I slept late the next morning, trapped by dreams in which I followed a ball of light through forests and across heathland, into mines and through tunnels underground.
When at last I woke, I blinked groggily at the ceiling, still wondering what sort of life Maria would have now. Mr. Jesperson thought the West Country was probably their destination. The ancient, troglodytic race remembered as goblins, elves, and fairies must have died out in most of Britain, but survivors may have found homes in the souterrains and tin mines of Cornwall, or hidden away in caves on Dartmoor; the mountains of Wales were another strong possibility—beyond that, Scotland or Ireland.
Downstairs, I found Bella entertaining Mr. Jesperson in the library.
“Your friend has been telling me what you witnessed,” she said as I entered. Her eyes and cheeks glowed with excitement. “How marvelous! I never imagined there could be truth in those old stories…now I understand I have been too quick to dismiss some of Felix’s ideas.”
“The folk we saw were more ancient even than the ancient Brits,” said Mr. Jesperson. “They were here, probably, before our earliest ancestors.”
“Are they immortal?”
“Is any living creature? I doubt it. They may be longer-lived than we are, but—”
“But their clothes! You said they were attired like members of court in the sixteenth century.”
“No, I said that was how they appeared. Their appearance, including the light that suffused them, and which would protect them from attack by any religiously inclined or superstitious people who saw them, is an aspect of their glamour. You know that term, I think?”
She nodded, frowning slightly. “Of course. A spell. You suggest they are able to perform magic?”
“If you include as ‘magic’ all the arts of the conjurer.” He shrugged, smiling. “Is it magic, or illusion? Just as some animals are able to blend into the background to escape their predators, our ‘good neighbors’ must have their own protective coloration, the ability to disguise themselves. Folklore suggests that in reality they are naked, or clothed only in a few ragged scraps—another reason they avoid civilized society. The reason for their style of clothing may be tradition, or it may be a personal preference—how can we know?”
A shadow crossed his eyes and he looked wistful. “I wish…I wish I could study them and their ways. How wonderful, to be in Maria’s position—but she will not make use of it as I should.”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean she will simply accept them—she already has. She is part of their family now, and if she does come back to our world, she will say nothing of her sojourn in fairyland. She will protect them, and carry their secrets to the grave.”
“Felix may uncover their secrets,” said Bella. She spoke with a simple faith, and her eyes were bright at the thought of it. “I think—do not you?—that these…people, and their ways, may be just what he has been searching for—something that belongs at the very heart of his School!”
“Perhaps, but now that the last two fairies in Norfolk have made their escape, he has lost whatever small chance he might have had.” Mr. Jesperson leaned back in his chair, tapping his long fingers on a padded armrest and looking obscurely dissatisfied, or perhaps impatient at needing to explain. “They are gone, and their knowledge with them. When Doctor Ringer digs up their former home he will find no treasures, nothing of any value left behind.”
Bella seemed struck by this phrase and repeated it: “Nothing of any value…Because they have so few real possessions? Because their things are illusory, products of the glamour?”
I felt suddenly apprehensive, and tried to think of something to say to turn the conversation, but it was too late; Bella had remembered.
“There was something! A book—my grandfather bought it from the cunning man.”
“Bought? The cunning man said stolen.”
She looked reproachful. “My grandfather was always overgenerous in his valuations and payments as a collector. If anyone stole that book, it was the cunning man himself. I have heard him brag about besting others; he was proud of himself for having tricked a dirty little man into letting him get his hands on a book neither of them could read. Once it was in his possession, he would not give it back. He brought it to my grandfather, thinking that as he had traveled in so many different lands, and knew so many of the world’s languages, he might be able to translate it. But it was like no language on earth, my grandfather said; certainly it was none that he had ever seen before.”
She got to her feet and began to wander along the shelves, peering up at the array of spines. “I remember, it was handwritten, with many drawings. I could recognize some of the plants, but not many. The pictures were more of roots than of leaves or flowers. And mushrooms; many mushrooms, and crystals…I wonder what has become of it?”
“Ott mentioned it to me,” said Mr. Jesperson. “He told me that it was in search of that book that he first came to Wayside Cross, and met you.”
Bella smoothed her hair—a quick, unconscious response that made the large orange stone in her ring flash. “Yes, I was unable to find the book for him. Perhaps I did not try as hard as I might have…but his eagerness made me suspicious. He made a ridiculous offer for it; an absurd valuation for a book he had never seen, one that features in no bibliographies or booksellers’ catalogs. He called it a grimoire.”
“You think it is not?”
She shook her head. “My grandfather was of the opinion that it was either a diary or a botanist’s guide, written by someone well acquainted with our local area, in a private code or a made-up language. A curiosity; of no practical use to anyone.”
“Except to the person who wrote it.”
“Well, yes, but he was unlikely still to be alive.” Her eyes widened. “Of course! You mean it was written by one of those…those…others. The ‘little man’ Cunning Verrell got it from.”
“He told us he dug it up in a field,” I said.
She turned away, her eyes sweeping the room. “It must be here somewhere. I recall it as a very small, slender volume, with no lettering or design on the spine…easily overlooked.” She began to pace and scan the shelves again. “Probably it is tucked away on a high shelf.”
“Do you mean after all to sell it to Mr. Ott?”
“Not sell it. But now that the little people have left, and I cannot restore it to them, Felix is the best person to have it. His School could be something very important to our country. He may do much good by preserving traditions and knowledge on the verge of being lost forever.”
A rusty scraping sound made me start, and I ducked my head at a rush of wings. The crow, until then invisible in a shadowy recess at the top of a bookcase, flapped across the room to land on the windowsill, where he let out another rasping caw.
“Another visitor?” said Bella. “Who is it, Gabriel?”
The big black bird cocked his head at her and made another sound. One might almost have said he spoke—and from the smile that blossomed on the face of his mistress, she understood.
She went to the window and looked out. “Yes, that is Mr. Ott’s carriage. What good timing—I’ll tell Nancy to put the kettle on.” With a giddy laugh, she swept out of the room.
She was like a young girl with her first suitor—she was a woman in love. I exchanged a look with Mr. Jesperson. “Shall we make our excuses and leave?”
“No. I have some information to share—may as well tell everyone at once.”
“Something new?”
“Yes. I had a cable this morning—the very one I have been waiting for—and—” He stopped. “There was no chance to tell you first—I hope you do not mind?”
I did, just a little, but as it was not his fault I had been so late in rising, I assured him it did not matter in the least.
A few moments later, Felix Ott followed a becomingly pink-cheeked Miss Bulstrode into the room.
Mr. Jesperson was already on his feet, bowing, and so perhaps he did not see the annoyance that suffused Mr. Ott’s face upon his discovery that he was not Miss Bulstrode’s first visitor of the day, but I took it all in.
“Jesperson, what the d—I mean to say, I did not expect to find you here!”
Bella laid a gentle hand upon Mr. Ott’s arm. “Felix, you know that Miss Lane is our guest. Mr. Jesperson came to call on her.” How quickly, I thought, she accepted the role of his helpmeet, and took it upon herself to soothe and explain, as if he were a child.
“Yes, I came to tell Miss Lane we will return to London today, now that we have resolved the question of the reason for Charles Manning’s untimely death,” Jesperson said coolly.
“You have?” cried Miss Bulstrode.
Ott stared. “What do you mean?”
“I shall explain, as soon as we are all together. Miss Bulstrode, would you be so kind as to ask your sisters to join us?”
I resumed my seat when Bella went out, but the two gentlemen remained standing, each taking the other’s measure, as if about to duel.
“You might have spoken to me about this first,” muttered Mr. Ott.
“Why?”
“Before intruding upon a young lady’s grief with your dreadful stories…”
Mr. Jesperson cocked his head. “She has a right to know the truth.”
“Perhaps, but what you bring is mere gossip—speculation—a story you have cobbled together—you cannot possibly know the whole truth.”
My friend smiled ironically. “Are not there always gaps in our understanding? I suspect that most of the details you wish kept hidden from the young lady are already known to her. Miss Lane’s observations have suggested she is troubled more by feelings of guilt than grief.”
Mr. Ott’s eyes positively bulged, and he sucked in his breath. “Sir! Surely you do not mean to suggest—”
The opening of the door cut him off, but he continued to direct a horrified stare at Mr. Jesperson as the three sisters entered with much rustling of skirts, the younger two pale and nervous. Bella held Ann’s hand, and all three crowded together on the small sofa.
Mr. Jesperson remained standing to address us. “First, a revelation, or you might call it a confession. As Mr. Ott already knows, Miss Lane and I are partners in a detective agency. We kept this particular bit of information from you, but everything else we have told you is true. We did witness the death of Charles Manning as Miss Lane described, and were sent here by Mr. Alexander Manning to discover, if we could, the circumstances that led up to his brother’s death.
“Poison was suspected, but an autopsy revealed no trace of the usual culprits. The contents of his stomach included copious amounts of alcohol, and the substance of his last meal: oysters, rare beefsteak, and ginger cake.”
I saw Alys flinch at that, and Ann closed her eyes briefly.
“An odd meal,” Mr. Jesperson went on in a musing voice. “What did it signify? I had inquiries made at various oyster houses, but no one recalled serving him; I was unable to get any further in the matter of where he ate, or with whom, in the hours before his death, but the food itself was suggestive. Oysters are well known as an aphrodisiac; rare beef is likewise invigorating, and as for the ginger cake…” He shrugged. “Ginger is said to warm the blood and inflame the passions; although it is generally prescribed raw, perhaps Charles did not know, or thought it would be better to have it in a cake than not at all. Was he very fond of cakes, Miss Ann?” He fired the final question suddenly.
Ann blinked rapidly, opened her mouth, but was unable to speak.
“It is a simple question,” said Mr. Jesperson, gently now. “Surely you know if your fiancé was fond of cakes and other sweet things?”
“Not particularly.” It was Alys rather than Ann who answered. “Mr. Charles did not have much of a sweet tooth—he drank tea without sugar. But he did like my ginger cake.”
“Did you take your ginger cake to him in London?”
Alys lifted her chin. “It was for Ann. It was her cake. He helped himself, without a by-your-leave. That’s the sort of man he was.”
“This was in London? Did he ask you to meet him there?”
“It was me!” Ann cried out. She wriggled until she had freed herself from the mild restraints of her sisters’ arms. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and she trembled, but her color was high and she looked in no danger of fainting. “Charles said he loved me and he couldn’t bear to wait—he wanted to elope, but I would not, I wanted to have a lovely wedding, and it takes time to do things properly. He could not afford to get married for at least a year, or two or three—that is what Bella said. We should need a house of our own, and it takes a lot of money to rent and furnish and run even a very modest home.” She took a deep breath.
“He pretended to agree with Bella, but afterward he told me that waiting was harder on a man than on a woman, it was unfair; he said he would let me set the date, and he would work with might and main to make enough money to support me as I deserved, but I must do something for him. He asked me to meet him in London.”
“She is such an innocent,” said Alys. “I could not let her go there alone.”
“I was not supposed to tell anyone,” said Ann sadly.
“You were quite right to tell me.”
“He bought me a first-class ticket and he gave me money to take a cab from the terminus to the Midland Grand Hotel.”
I thought of the imposing building beside St. Pancras Station, only a short walk from our premises on Gower Street.
“Where he had reserved a room for ‘Miss Smith,’ ” her sister put in with a bitter twist to her mouth. “He said he chose the pseudonym to protect your privacy. They were a little bit surprised when two ‘Miss Smiths’ turned up, but I said it was clearly a misunderstanding, because Mr. Manning would never have asked his fiancée to travel unaccompanied. No honest gentleman would have expected you to conceal such a plan from your sisters.”
Ann blinked and sniffed, and two bright lines of liquid ran down her face as the welling tears at last spilled over. Bella, her mouth set in a grim line, gave her a handkerchief and, flashing her eyes at us, said in a low voice, “Is this really necessary? Ann is very sorry; we are all very sorry to have been so mistaken in his character, but the man is dead now—may we not let him rest in peace?”
Mr. Jesperson remained undisturbed, replying, “Indeed, I hope we may, after we have learned the truth. Please continue, Miss Ann.”
After she had wiped away her tears, the youngest sister took up the story again. “Alys and I were shown into a set of rooms—a parlor and bedroom, very spacious and nicely furnished. After a little while a waiter came up with a bottle of champagne and oysters on ice—on instruction from Mr. Manning, he said.” She wrinkled her nose. “I hate oysters! I don’t know how anyone can bear to eat the slimy things! Alys told him to take them away and bring us a pot of tea and sandwiches instead.”
Ann shook her head. “I didn’t want anything—I was too excited to eat, wondering when Charles would arrive. I was glad to have Alys with me.” She looked fondly at her sister and squeezed her hand. “Even though Charles was so cross about it—he was as red as a cherry and puffing like a steam engine when he saw I was not alone!”
“When was this?”
“He arrived about the same time as the tea and sandwiches. That made him cross—he had ordered oysters and champagne, he shouted, not tea and cake!”
Mr. Jesperson’s gaze sharpened. “There was cake?”
“I already told you,” said Alys reprovingly.
“It was our cake,” said Ann. “And despite his bad temper, he did eat a piece of it and washed it down with tea while he waited for the waiter to bring back the champagne and oysters.”
“What else did he do?”
“He took out a sachet of powder, and when the champagne came, he mixed it into three glasses and ordered us to drink. He said it might warm our cold hearts. He drank one glass off himself, immediately, and when we did not follow his lead he became quite abusive. His language was vile—he was like a different person.”
“And did you drink?”
Ann shuddered and shook her head. “After a while, he drank them both himself. And he tried to make Alys leave—he begged, he pleaded, and then he threatened. But dear Alys would not leave me alone with him in such a state! I began to realize that he did not love me at all—the things he said were so very dreadful.” Her pale cheeks had gradually darkened as the memories intensified, and now she pressed her fingers against them.
“I whispered to Alys to take me away, but he barred the door. He said if he could not have me alone, he would have us both.” The tears again rolled down her face, and at last she subsided into shuddering sobs, leaning against one sister and embraced by them both.
Mr. Jesperson began to prowl about the room. “Thank you,” he said. “Please forgive me for putting you through such a strain, Miss Ann, but it was necessary for me to understand the situation.”
He stopped and faced us again. “The powder that Manning drank in champagne was sold to him by Cunning Verrell. I managed to purchase what I believe to be the same ‘special mixture’ and gave it to a chemist to analyze. I received his report today.”
Reaching into his vest pocket, he extracted a piece of paper, which he unfolded. “The contents included Atropa belladonna—Mandragora officinarum—Amanita muscaria—Cantharis vesicatoria—”
Bella leapt to her feet, crying, “That compound is lethal—Verrell is a murderer!”
Felix Ott was quick to seize her by the arms, imploring her to be calm, and at his movement Alys forgot all about her younger sister and jumped up in a fury to attack him, crying, “Leave my Bella alone!”
The crow added to the general pandemonium, flapping about the room emitting raucous cries.
The upheaval quickly subsided as the ingrained decorum of the English lady and gentleman prevailed. Felix Ott fell back, apologizing profusely for any misunderstanding; Bella assured him no harm had been done and told Alys to behave herself; and in a matter of moments, everyone had resumed their accustomed seats—except Gabriel, who now perched on Bella’s left shoulder, and turned his glossy head this way and that, as if to warn all those his eye fell upon that they should feel the power of his beak and claws if they dared to disturb his beloved mistress.
Mr. Jesperson cleared his throat. “Ahem, yes, as Miss Bulstrode recognized, most of the ingredients I named are indeed poisonous—but as I am sure she also knows, the amount is a significant factor; minute doses of Atropa belladonna, for example, may actually have a beneficial effect, although too much is fatal. It causes dilated pupils—which we noticed in Mr. Manning—hallucinations, ditto—aggressive behavior—to which Miss Ann and Miss Alys have borne witness—and an increased heart rate.
“Mandragora or mandrake also causes hallucinations and can affect the heart.
“Cantharis vesicatoria, better known as Spanish fly, is the most famous of all so-called aphrodisiacs—although its effects upon the body are painful and unpleasant—but whereas in larger doses it may be fatal, Mr. Manning did not die from that.
“And I should say, in defense of Cunning Verrell, that a single dose of his mixture would not have caused the death of even a smaller, weaker man than Charles Manning. Verrell is specific about how much is to be taken at any one time, and even advises the man to halve the dose and share it with his lady in a glass of wine. My investigations suggest that the cunning man would be unlikely to sell a customer more than two or three of these mixtures at one time, but perhaps Manning managed to wheedle more out of him. Certainly, he ignored the warnings he was given and consumed the entire lot himself, in a single evening. Is it fair to blame the cunning man for his customer’s suicidal stupidity?”
Bella exhaled a long, soft sigh. “Charles was the instrument of his own destruction.”
“I believe so,” said Mr. Jesperson. “From Ann’s description, he was already under the influence before he arrived at the hotel, and then he took another dose. He was, I venture to say, in a state of self-loathing, having made the vicious decision to destroy a young woman’s innocence and happiness through an act of brutality.”
“But why?” Bella stared at him. “I do not understand. If he loved her—”
“He did not love me,” said Ann. “I saw that, finally. If he had loved me, I would have done whatever he asked. But what I saw in that hotel room…He despised me.” She stared bleakly at nothing.
Alys groaned. “You are romantic, Ann, but he was not. Love had nothing to do with it. You had something he wanted, and he meant to have it, by hook or by crook. If he ruined you, you would have to marry him. If he put you in the family way, even better.”
“But why did he want to marry me, if not for love?”
“It is not as if Ann has any serious expectations,” said Bella. “She might eventually inherit this house from me, but surely Mr. Manning was not so wicked as to have been planning to kill me and both my sisters for a small property in rural Norfolk?” She looked inquiringly at Mr. Jesperson, who turned rather dramatically to gaze at Mr. Ott.
The head of the School of British Wisdom shifted in his chair, gave an audible sigh, and said, rather haltingly, “Perhaps I may shed some light on this distressing matter. I rather fear that some of Manning’s actions—at least at first—may have been, er, performed in the misguided hope of pleasing me.”
Gaining in confidence as he made the decision to tell all, he continued:
“When I first arrived in the area, I had my sights fixed upon Wayside Cross, not only for the library, but because I had heard that the mistress of the house was a wisewoman, called by some a witch—and thus, I felt certain, she was the inheritor of an ancient tradition. I was keen to enlist Miss Bulstrode in my School—I had visions of her as the head of the distaff side, as it were; the representative of traditions and knowledge traditionally reserved to females, and therefore on an equal footing with me.”
With a rueful smile, he said, “Of course, my ‘plans’ were made without reference to the real Miss Bulstrode—and when we did meet, I fear she was not very impressed with me.”
“Oh, Felix, that is not so!” cried the lady, and as their eyes met there was almost a chemical reaction; the very atmosphere of the room changed. Gabriel abruptly launched himself from Bella’s shoulder and flapped noisily across the room to perch on the bookshelf.
The movement of the bird startled us all into moving or laughing; it was only a moment, yet it lightened the mood.
Mr. Ott smiled as he continued: “In any event, I fell deeply in love with Miss Bulstrode, and although I still wished—more fervently than ever—to win her support for my School, this was secondary to my personal desire to make her my wife. I hope you do not mind, Bella, if I say it so publicly?”
“It is not so very public,” she replied, blushing slightly. “My sisters already know, and perhaps our detectives may have deduced something of our feelings for each other.”
He gave a short nod. “I proposed and was rejected. Miss Bulstrode said that although she appreciated my friendship, she had taken an oath of celibacy, being dedicated to her work of healing. Nor could she agree to take any official part in my School, feeling it, too, would be a distraction from her career. Well, I was deeply disappointed—I cannot pretend otherwise.”
His shoulders slumped and he looked down at the floor. “My disappointment led me to behave very badly. I did not take my dismissal as a gentleman. Foolishly, I shared something of my feelings with Manning, who was, I fear, a very worshipful young man, when it came to myself. He admired me to an extreme…and it was balm to my soul, especially after the rejection. But I was less than honest with him, too, speaking of the loss to the School, rather than of my own personal heartbreak. If I had not…”
“You cannot mean that he thought he could make it up to you by marrying one of my sisters?” Bella spoke in tones of shocked disbelief.
Ott shrugged uncomfortably. “Well…I think he felt that through him, the School should have a claim on your library.”
“That is absurd. He could use the library whenever he liked—indeed, he often did. And he needed no family connection for that—why, Miss Lane will confirm, we had a stranger here for several hours only the other day.”
Ott sighed. “Really, I am only trying to make sense of his action. I am not trying to justify it; it cannot be justified. Somehow, he expected my gratitude and approval. He thought he was doing something great for the School. It may have had something to do with his mystical notions of bloodlines—he was thrilled to imagine he could forge a link between himself and a family that could trace its descent back to the old religion.”
“We are not Roman Catholics,” Alys exclaimed. “Is that what he thought?”
“I believe Mr. Ott refers to a much more ancient, pagan faith,” said Mr. Jesperson.
“Of course—the idea that witches today are the descendants of a matriarchal, goddess-worshipping cult,” said Bella.
Felix Ott looked at her anxiously. “You do not think it might be so?”
“Oh, it might be so,” she said. “I do not worship, and am not qualified to pronounce on the matter. For I am not a witch—despite your best attempts to paint me as such in the eyes of the village.”
His eyes widened and he leaned forward. “What?”
“You know what. Those dreadful remarks you made about witches—modern-day worshippers of Satan! Baby-murderers and cannibals! Did you think your libels would not get back to me?”
The color drained from his face. “Oh, my dear, my dear, can you forgive me? It was a moment of madness…I did not think…Can you ever forgive me?”
“I have forgiven you,” she replied, in a distant, regal manner. “It took time, I admit, but I realized you spoke as a child lashes out in furious disappointment, not meaning it, and without thinking of consequences.”
“I should have given anything to be able to take those words back!” he exclaimed. “Fortunately, the meeting was not well attended. And of course, I mentioned no names.”
“There was no need for you to name names when your unpleasant little acolyte, Miss Goodall, was more than happy to do it for you. How could you have imagined I would not hear of it, when she set out to turn the villagers against me?”
He groaned. “I had words with her—I explained she had misunderstood—and threatened her with expulsion if she ever—”
Miss Bulstrode rose to her feet, and Mr. Ott scrambled to his. “Let it go,” she said briskly. “It is all over now. You have apologized and I have forgiven you—and none of it is anything to do with the case Mr. Jesperson and Miss Lane came here to solve.” She looked at us. “You are satisfied that you have discovered the cause of Mr. Manning’s death?”
I looked at Mr. Jesperson and was surprised to find him staring at the two younger sisters, rather than attending to Miss Bulstrode. “Hmm?” He roused himself from his thoughts. “Yes. Although it is not fair to blame him for the death, Cunning Verrell should be warned to dispense his powders only one at a time, no matter how much he is offered, and he might want to reassess his own skill at reading a man’s physical health. Manning may have had a slight weakness of the heart; the combined stresses of his encounters that evening, his determination to go against his own nature, hallucinatory fears, and the combination of drugs was more than his heart could take. We need look no farther than Manning himself to find the villain responsible.”