The rain continued through the night, and was still falling when I went downstairs, rather later than usual, the next morning.
I found Alys breakfasting on toast and tea in the dining room, and joined her. When I asked after her sisters, she told me that Ann never ate anything in the morning, and that Bella had already started upon her day’s work, and was now conducting a private consultation in her office.
“Her office is your family parlor—do you not find that a bother, to be shut out of the best, most comfortable room in the house?”
She gave me a look that mingled suspicion, reproach, and amusement. “I think my own room is the most comfortable, actually. Perhaps you mean that you are feeling shut out?”
I tried not to be flustered by her astute remark. I was aware, too, that had she but known it she might have posed the very same question to Edith Jesperson, who never complained that her son and I had commandeered her sitting room for our office.
“Do not look so disheartened,” she said more kindly. “Bella rarely has more than one or two visitors of a morning—you will soon be at liberty to go in and browse among the books to your heart’s content. I suppose that is what you wish to do?”
I sighed with relief. “Yes. I do find time drags—especially on a rainy day like this—without a good book to read, and I brought nothing with me but a guidebook to Norfolk.”
“Oh, dear. How awkward. I should tell you, there are not many books in the Bulstrode library that I should consider a good read, but come up to my room after you have finished your breakfast, and I can give you something more entertaining than anything from the old admiral’s collection.”
“Thank you, Alys, that is very kind.” Her invitation would give me the chance I wanted to inspect her room. Even though I no longer expected to find a baby secreted in the house, I wanted to understand more about these three sisters who had featured so prominently in the final months of Charles Manning’s life. I fancy that the rooms where someone lives may offer a glimpse into their soul.
And Alys, despite the teasing and playacting I had sensed in her earlier, was now, it seemed, quite happy to show me hers. Having finished her own breakfast, she lingered at the table until I was ready, and we went upstairs together.
Her bedroom contrasted with those of her sisters. It was neat and tidy, with everything in its place, and there were few remnants of childhood on display, no toys or trinkets or dolls, but everywhere evidence of some craft or hobby: a basket of embroidery threads, needlepoint cushions on the chairs; a box of watercolors, framed landscapes on the walls. On the marquetry-topped table (“not very good, I fear, and it took me a very long time,” she said modestly) was a photographic portrait of the three sisters, and a much older picture of a young woman I took to be their mother.
She directed my attention to her bookcase and invited me to take my pick.
Apart from a few “how-to” books (Practical Marquetry, The Needlewoman’s Handbook) and some biographies, they were nearly all novels or plays, arranged alphabetically by author. Alys had her own one-volume Complete Shakespeare, and some anthologies, but her taste in fiction tended toward the sensational, with many works by Miss Braddon and Mr. Wilkie Collins. My own interest is more for travel narratives and personal histories—perhaps I encounter enough of the sensational in my profession—and I am afraid Alys found my choice (Mrs. Gaskell’s Life of Charlotte Brontë) somewhat disappointing.
I took my leave of Alys and went to my own room, not to settle down with Mrs. Gaskell, but to write to Mr. Jesperson. I did not mean to post the letter, but if we had no opportunity for private conversation when next we met, at least he could be brought up to date with my own investigation. Writing a proper letter, rather than simply jotting a few notes to myself, also helped me to think about the significance of my observations.
Ann had a childish liking for dolls, and Bella was haunted by unfulfilled maternal longings, but I had found nothing to suggest that they had so much as suspected the existence of Maria’s baby; her suggestion that they had taken it could only be the result of superstitious fear, possibly stoked by Mr. Ott’s recent defamatory remarks connecting witches to infant sacrifice.
In regard to Mr. C. Manning’s death, however, I am not inclined to acquit them of all involvement There are a few things that bother me. For one, Ann is deeply upset by the loss of her fiancé, which is surely natural, yet her sisters continue to make light of her feelings and insist she is self-dramatizing and never truly loved him but only the idea of their love.
If Bella loved CM as I suspect, this may reflect feelings of jealousy on her part, and a natural desire to dismiss his relations to her sister as being less deep and meaningful than his true feelings for her. Or did his betrayal of her turn her love to hate, in which case—could she have been driven to murder him?
Certainly, if CM was poisoned, that poison very likely came from this house. Some of B’s most dangerous medicines are kept locked away, but there are also deadly plants in her glasshouse, which is not locked and could easily be accessed by anyone with the knowledge of what is there.
The berries of the deadly nightshade produce hallucinations, fever, and an increased heart rate with the end result of death. Would the police surgeon have recognized the cause if CM did not eat the berries themselves but consumed them in powdered form, disguised in something else? (I am relying on your encyclopedic knowledge.)
Another death-dealing plant is Cerbera odollam, also known as the suicide tree. Miss B showed me this plant, which is practically unknown in our country (where it would surely not survive outside a glasshouse); it is known to the people of the part of India where it grows for nutmeats that will provide a swift death from heart failure. The nuts are very bitter to taste, but quite palatable when sweetened, and easily disguised in a sauce. No one would ever guess the death that resulted was not by natural causes.
Mr. O surely knows of Miss B’s poisonous plants, and would have had easy access to them. If he was with CM the evening of his death, drinking and dining with him at his club, he would have had the opportunity to administer the killing dose. Only—what is his motive?
I am eager to hear what you have learned in London. I can get no further on my own. How I long to discuss it all with you. I hope we may speak soon.
AL
I had been aware, while writing, of movements downstairs, voices in the entrance hall, the opening and shutting of the front door, but now all was quiet again. As I folded my letter and put it away in my pocketbook, I dared to hope that Miss Bulstrode had entertained her last client of the day, and that the coast was now clear for further investigations.
Downstairs, I knocked on the parlor door. Then I knocked again. I waited a few moments, but answer came there none. Retreat, or go ahead? I had already made my choice, and turned the handle.
“Miss Bulstrode? Bella?” Even as I spoke, I stepped inside and saw I was alone in the room. With a rapidly beating heart, I shut the door behind me and walked swiftly to the cabinet that had been so much on my mind since my discussion with its owner about poisons.
The doors on the front of the case were of tawny, varnished wood set with heavy, leaded glass; old, greenish, pocked with little bubbles, but through it the rows of pottery jars and smaller blue glass bottles were easily visible, lined up on the shelves within. The labels were in the usual abbreviated Latin and mostly incomprehensible to me, although some I recognized from chemists’ shops, including the deadly STRYCH. NUS-VOM.
I moved closer to inspect the keyhole. It was small and looked similar to one in a cabinet from my childhood home. I remembered when the key had been lost, how easy my sister and I had found it to open using a hammered nail.
A shadow fell across me and there was a sudden, terrifying commotion in the air. Instinctively I cowered, my hands up to protect my face, as I felt the beating of wings and glimpsed the brutal beak of the crow aimed at my eyes, the claws about to snatch at my hair.
I shrieked and crouched and scuttled backward before I turned and rose, still cowering with my hands above my head for protection as I hobbled toward the door.
There I stopped. Realizing I had not been pursued, and was in fact unharmed, I straightened, let my hands fall away from my face, turned round, and looked back.
Gabriel was perched on top of the cabinet, looking nearly twice his size with feathers ruffled up and his neck extended as he glared a warning at me. This time, he had not drawn blood, but if I dared try to touch this cabinet again, it would be a different story—or so I interpreted his posture. Now I understood why Bella had no fear that her drugs might be stolen.
“So you are Bella’s watchdog,” I said shakily. “Pity the poor thief who tried to break in here—he would think himself attacked by devils!”
Pride made me stay—I would not be banished by a bird! Although I kept a nervous eye on him as I walked slowly to the bookcases, I guessed I would be safe enough if I avoided that corner, and so it proved: Gabriel’s remit did not extend to protecting anything left on the open shelves.
Just to prove to myself that it had been no fluke, I found the fabled grimoire in the same place where I had come across it before, and had another look through it. The writing was like nothing I had ever encountered elsewhere. Some elements appeared to be illustrative, like Egyptian hieroglyphs: I recognized a slug, a fish, a mushroom, and a cup or bowl. Then there were some that more resembled primitive alphabets, constructed of straight lines, dots, and curved lines. Of course, I was no expert, and could not claim to be able to recognize every written language in existence—but the more I saw of this one, turning page after page, the more I suspected that it was too varied and odd for a real language. Could it be code? Or perhaps it was a private language, never meant to be read or understood by anyone but its creator. The whole book was a work of art. The pictures were lovely, and clearly representational, even the ones of things I could not name.
Returning it to its place, I browsed contentedly for the next half an hour, and was absorbed by a book about an expedition through Outer Mongolia when Bella finally entered.
“Oh, here you are,” she said pleasantly. “I am glad you have found something to read—but now here is something else, a letter for you.” When she gave it to me, I recognized Mr. Jesperson’s handwriting, and I was eager to read it in privacy.
My Dear Miss Lane
I write to you in transit, on the train, and will drop this by the house, or send someone to deliver it to you so you may be up-to-date with my latest findings even before I see you in Cromer this evening.
Upon my arrival in London I went directly to the club Col. Mallet had given as his address & by good fortune he was there. (He practically lives there, since the death of his wife.) He was pleased to see me—sends his best regards to you—and immediately confirmed my suspicions: Yes, he had taken liberty of ordering another printing of our business card, for wider distribution—he hoped we did not mind—I assured him we considered it a great kindness & indeed I learned when I got to Gower St. that we have had three inquiries already, undoubtedly attributable to his missionary activity—but I digress.
Col. Mallet is acquainted with Felix Ott & remembered giving cards to him and his friend. Of Manning (whom he had never seen before) he had the impression that he was in business with Ott, and subordinate to him; also that there was a tension or rivalry between them.
Over the course of the evening, this erupted into a quarrel.
All our friend could tell me about it was that the argument was over a woman. Manning said something that caused Ott to erupt with fury: “You cad! You do not mean to ruin her?”
Manning said he meant to marry her. His words: “I mean to make sure of her—she will have to marry me.”
Unfortunately, the colonel had no reason to know how grateful we should have been for more information, or he might have listened, hiding behind his newspaper. Instead, uncomfortable at being privy to revelations of unworthy behavior, he rattled his paper and coughed to let them know he was there. They continued to argue, although they lowered their voices. Rather than risk being made into an eavesdropper again, he withdrew to the smoking room, and the two men were left alone together.
Tho’ I pressed Col. Mallet for more details, he could recall nothing else that was said, but was able to give me his impression of the affair, which I consider trustworthy. He thought Manning was hurt and surprised by Ott’s reaction—the suggestion being that M told O his plans expecting his full approval.
The colonel naturally thought it quite shocking that one gentleman would expect another to approve of his plan to force an innocent woman into marriage. He hazarded a guess that the lady in question was in possession of a large fortune, but unless Ott and Manning had been brothers, and the marriage was intended to save an old family estate or something like that, he could not imagine why Manning should reveal his caddish designs to another man.
But if we replace the idea of “family” with that of “School” we may easily imagine how much Ott might stand to benefit from any advantageous marriage made by Manning. And if Manning considered the School their joint venture, he might have been willing to sacrifice much for it, including his own marital happiness.
Col. Mallet did not hear the end of the argument, but he witnessed Manning leaving the club, alone and looking very grim; then, only a minute or two later, he saw Ott go hurrying outside, and he wondered if he was going after his friend, presumably, for he did not look friendly, intending to pursue their quarrel.
No wonder Ott lied about when he last saw Manning. This does not look good for him.
I let the letter fall to my lap and stared unseeing at rain outside my window, imagining Felix Ott in a fury, charging through the foggy London streets after the man he had decided to kill, rather than allow him to harm an innocent woman.
That scenario would have made more sense if Charles Manning had been bludgeoned to death with a walking stick, had his throat cut, or been strangled. But the manner of his death had been one that left no mark for a police surgeon to find. His heart had been stopped—by nature, by poison, or perhaps by magic.
Charles Manning had seemed to think he was being killed by witchcraft. And even though he had been looking at me when he reeled back in horror from the witch he imagined I was, it would not do to forget that witches could be men as well as women.
Was Felix Ott himself a practitioner of the dark arts?
I was glad I did not have too many more hours to wait before I could speak with Mr. Jesperson, but as I gazed at the rain, I could not help imagining how wet I would get, walking to Cromer, if the rain did not stop in the next few hours. The Bulstrodes kept a carriage, I remembered. Would they think me awfully forward if I begged the use of it tonight?
Then I had a better idea. I would invite them to come as my guests to the talk my friend was giving tonight in Cromer. I hurried downstairs and, my mind already leaping ahead to compose the invitation, went into the parlor without stopping to knock.
The three sisters stood in a huddle before the fireplace, turning startled faces on me as I entered. Was it because the flames lit their faces, otherwise shadowed by the dimness of the room, so strangely, or was it the way they stood, tensed almost aggressively at my appearance, that I found myself reminded of the three weird sisters in Macbeth?
“I do beg your pardon,” I cried. “I should have knocked; I have interrupted—” I turned to go, but Bella called me back. When I turned again, they had moved apart and the strangeness was dispersed—perhaps it had never really been, except in my imagination.
“Come in, come and join us—you are not interrupting anything; we three can meet and talk anytime; it is lovely to have you here. Please, sit.” To encourage me, Bella sank onto a couch and patted the cushion beside her.
I took the place she offered as Alys and Ann found other seats for themselves.
“I do not wish to keep you from your work,” I said, still feeling I was an intruder.
“Work? No, I have finished with my work for today,” Bella replied. “As for my sisters, they are like the lilies of the field, who toil not and neither do they spin.”
“That is so unfair!” cried Alys. “It is true, I have not yet learned to spin, but—”
“And I have been helping Elsie in the kitchen this morning,” said Ann. “I was going to bake a cake, but after such a remark, you do not deserve it. Perhaps I shall make a small one, just enough for me and Alys and Artemis, but not you, Bella,” she concluded, giving a popping emphasis to the B.
The barely repressed smiles made it clear they all enjoyed such routine teasing of one another, and I felt a sudden, sharp, entirely unexpected pang and missed my own sister. Can anything ever replace the loving relationship with someone who has known you forever?
“I have just come in to ask you,” I began, and then started again, “I mean, to invite you to come as my guests to a lecture in Cromer this evening. I hope it might be something that interests you.”
“A lecture,” said Alys with a suspicious frown. “In Cromer. Not in the Templars Hall, by any chance?”
“Yes.”
“And a Thursday evening, too.” She sighed. “You mean well, I have no doubt, dear Artemis, but I must tell you that a lecture by Mr. Felix Ott is not something I have ever enjoyed. Bella feels differently, of course. But when Mr. Ott is at the podium, if he does not make me feel stupid, he simply puts me to sleep. I know Ann feels the same.”
“Oh, but Mr. Ott will not be giving this evening’s lecture,” I said quickly. “He has invited a guest speaker—my friend, Mr. Jasper Jesperson. He is to give a talk in memory of the late Charles Manning, based on notes he left concerning his investigations into the shrieking pits. I think it will be very interesting.”
“We must go, of course,” said Ann, sounding unusually determined. “Charles would have wished it.”
“I should like it very much,” said Bella. “Thank you, Di. Alys, you need not come, of course.”
Alys scowled. “Do not think you can leave me out.”
“But you have said you are not interested.”
“I am not interested in the stupid old holes in the ground they call the shrieking pits, no indeed; but I am very interested in seeing your Mr. Jesperson,” she said, with a bright, mocking look at me. “Your friend, you call him. Your fellow lodger. Is he your lover?”
My cheeks felt very hot, although I tried to keep my expression neutral.
Bella chided her: “Alys! You are impertinent.”
“I think my question is very pertinent,” she said smartly. “And I suppose Mrs. Ringer thought he was…and that is why she threw you out—am I right, Artemis?”
“You had better ask Mrs. Ringer her reasons,” I said coolly. “I would not like to pretend to know her mind.”
“We will take the carriage,” said Bella, clearly determined to change the subject. “It will not matter if the rain continues. What time is the lecture? We had better have something to eat before we go…I must have a word with Elsie.” She rose. “Alys, will you go out to the stables? Ann, I need your help in the kitchen. Come along, girls!”