THE COMPANY OF WITCHES

It was a cruel remark and, though I was still irritated with the Doctor, I regretted it almost as soon as I was back in my room. Bell had not failed many times and it was only by chance that I had paid so dearly for his greatest failure.

Despite my anger, I wondered if I would have said such a thing or — indeed if he would have reacted quite as coldly to Miss Jefford — if we had not both been up without sleep for the best part of forty-eight hours.

I was on the point of going to bed when there was a tap on my door. I opened it and Bell was there. He did not smile but nor did he show any anger. He merely looked at me and I stepped back to let him in, closing the door.

He walked to the window and then turned.

‘I will endeavour to explain, for we both lack sleep and perhaps I did not do so very well.’ That was, I knew, in its way an apology from the Doctor and I nodded, though still not completely relenting.

He turned away, closing his eyes, as if feeling his way back into the case, or rather his conception of the case, for my benefit. ‘Look at it,’ he said, and there was for the first time in many hours, some passion in his voice, ‘in its entirety. Of course we are trying to avoid panic but I can tell you I am as certain as I have ever been that Harding was brutally murdered. The precise nature of how this was achieved is, as yet, a mystery but I already entertain suspicions about the mechanism and the motive. I would direct you also, however, to the spectacular nature of the deed and the sensation it was designed to cause. Only he would invent such a thing to create as much bafflement and fear as he possibly could. Nobody else would imagine it, nobody else is capable of executing it.’

The Doctor had opened his eyes now and turned back to me. ‘But I do not for a minute imagine he is here alone. Even our enemy could not concoct such a thing from some hideout in the woods. And it is not his style anyway. Which means, Doyle, one of these people, any of them, is harbouring him. And we must necessarily be particularly suspicious of those with London connections. I have not yet established if and how that applies to Edward Norman or Hare, but it most certainly applies to Sir Walter (who claims that his mysterious guest was a mistress from the capital), Mrs Marner, her maid Ellie Barnes, Langton and, yes I am afraid, Charlotte Jefford. Therefore, if she left here, it would be doubly fortunate for her and for us.’

There was nothing more to say and we agreed to disagree. Of course I could see some cold logic in his position but it seemed, if anything, overly logical, and made little allowance for character and probability.

Next day, after a good night’s sleep, Bell and I ate our breakfast without any reference to the discussion of the night before. Inspector Langton entered the dining room, anxious to know whether we had discovered anything further about the mystery. He seemed a little disappointed when Bell merely replied that he had sent an urgent telegram to Lowestoft and would journey there that afternoon while this morning he wished Langton to show us Harding’s accommodation and revisit the house with the bloodstain.

Outside, it was blustery but fair and, though the marsh lay between us and the sea, I could hear the sound of breakers on the wind. Harding went on ahead but, as we walked up the road away from the inn, there were two figures before us, pointing out over the marsh at a flock of seabirds. The figures turned and I recognised the florid if youthful features of Edward Norman, who smiled, though his son Tommy only stared at us with hostility. ‘How lucky I am to catch you, for I wish you to lunch with us today,’ Norman said, wringing his hands in his characteristically unctuous gesture. ‘Nella has commanded it and Nella will not be gainsaid.’

Though no doubt kindly meant, I cannot say that I relished such a prospect, but it fitted our plans and the invitation was accepted before we went on our way. Evidently this family was not greatly disturbed by the news of Harding’s death.

Harding had, it turned out, lived alone in a small cottage on the Monk estate. It was a bleak situation and little more than one room, for he took his meals with the servants in the main house. A small bed lay in the window with some clothes and a few letters and personal things.

Bell went through all of these with extreme care but Langton showed impatience for he had already looked at them. ‘There is something from his sister, we have written to her ourselves, and some cuttings from newspapers about forestry, woodcraft and livestock. You will find nothing of interest there, Dr Bell.’

Bell, however, studied them at great length, lingering over some passages. After that, he commenced a very thorough search of the house. It was while he was reaching under the bed that he pulled something out. I moved forward hopefully, but once again all he had was some broken sticks, little more than pieces of firewood. Bell frowned at them but finally cast them aside.

After that, we made our way back to Jefford’s house. I must confess I felt a chill the moment I saw that hideous orchard with the bent, stunted trees. The temperature seemed to drop as soon as you came anywhere near the place.

And the chill was just as evident as Langton unlocked the door and we entered. I have often had to make do without servants, but if ever a house cried out for someone to tend its fires and its beds and give the place some heart it was The Glebe. Soon we stood again in that grim empty room with the stain. Bell made his way to the far corner of the room where he turned his back to the wall and stood facing the stain. He stayed like that for a very long time. Once he closed his eyes and then he opened them again as if wanting to get a fresh view of the place and that stain, which, although somewhat dark and theatrical, was beginning to trouble me far more than bright crimson would have done.

Then he moved around the room, taking great interest in the chimney. ‘You will find nothing there, sir,’ said Langton. ‘I paid special attention to the fireplace naturally. It is quite empty and solid brick. No apertures, no spaces, nowhere to hide.’

‘Yes, I think I would agree with you, Inspector,’ replied Bell. ‘It seems to hold no secrets.’

‘Which leaves only plaster and flagstones,’ said Langton.

But Bell, who had continued his circumnavigation of the room, had stopped and was studying something on the skirting, quite close to the door. He bent down and took it up. From what I could see it was a tiny human hair, very fair.

After studying it closely, the Doctor put it carefully away. Then he announced that he wished to go through every personal object in the place. As I have already stated there were not many: some novels, some fairly opulent clothes; no personal papers or letters, for it seems Jefford had not used the place in this way or, if he had, they were destroyed.

Langton had already protested there was nothing of interest, even the clothes had been searched, but Bell insisted on going through every garment. They were all empty but it seemed a side pocket on one of the jackets had been overlooked, for it contained a folded and half-torn piece of paper. Naturally all of us had hopes it was a letter but to our irritation it turned out there was no writing on it at all. One side was blank and on the other was a rather feeble drawing of a plant or a flower, something like a six-leaf clover. We stared at it for a moment but could make nothing of it.

Bell was still musing over the illustration as we said goodbye to Langton, for the Doctor had now decided he wished to interview Mrs Marner’s maid.

‘From everything I have heard about Jefford, he scarcely seems the kind of man to indulge in nature sketches,’ he said to me as we walked to the Marner house. ‘It is a most odd find.’

The interview with Ellie Barnes proved to be very frustrating. Mrs Marner, her usual graceful self, acknowledged how oddly the girl was behaving as she led us through to a small anti-chamber where Ellie waited. ‘She does not seem nearly as upset as I feared by Colin Harding’s death. But she is distracted and stares out of the window.’ With that she handed us the one-word note Ellie had received the previous day. Bell looked at it carefully before we entered.

The envelope had been delivered by hand. The message, like the girl’s name on the envelope, was scrawled in big ugly capitals.

As we opened the door, Ellie was sitting at a little stool where she evidently did her mending, her little pixie’s head cast down. ‘Now, Ellie,’ said Mrs Marner, ‘Dr Bell and Dr Doyle are here to see us, and you must answer whatever they wish.’

Ellie nodded but did not look up and Mrs Marner withdrew. The Doctor began his questioning very softly and kindly. He emphasised she was in no trouble, that he understood some stupid people had accused her of mischief, that she would be protected and had no need to go out, for he understood all provisions could be delivered. But he was especially keen to know about all her dealings with Mr Harding.

At first she said almost nothing. No matter how it was phrased and how many times he asked, we were learning very little: that she had been friends with Colin Harding, that she had sometimes seen him, that she might have seen him on the night of the first. It was hard to extract anything definite. She was not even prepared to admit she was frightened, though that certainly seemed to be the case.

During the interview her cat came out of its basket and jumped up on her knee and her hand stroked its head but it flinched slightly and suddenly she seemed to recall our presence and pushed it away.

Given all of this, I expected Bell to allay her fears by firmly denouncing these stupid superstitions. After all, he had already counselled Langton to come down hard on any wild talk. But to my amazement, instead he appeared to take them entirely seriously.

‘You must tell me,’ he said, ‘if Mr Harding practised witchcraft. Did he have power?’

She shook her head violently. I was bemused by this line but he persisted.

‘He had found a rune, is that not so?’

She trembled at this. ‘No, I never said.’

‘You must tell me,’ said the Doctor.

She said nothing. He pressed again. ‘I take these things very seriously. What did he fear?’

‘That he would be drowned,’ she said at last.

‘And was it because of magic?’ he persisted.

‘I cannot say.’ She shook her head violently.

‘But he did find something, did he not, and it frightened him?’ She nodded. ‘A spell?’ said Bell. ‘Did you see it? What did it look like?’

‘Letters and shapes.’

‘Where is it now?’

She shook her head, evidently not knowing. ‘He feared it meant he would be drowned. Did it, sir?’ She looked up at him pitifully.

‘Only in his mind,’ said Bell, at last returning a little sanity to the conversation. ‘But was there more than this, Ellie?’

She paused and then she nodded. ‘Are you sure Mr Harding is dead?’

Bell’s eyes narrowed. ‘I can be utterly sure. Why?’

She smiled and it was an unnerving smile. ‘Because, sir, I have every reason to think he may yet live.’