, an old book hidden in the library Miss Bulstrode inherited from her grandfather. I have my ways of knowing.” Reverting to his normal voice he asked, “Why do you say it belongs to you?”
The old man looked nonplussed. “Why, because it is mine. I came upon that book nigh on sixty years ago, and it showed me the way I must take in my life. Everything changed in that moment.”
“But you could not read it.”
“True, but I could understand the pictures. And the thing itself was a sign . . . It showed me the path I was destined to follow.”
“Where did you find it?”
“In the ground. Under a rock. I was only a lad, but a strong one, helping a farmer clear his field when I came upon it. I hid it inside my shirt, until I had a chance to look at it better. I thought to sell it, or trade it, but when I saw those drawings of roots and mushrooms and other such things, I knew it was meant for me, if I could puzzle out its meaning. And that was how I began to learn about plants, which ones aid and which things harm . . .” He trailed off and fixed me once again with his gimlet eye. “I want it back.”
“Go and ask for it,” I said. “If it really is yours . . .”
“Nay, I cannot go there,” he said. “But you can.”
“You expect me to steal a book for you?”
“It is not stealing when you return property to its rightful owner.”
“It ceased to be your property when you sold it to Admiral Bulstrode,” Mr. Jesperson said firmly. I nodded my agreement.
“No, that is not so.”
“He bought it from you.”
“No,” the old man repeated stubbornly. “He gave me money when I needed it, and I gave him the book, but we had an agreement—he was to tell me what the words meant. And he never did. He kept the book to the end of his life and never could tell me what it said. I let him keep it, thinking he might come good someday, but he never did, and so, by all that is fair and right, the book should have come back to me on his death.” He smacked his lips. “You help me, and I will help you.”
“By giving us the name of so
meone you say is a witch?” Mr. Jesperson shook his head dismissively. “It was no spell that killed him. Quite possibly he did die of natural causes, as the police surgeon said. He must have been suffering from some complaint when he came to you. What did Manning come to see you about?”
The cunning man cackled. “His heart, o’ course! Yes, he had a complaint . . . An affair of the heart, so some might say, but in truth it was a different organ that needed my help.” With a swift, sideways look at me, he sobered. “Let it go. There was nothing wrong with his health—I made certain of that. The poor man’s dead now. We won’t gossip about his affairs.”
“A love affair? Did he tell you he was engaged to be married?”
“I do not pry,” he said rather prissily. “I would not expect him to risk a young lady’s reputation. All I knew was that he had arranged a rondayvoo with this young woman, and he was nervous in case the first time he should disappoint her. He worried that he might not rise to the occasion. He had no experience with the ladies, you see, and although I says to let nature take its course, put two healthy young folk together, all they needs is the opportunity, no special knowledge required, he insisted he could not take the risk. So—I gave him something.”
“What was it?”
“Just the usual. Nothing that would harm a healthy young man.”
“Did he tell you when his amorous meeting was to be—or where?”
“It was soon—I think that very night.”
“He saw you on Saturday morning?”
The cunning man made a gesture of assent.
