Arcane Adversaries

by Jess Faraday

  The thought of the work and planning that had gone into this, despite the fact that it was no doubt ruined—how much he had to care for me to have gone to the trouble! Heat pricked at the corners of my eyes. At the same time I wanted to pull out of his warm, loving grasp and flee. I didn’t deserve his warmth, his thoughtfulness, his carefully-prepared though no doubt burned-to-cinders supper. I didn’t deserve him at all.

  What sort of bastard was I that this wasn’t enough?

  “What’s wrong?” he murmured, his lips still at my earlobe.

  “This…this is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” And the sad part was, it was true. “I’m so sorry.” I unclasped his arms from around my waist. “I can’t stay.”

  “What?” When I turned, he was looking at me as if I’d slapped him. “I suppose I can’t blame you if you didn’t know,” he said, though his tone said he did somewhat blame me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again.

  “I worked all day,” he said, his tone turning hot. “I planned the menu, went to market, and spent—I’m not going to tell you how much it all cost. I even convinced Abby to spend the evening with friends.” Absently, he picked up a paperweight. I wondered if he was planning to chuck it at me.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” I said.

  “How could you? And…why should you?” He turned, his fury suddenly melting to disappointment. “If you’d known, you’d have cleared your schedule.”

  “Of course,” I said quickly. “This is my fault.”

  “No.”

  No?

  “It’s mine,” he said, nodding. “One hundred percent.”

  What? It was difficult to keep up with him sometimes, though at least he’d put the paperweight down.

  “No,” I said. “I’m a beast. Totally inconsiderate. I’ve ruined everything, and….”

  He was laughing softly, now. He sidled closer, hooked a finger through the waistband of my trousers, and pulled me back into the circle of his arms. I let my fingers wander through his messy curls, not quite sure what had just happened, but relieved the storm seemed to be passing.

  “Oh, Simon….”

  I said, “Will you at least tell me what delicacies I might have feasted upon, were I not such a wretch?”

  “You are a wretch, but I’ll tell you anyway. To start, salad with leaves grown in my glasshouse. Hot bread with butter. Beef Wellington for mains.”

  “Wellington?” So that’s what that smell had been.

  “You think I’m not up to it? Don’t answer that. Then there’s roasted root vegetables with garlic, salt, and rosemary; and for dessert, ice cream. Chocolate.”

  “The devil take the Cornwall Constabulary,” I said. Ice cream was a rare treat, and chocolate even more so. It was also very difficult to ruin.

  “Not the first time I’ve thought that,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again.

  He waved off my apology. “Another time. So, where are you going tonight?”

  “Dropping in on a religious service. Or a meeting, rather.”

  He made a face. “Is it the Dobbs group?”

  “Dobbs?” I asked. Like Dobbs Cream?

  He nodded. “They stopped by a few weeks ago, wanting to hire our meeting room for Thursday nights. We do hire out that room sometimes, but I didn’t like the looks of them. Gave me the shivers.”

  “Why?” Normally, I discounted statements like that, but Theo’s intuition sometimes bordered on clairvoyance.

  “Something in the eyes. Also, they were from London. No offense,” he said.

  “None taken,” I replied.

  “They said they’re a religious group, but there was more to it than that. They were up to something. I don’t know what, but I didn’t trust them, so I told them the room was engaged. So they found somewhere else to meet?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Not too far from here, actually.”

  “Be careful,” he said. “What is it they’re meant to have done?”

  “I can’t talk about it, Theo. I’m sorr—”

  “Simon, I swear to God.” He placed a hand over my lips. I smiled against his fingers. He smiled back, and I knew I was forgiven. “Stop by later?” he asked.

  “It might be a lot later.”

  He said, “You’re always welcome.”

  I nodded. “I’d like that. Save me a plate?”

  “If the servants leave anything. They’ll enjoy a good feast. And Bart.” Bart was Abby’s dog. “He loves a nice bit of Wellington.”

  “That’s low,” I said.

  He licked his plump lips. “Perhaps you’ll go lower when you come back.”

  “Anything you want,” I said. I meant it with all my heart.

  A slow smile spread across his face, and I left him there with it, while I still had the strength to pull myself away.

  Trevelyan was waiting for me in front of the community hall, just as I’d instructed. He had not, however, managed to rid himself of Mrs. Gilbert’s creams.

  “What are those doing here?” I asked, nodding to the box under his arm.

  “The new chemist wouldn’t take them. Said they only sell Dobbs Creams, now.”

  “He say why?” Trevelyan shook his head, but I had my suspicions. I hoped that night’s lecture would address them. “Never mind. Let’s go inside.”

  The auditorium was small but it fit the audience well. The stage was bare, save for a well-used podium that stood at the center, and a large placard on an easel bearing the evening’s theme: The Natural Order of Things.

  By the time Trevelyan and I took our seats and the doors closed behind us, perhaps forty people had gathered. The group was diverse—a few more men than women, but plenty of couples as well. Most people appeared to be on the young side of middle age, with a few elders and a sprinkling of young people Jeffrey Pritchard’s age. And speaking of the shopkeeper’s son, if the uncomfortable-looking young man in the group of youths at the front wasn’t he, he had to be a close relative. He had the same bony build as Mr. Pritchard, the same color and texture of hair, and the planes of his face were startlingly similar as well. The real giveaway, however, was the rigid way he held himself amid the jostling and joking of his peers. I glanced around for the elder Pritchard, then searched the crowd more thoroughly, but the father appeared to be absent.

  I nudged Trevelyan with my elbow. “See that lad over there? The one who looks like he’d rather be somewhere else? He’s from Penbreigh. Name’s Pritchard. I wonder where his father is.”

  “He came all the way from Penbreigh in the snow?” Trevelyan asked.

  “It appears so. Keep your eye on him,” I said.

  Young Pritchard was searching the audience as well, alternating his sweeps of the auditorium with glances at the clock on the wall. Was he waiting for his father or for someone else? Either way, I doubted his interest in the passage of time had to do with the tardiness of the evening’s speaker.

  Finally, a man emerged from the wings and took the podium. The noise of the crowd rose then quieted to a murmur and a shower of applause.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the man began.

  “That’s Mr. Tremayne, the new chemist,” Trevelyan whispered.

  Tremayne? The same Tremayne that served as assistant churchwarden at St. Petroc’s? He was exactly as Miss Spurgeon had described him: tall and fair, but, indeed, his expression was too intense to be entirely pleasant. He had the eyes of a fanatic, in fact, and the thin lips of a harsh and unforgiving man. As he continued his introduction, Jeffrey Pritchard shifted in his seat. I tensed, calculating how quickly I could push past the two couples between me and the exit if the young man decided to bolt.

  “…Miss Sarafina Dobbs,” Tremayne said, stepping aside with a flourish of his arm.

  I was only able to see a flicker of movement in the wings before the audience rose to its feet. The floorboards vibrated with their applause and murmured appreciation. When they sat down, I could see why. Miss Sarafina Dobbs could
have been anywhere between twenty and forty. Her skin, glowing in the gaslight, suggested younger, though an older woman’s worldliness sharpened her eyes. In any event, she was striking, with hair and clothing arranged in a way that was both to undeniable advantage, and yet scrupulously modest.

  “She looks like an angel,” Trevelyan whispered.

  I had to agree. Indeed, her charisma filled the room. She gestured for the audience to take their seats, and they did so, like obedient children. She paused, watching the audience expectantly as they quieted and settled. Eventually the silence became uncomfortable.

  “Witchcraft,” she said at this point, her eyes glimmering. “It’s not what you might think. It’s not crones stirring cauldrons of foul-smelling potions, or old women casting spells. In these modern times, we all know better than that.”

  She was from London, as Theo had remarked, and not, despite her best attempts to modulate her pronunciation, from one of the better parts. Nonetheless, her delivery was winsome and engaging.

  She continued. “Evil finds other ways to insinuate itself into our lives. Paul wrote that ’bad company corrupts good morals.’ In the Acts of the Apostles, we are warned not to consume that which has first been offered to idols. And I tell you, if anyone should use any product produced in a spiritually unclean fashion, they risk themselves becoming spiritually unclean.”

  “Is this where she starts hawking her own potions?” Trevelyan whispered to me.

  I was wondering that myself. What was it that Pritchard had said about Selina Gilbert being on shaky spiritual ground? And how he wouldn’t lead others astray by selling her ointments? Was Miss Dobbs genuinely interested in her followers’ souls, or was this a cynical attempt to move in on a lucrative market?

  Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

  I thought of Pritchard, with his stern warning, and Tremayne with his fanatic’s eyes. Was there anything to connect them to the attacks on the women in Penbreigh and Bodmin? I still wasn’t convinced that Pritchard had thrown that rock through Mrs. Gilbert’s front window. All the same…. I searched the audience for Tremayne, but just as my eyes found him, the auditorium door slammed shut behind us, the sound echoing through the auditorium.

  “Sir,” Trevelyan said, pointing toward the group of youths we’d seen at the beginning.

  Jeffrey Pritchard was gone. Trevelyan and I sprang to our feet. We had just started pushing our way toward the end of the row of seats when all hell broke loose.

  London has a system of fire alarms around the city. Bodmin did not. However, their citizens appeared to be very good at raising the alarm nonetheless. Bells rang out on the streets. I recognized the church bell and the alarm bell from the nearby train depot. In the auditorium, people sprang from their seats, rushing outside to investigate the noise.

  Night had fallen, but the smell of smoke tinged the air. Not far away it billowed white into the dark sky.

  “It looks like….” Trevelyan began.

  In the split second it took for me to identify the building, time stood still.

  “The library,” I finished.

  We ran.

  The Fire Brigade arrived just as we did. We watched them unfurl their hose and attach one end to the pumper truck. Smoke was pouring out of one ground floor window. Not the library section, I noted with relief. That relief died when I realized it was coming from the residence.

  My fingers shaking, I started to unbutton my coat. As if sensing my intention, a fireman stepped into my path.

  “Police,” I said, shoving my warrant card in his general direction. “Out of my way.”

  “Sorry, Sergeant, I can’t let anyone—”

  “Simon,” Trevelyan interrupted. He pointed toward the back of the house. There, barely visible between the wall and a tall hedge, a man-shaped shadow flickered.

  “Go,” I said.

  There was the sound of shattering glass, and the firemen ran the hose through one of the windows around the side of the house. Just then, a girl of about twelve ran out the front door. A kitchen maid, perhaps? She was smoke-smudged and coughing. I caught her before she could run into the street.

  “Is anyone else inside?” I demanded.

  She coughed again. “Only Mr. Penrose…Miss Penrose’s dog…I tried to help….”

  I threw off my coat.

  “Stop right there, sir,” another fireman said, putting out an arm. “Hey!” he cried, as I thrust the child into his arms instead and ran.

  Inside the library, the air was hazy and heavy with the smell of wet charcoal. The air was hot and dry on my skin, in my lungs, in my throat. I passed through the bookshelves, the central table still set for our supper, and through the rear door that led to the stairs.

  “Theo?” I shouted, coughing as I breathed in the smoke. “Theo!”

  There was a clatter, then a bark. A little brown terrier darted out from the smoke-filled rear doorway and raced past me out onto the street. Someone coughed weakly. Then Theo staggered through the doorway. His skin and clothes were the worse for smoke, and as I ran to him, he collapsed against me.

  “Oh God,” I gasped. “Thank God.” Then, “Tell me you didn’t risk your life for that beast.”

  He mumbled into my shoulder, something that sounded like, “Tom, you’re here….”

  My stomach clenched, but I forced my feet to keep moving. Now wasn’t the time to ponder why, in his time of need, he’d called me by a former lover’s name. I tightened my arm around his waist and we lurched toward the door. As we burst out toward the street, arms steadied us, separated us, led us to a low section of wall to sit. After deciding we would both live, the fireman who had tried to keep me from rushing inside started to tell me just how foolish my actions had been.

  “Where’s the other officer?” I interrupted.

  “That him?” The fireman pointed, and I saw Trevelyan coming out from behind the building, pushing young Pritchard ahead of him. Leaving Theo to catch his breath, I went over to meet them.

  “Show me your hands,” I said to the boy.

  “What? Why?”

  Reason told me he hadn’t been behind the house long enough to have started a fire. Still, he might have been running to catch up with the person who had. He might have contributed in some way. I grabbed his hands and turned them over in my own.

  “No cuts, scratches, dirt, or signs of chemicals,” I said to Trevelyan.

  “You think I did this?” Pritchard cried.

  “What were you doing back there?” I demanded.

  “I…I was meeting…someone,” he said.

  “Who?” I wasn’t imagining the fear in his expression turning to abject terror. “Where’s your father?”

  “He’s…he’s in Penbreigh…but….”

  “Were you actually in school this morning, or did you pay a visit to Mrs. Gilbert? Exodus 22:18?” He was gaping, now, too frightened to speak. Perversely, it made me want to lay into him even harder. “You glanced at the clock back in the meeting room, then got up to run out of the room. Who were you coming to meet?”

  “I…I.…”

  “And does your father even know you’re here?” I pressed.

  “Don’t tell my Da!” young Pritchard cried. The color had drained from his face by this point, and he’d started to shake.

  “Sir,” Trevelyan interrupted.

  “What is it, Constable?”

  “Perhaps he’ll remember more at the station—once he’s had time to collect himself.”

  I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. Trevelyan hadn’t said as much, but I was being too rough with the young man. Save for his presence, there was no evidence connecting him with the fire, but he had been there, and I was worried about Theo, and I’d been taking it out on him.

  “I’ll take him down,” Trevelyan said.

  I nodded. “I’ll follow along soon. In the morning we’ll send someone to Penbreigh to make sure Mr. Pritchard knows where his son is.”

  As he led young
Pritchard off, I glanced around. The crowd was dispersing. Whoever Jeffrey Pritchard had been there to meet, they seemed to be long gone now. I walked back around the side of the library, where the fire had been. There was no sign of the smoke that had been pouring out of the side window. In fact, two firemen were retracting the hose. They looked up at my approach. I showed them my warrant card.

  “What can you tell me?” I asked.

  “Not much,” one of the firemen said. “Small fire, hadn’t been burning for long. Looks like the damage is limited to one part of the house.”

  “Deliberate?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Couldn’t say.”

  “Would you forward a copy of the report to me at the station? Detective Sergeant Pearce.”

  He agreed, and we shook hands. The side door was locked, but I peered in through the window. Nothing there but bare and blackened walls, which was odd. The other attacks had focused on property—Mrs. Gilbert’s front room where she practiced, Sarah Cook’s herb store, and Miss Spurgeon’s library. On top of that, try as I might—and I did—I found no scrawled Bible citations. Had Pritchard simply not had enough time to give the scene his signature touch? Or had he been telling the truth?

  When I emerged again, Abby had arrived. She and Theo were giving their statements to one of the firemen. I wanted to put my arms around him, to comfort him, to offer to stay the night and stand guard. But all of that was impossible in front of all of those people. Instead, I ascertained that they were all right, and that it would be safe for them to return home for the night. Then I promised to come by the next day to check on them.

  What would have happened, I wondered, had I not been there that night?

  What would happen to them if I left Bodmin?

  But I hadn’t the luxury to worry about that now. I had to speak to Miss Dobbs. And then I needed to check on a hunch.

  The telegraph is a magnificent technology, offering instant communication around the world. Including, for example, Scotland Yard. The first thing I did upon returning to the station was to visit the evening telegraph operator. I wrote out my request—any information about crimes or suspected crimes involving Miss Sarafina Dobbs—and handed it to him.