by Jess Faraday
That would mean, of course, putting Theo off. He wouldn’t be happy, but we’d seen quite a bit of one another recently, and we’d have other opportunities.
As I made my way down the Bodmin Road, Mrs. Gilbert’s box tucked under one arm, I fished Cal’s letter out of my coat pocket and ran my finger beneath the seal.
It had been eight months since he’d thrown me out of his life. I’d spent the first two of those months punishing myself by sabotaging both my career and my private life. I’d also spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about why it had happened, and what I might have done differently.
In the end it had come down to jealousy on my part. I’d been possessive and clumsy and probably a bit patronizing, as well. The end had come in a red fog, when I’d accused his benefactor—a family friend who was helping Cal through medical school—of taking advantage of his position. In doing so, I’d also accused Cal of using that advantage—basically of prostituting himself. In retrospect, I was surprised we hadn’t come to blows.
My behavior had been appalling. Still, it didn’t explain the magnitude of his response. People argued all the time, and I’d seen people make up after greater conflicts. Yet Cal had ignored my departure from Edinburgh, and my subsequent apology. For two horrible months, I’d thought his absence would forever be a hole in my memory—a painful mystery that I would never solve.
And then one day, just as I’d resolved to dismiss him from my mind, a letter had arrived. That had been four months ago, and we’d exchanged one a week ever since. We never spoke of our past—he was in Edinburgh, and I was in Bodmin, and neither of us was likely to leave the lives we were building. But we had become quite close, in our way.
Which was why it disturbed me to realize that I’d neglected, in my letters, to make a single mention of Theo.
Cal had no such scruples. Every letter seemed to introduce me to a new young man who had captured his interest. It amazed me to think there were that many like-minded men in Edinburgh, and an uncharitable part of me wondered how long it would take him to work his way through them all and start again.
But it was none of my business. We were friends, nothing more, and friends forgave one another’s eccentricities.
Dear Simon,
I’m sorry if this letter is late arriving. I’ve been in a bit of a state. Rory is no longer speaking to me, and I think it’s probably for the best.
Rory. All right, I thought. There hadn’t been a Rory yet. And, it seemed, there no longer was. But as I continued to read, my unforgiving thoughts receded, and my feet slowed their progress down the snow-covered path.
I wanted to tell you how much your letters have meant to me. Some friends come and go like flashes of lightning. But you’re like a constant star. When I’m lost I can look to the sky and find my way home.
Sometimes, though, when I gaze into that dark night, all I can see is the mistakes I’ve made.
My feet stopped. The wind had picked up, and winter was nipping at the exposed stitches on my neck, creeping down beneath my scarf. But the chill that went through me had nothing to do with wind.
Simon, one of the biggest mistakes was sending you away. I miss you, and the more time that passes, the harder my mistake becomes to bear.
In Scotland, the wind howls through the hills like a train whistle. Here, it rattles through the dry vegetation, whipping up clouds of snow from the gently rolling fields. But though I could see the spirals and gusts, the world was silent except for the pounding of my pulse.
On December 30, I shall take the overnight train to King’s Cross station. The train arrives at seven o’clock the next morning, and I shall remain there until the last train to Edinburgh leaves twelve hours later.
Please come. I need to see you.
When a bird’s ragged cry cut through my reverie, I found myself gripping the letter in shaking hands. December 30—that was tomorrow. Cal would be in London on New Year’s Eve.
I had to see him, of course I did. But what would happen then? What about Theo? Already I could feel the life I was building here disintegrating around me. That wasn’t what I wanted.
Was it?
Oh, God.
By the time my feet began to move again, the sky had gone gray, and light, fat flakes were falling on my cheeks, my scarf, and onto the thick, dark wool of my overcoat.
It was madness to throw away my carefully reconstructed life—the best job, the best friends, the best…well one of the best lovers I’d ever known.
But who said I had to? It was too late to write Cal back and tell him not to come. I could pretend his letter hadn’t arrived in time—with the crush of holiday post, it was certainly plausible. But it would be cruel to let him sit at King’s Cross for twelve hours, wondering.
Perhaps I was worrying over nothing. Maybe when we saw each other we’d realize we’d been right the first time—that circumstances were against us. Right person, impossible time and place. If he wasn’t willing to join me in London, after all, he certainly wouldn’t move to a gossipy little speck of a village like Penbreigh. And I couldn’t imagine me going back to Edinburgh. Perhaps we’d agree that anything more than a cordial correspondence would be a mistake.
I miss you…I need to see you…my constant star….
And Theo. Was he my constant star? He was definitely a bright spot. I’d never known anyone like him, and doubted I would again.
Did I love him, though?
I feared that I might.
“Enough,” I told myself sternly. A woman in my village had been assaulted. That was my primary responsibility. There would be plenty of time that night to worry about Cal and his damnable letter.
I tucked the letter into my pocket, then tucked my chin into my scarf, and headed into the blustering wind.
I arrived at the Cornwall Constabulary mid-afternoon, having walked off my nerves and gathered my wits. The sun was sitting low on the horizon, spilling orange-tinted light through the window behind Chief Inspector Landry’s desk, which was, as always, piled high with files and reports.
“Nice of you to turn up, Sergeant,” Chief Inspector Landry said, as we shook hands across the mess. “Though I can’t blame you with this weather.”
“I do apologize, sir. Unfortunately it wasn’t the snow that kept me today.”
I told him about the incident with Mrs. Gilbert in Penbreigh. His expression turned sharp. Nodding, he slowly sat, gesturing for me to do the same.
“We had something similar just yesterday,” he said.
Bodmin had several wise women, and, as far as I knew, they plied their trade peacefully and in harmony with Bodmin’s medical establishment. And though I wasn’t a churchgoer, I’d not heard about any conflict between them and any of the Bodmin churches. But the night before last, while Sarah Cook had been delivering a baby, someone had ransacked the outbuilding where she dried and stored her herbs. It appeared they had also tried to dig up her garden beds. Their efforts had only been foiled by the frozen ground. To top it all off, they had scratched the same Biblical citation—Exodus 22:18—into the back window of her house.
“I suppose we can be grateful that these were property crimes, and not assaults,” Landry said. Still, both of those ladies are going to be out a fair amount of money, not to mention damage to their business.”
Several questions crowded my mind. If the area’s wise women had worked amicably alongside doctors and nurses—not to mention the religious establishment—for so long, what had changed? Or was outside interference to blame? In recent years, a new train line had connected Bodmin directly to London. The subsequent jump in crime had been one reason Landry had been happy to hire me without looking too closely at my references. I wondered if, in addition to robbers and bludgers, the train had also brought one or two enterprising preachers who weren’t aware of how we did things here.
“Sir,” I began.
Just then, the front door burst open. A man stood in the doorway. “There’s been an attack!” he cried. “J
enifer Spurgeon’s house!”
“Another wise woman?” I asked.
“No,” Landry replied. “She ran a school for girls years ago. Still teaches private pupils from time to time.”
“Shall I go?”
Landry gave me the nod. I rose.
“Hoi, Trevelyan,” I called, waving to the trainee who had become my de facto protégé. “Put down that broom. You’re with me.”
•••
I didn’t know where Miss Spurgeon lived, but Trevelyan did, which was a good thing, as the man who had reported the crime, Archie Hayes, had stayed back at the station to give his statement. He was Miss Spurgeon’s neighbor, and his wife was staying with her until we arrived.
“It isn’t even dark yet,” Trevelyan said as we jogged toward Miss Spurgeon’s house. “They’re getting bolder.”
“Good observation,” I said. The lad had sharp instincts and a good mind for translating them into solid conclusions. “What do you know about the other case at Mrs. Cook’s?”
“I wasn’t at the scene, but Lumley was, and he told me all about it.”
“Conclusions?”
“A religious thing? What with the Bible verses and all,” he said, not sounding quite convinced.
“Do I hear doubt in your voice?”
“It just seems strange, that’s all. I never heard no one have a problem with Mrs. Cook or Miss Spurgeon before, nor with wise women in general. And Miss Spurgeon ain’t even a wise woman. There it is,” he said, breaking his stride with some relief. As we approached the house, he took the time to calm his breathing and smooth down what was becoming a lush and impressive mustache. There was new authority in his step, as well. He’d be off of broom duty and walking a beat soon enough, I imagined.
“Something similar happened in Penbreigh this morning,” I said. “A rock through the window of the wise woman’s house, with a verse about witches.”
“In Penbreigh?”
“Don’t sound so surprised, we have crime there, too, as you well know.”
Trevelyan had helped me out with a murder there not too long ago, and had seen for himself that bad things can happen in small villages.
Jenifer Spurgeon lived in a small house near the outskirts of Bodmin. The house was surrounded by a low wall, and it looked as if there would be an impressive garden there, come springtime. As we came to the house, two women greeted us: a nattily dressed elderly woman whom I took to be the victim, and a plump, pleasant-looking woman in her thirties, who I assumed was the neighbor, Mrs. Hayes.
“Thank you for coming, constables,” Miss Spurgeon said. She was wizened and wiry, though the intelligence in her eyes suggested it would be a mistake to confuse her slight build with frailty. “I was just round the shops, when Mrs. Hayes, here, heard the noise and came to fetch me. Oh, dear,” she said, her eyes going wide as we rounded the back of the house. When the extent of the damage became clear, she clamped a hand over her mouth, a bit too late to stifle her cry.
Someone had battered down the rear door. The wreckage inside was enough to make even Trevelyan gasp. The room had been a library once, but now it was a disaster. Someone had swept the books from the shelves that lined the walls. Not content with that, they had rent in half the ones they could, and ripped pages from the ones that had withstood that onslaught.
“I’ve…I’ve been collecting those books for decades!” She cried, looking desperately from me to Trevelyan and back again. Her pale face had gone even paler. Her eyes brimmed, and her lower lip trembled.
“Don’t worry, Miss,” Mrs. Hayes said, putting an arm around her. “It’ll all be all right. You’ll see”
“Any valuable ones?” I asked.
“Not to anyone else, but now I’ll have no way of teaching the children. And my cat! Where’s my cat? She never goes outside!”
“I’ll look for her,” Mrs. Hayes said. “She’s bound to be around here somewhere.”
“Thank you,” I told her.
I glanced at the back window, unsurprised to find the same verse from Exodus scratched into the glass. Putting myself between the hateful quote and Miss Spurgeon, I guided her inside, through to the kitchen, and sat her down. She clenched her hands tightly in her lap, as if willing them to stop trembling.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” I asked, looking pointedly at Trevelyan.
“Thank you,” she said.
As Trevelyan put on the kettle, I began the interview. Jenifer Spurgeon, age seventy-six, had spent her entire life in Bodmin. She’d served as the headmistress for St. Lawrence’s School for Girls for thirty years, and as a teacher for the twelve years before that. She’d retired some ten years earlier, and had spent her time tutoring young women at home.
“Some people say it’s a waste of time to educate girls,” she said, drawing strength from her indignation. “They say women should limit themselves to learning domestic skills. But one needs arithmetic to keep the household accounts. And what harm is there in enjoying a magazine or even a novel in-between darning socks and looking after children? Thank you, young man,” she said as Trevelyan set a cup of tea in front of her.
“I quite agree,” I said. “Has anyone said this to you recently? About it being a waste of time to educate girls? Anyone who you think might feel strongly enough to make sure you weren’t in a position to do just that?”
Her expression grew thoughtful. “Come to think of it, the new assistant churchwarden at St. Petroc’s made some remark after services the other day. It struck me as rather rude at the time, but I didn’t say anything, as the young man is new to Bodmin, and didn’t know who I am.”
She straightened as she said this, and I smiled inwardly as a glimmer of the redoubtable headmistress rose to the surface.
“What was his name?” I asked. I had my notebook out, and had been dutifully taking notes.
“Tremayne,” she said. “Edward Tremayne.”
“That’s a Cornish name,” Trevelyan said.
I asked, “Is he from one of the surrounding villages, perhaps?”
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. He’s a young man, like you, but thin and fair, though a bit too intense to be pleasant. He only came to Bodmin recently.”
“Thank you, Miss Spurgeon. Is there someone who can help you to put your house back together?”
“We will.” Mrs. Hayes had returned, and this time she was holding a fluffy white cat in her arms. “You can stay with us tonight, Miss, and Duchess, too. It’s the least we can do. Archie will secure your back door and we’ll both help you clean up the mess in the morning.”
On the way out, something in the wreckage caught my eye. I bent to pick it up.
“Dobbs Cream,” I said.
“Says it’s good for rheumatism,” Trevelyan said, glancing over my shoulder.
“Does that woman look rheumatic to you?” I asked. “She could run circles around the both of us. Ma’am,” I said, turning. Miss Spurgeon looked up from cuddling her cat. I held up the little bottle “Do you use Dobbs Cream?”
Her face took on a disgusted look. “Goodness, no. Everyone knows that rubbish doesn’t work. I get my creams from Sarah Cook.”
•••
“What do you think now?” I asked Trevelyan as we walked back toward the station.
“I think we need to talk to the assistant churchwarden,” he said.
“Agreed. It’s a bit too late for that, tonight, though.” All around us it was growing dark. A light snow had started to fall. Pinpoint-sized flakes fell on my cheeks and melted. “What time does your shift end?”
The town clock tolled five o’clock.
“An hour ago,” he said with a wry smile. “But I ain’t got nowhere to be.”
“Feel like an adventure?”
His smile turned to a grin.
I instructed him to return to the station, clear a few hours of overtime with Landry, then meet me at the hall where Pritchard’s Bible Study group was meeting. On the way, I asked him to drop off Mrs. Gilbert�
��s creams at the new High Street chemist’s shop, which is where I’d first come across them.
While he was doing that, I needed to cancel my dinner plans.
I arrived at Theo’s library a little before six. Theo answered the door himself. His parents had left him and his sister wealthy, but they maintained a modest complement of servants, and a butler was not among them.
“You’re early,” he said, a smile spreading across his voluptuous mouth.
Seeing him—his tall, elegant form; dark, curly hair and bronze-tinged skin—set my heart racing. It always did. But this time the excitement competed with the terror of my upcoming decision.
“What’s wrong?” He asked.
“Er….”
A charcoal smell was creeping into the air. Something had been cooking a bit too long. Burnt. Stuck to the bottom of a pan somewhere. Shame. It smelled like it might have been nice.
“Hungry?” He laughed.
“A bit,” I said, grateful for the distraction. It was only then that I noticed he was wearing an apron—coarse, black fabric dusted with flour and little bits of dough, contrasting starkly with the somehow still-clean linen shirt and trousers underneath. Good God, whatever it was, he’d cooked it himself.
He took my hand and led me through to the library section. The blinds were drawn, and the gas sconces turned low. He’d moved the books off of the display table, and set the table with a pressed linen cloth, two settings of fine china, crystal, and silver, with silver candlesticks.
A candlelit dinner in the heart of a library. Could he possibly know me any better?
“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he said, circling his arms around my waist from behind. He rested his chin on my shoulder.
“You cooked for me?” I asked.
“You sound less than enthusiastic.”
“How did you know it was my birthday?” I asked by way of deflection.
“I’m your lover,” he purred in my ear. His cheek was heat and stubble, and, beneath the scents of yeast and roasting meats, he was wearing my favorite cologne. “It’s my job to know. March third, by the way,” he whispered. He was aware, of course, that I’d had no idea when his own birthday fell. “I’ve been working all day. Cook wanted to help, but I told her to take the day off.”