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 you 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.”
“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 baby. 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 her 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?”