Meanwhile, at the Dernstrum Institute

by Catherine Griffin

  I frowned. He had asked for three-inch valves, I was sure. That was what I had ordered, and these looked like the right thing.

  'I'm pretty sure these are what you ordered. Could you have made a mistake?'

  'A mistake? Do you have any idea how long I've been working on this design? Every piece is specified in the most exact detail.' He held up the blueprint in front of me, vibrating with rage. 'Exact. Not thereabouts. Not more or less. This is engineering, Miss Wright, not dressmaking.'

  'I do know something about mechanics, and I'm sure this is the part you asked me to order.'

  'What! You don't know owt. And you're telling me I made a mistake! My whole schedule’s thrown off. Do I tell the Ministry of War to come back later?' The volume was rising to dangerous levels.

  ‘Don’t shout at her.’ Sam jumped into the argument, surprising both of us. He stood between his father and me, pale but determined.

  ‘What did you say?’

  I had read the description ‘boiling with rage’ before, but never seen it in real life. Rickett was practically incandescent.

  ‘I said, don’t shout at her.’

  ‘Why, you useless, ungrateful… child. How dust thee talk back to me?’

  Sam glanced at me with a silent appeal. Bad enough to be shouted at, worse to have a witness. There was nothing I could do for him but leave them to it.

  I walked away, fuming on his account and mine. That clown probably had his precious blueprints upside-down. Well, fine, he could do his own ordering. I was fed up of running round after him, anyway.

  The gravel crunched under my feet as I strode along, pursued by a fine drizzle. Out on the park, I saw Enfield’s tall square figure by his cabbage plot with another man. I stopped for a moment to see what they were doing. The other man — presumably John, the gardener, but I couldn’t be sure at this distance — held a fence post, while Enfield pounded it into the ground. Pausing for a breather, Enfield noticed me watching and waved. I waved back. He returned to work and I walked on.

  The photography session had finished when I got back to the house. Hack was packing up his equipment, humming to himself as he disassembled the tripod.

  ‘I’m glad someone’s happy,’ I said. The light drizzle had left me wetter than I would have thought possible.

  He grinned. ‘I have great expectations of today’s work. You’ll be amazed, I’m sure.’

  On Thursday afternoon, Langstone interrupted my work. He entered the library with a serious air as if someone had died. My stomach knotted, expecting trouble.

  ‘Miss Wright.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Mr Rickett has made a complaint. About you.’

  I should have expected something like this. Rickett was a pompous idiot. But Langstone knew that. He’d surely see my side.

  ‘I didn’t make a mistake with his order.’

  Langstone cut off my explanation with a wave of his hand. ‘To err is human. I see no reason to blame you, though I must say, a little more politeness and humility might have been in order.’

  My jaw muscles clenched, holding back hot words.

  ‘Well.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his dark-circled eyes briefly. ‘I won’t belabour the point. I only hope there will be no need to mention you when I next write to Mr Bentley.’

  ‘Please don’t. I mean, there won’t be any need.’ Bentley had given me a chance when no one else would. I hated to think of him being disappointed in me.

  Langstone laid his hand on my shoulder. I suppressed a shudder.

  ‘Personally, I would hate to part with you, Miss Wright, but my responsibility is to the researchers and the Institute.’ His long fingers trailed down my arm. ‘You understand?’

  I nodded stiffly.

  ‘Good. How are you getting on with the report?’

  My latest attempt lay on the table. It wasn’t as tidy as I would have liked, but I didn’t think I could do any better. I passed it to Langstone. He flipped through the pages, his expression stony.

  ‘This won’t do.’ He threw the report onto the table. The loose pages scattered, fluttering in the draught from the hall. He thrust the title page under my nose. ‘That isn’t how February is spelt, Miss Wright. Kindly refer to the dictionary if you are unsure. And look here…’

  His long white fingers stabbed at the pages, picking out every smudge and misaligned word. I began to flinch at each example of my evidently inferior handiwork.

  ‘I’ll do it again.’ I collected the disordered pages, hoping if I had hold of them he’d stop finding errors. ‘I’m sorry. I can do better.’

  ‘Hmm. I hope so.’ He turned to go. ‘I hope so.’

  When he left, I sat with the battered papers clenched in my hands, shaking. My pitiful illusions of competence crumbled. I was a terrible typist. Now Langstone knew, how long would I keep my job?

  To lose my job, to be fired, disgraced, sent packing. It would have been bad enough, but now I had the treasure hunt. I had to stay in Uggley to find the clues. I couldn’t leave now. A wave of dizziness rolled over me, followed by nausea. I hugged the report to my chest.

  There was no help for it. I would have to work harder and get it right before Langstone decided to dispense with my services. I could do it. I had to.

  That night, I dreamed. A nightmare of running through endless darkness, pursued by unseen danger, my legs held down by dragging weight. I woke panting, tangled in my bedding. As the panic faded, the sense of impending doom remained, like a weight pressing on my chest.

  Obviously, I feared losing my job. But I felt there was more to it. Something had been nagging me since reading the Musgrave Ritual story. In the story, the upstart butler tries to steal the treasure from its rightful owners. Had the Professor meant to imply that someone else was searching for his treasure?

  If so, it was even more important to find it quickly.

  Mr Hack’s photographs of Mrs Jones were remarkable, in that they caused her to go into hysterics and we ate cold food for two days. Langstone spoke to Hack privately. I don’t know what was said, but Hack was very contrite until Mrs Jones recovered. She ignored him and Madame from that point on, and made a great show of attending church on Sunday in her best hat.

  The photographs did not seem especially impressive to me. Mrs Jones photographed well. Hack had made her look every inch a queen, transforming her habitual sneer into aristocratic aloofness. There were no improbable hovering faces, just a dark shadow hanging over her, which, with imagination, might be the shape of a man.

  A week after my visit to the graveyard, the sound of the doorbell roused me from trying to reconcile Rickett’s latest invoices with the accounts. I went to the front door and found an elderly gentleman, accompanied by a mud-spattered bicycle of antique design.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ He balanced the bicycle against the wall to his satisfaction.

  I spotted the dog-collar. ‘Good afternoon, vicar.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure?’

  ‘Miss Wright. I work here.’ We shook hands. He had a remarkable resemblance to a tortoise. About the head, that is. The rest of him was thin, hunched, and entirely as one would expect of an old country vicar, complete to the feeble handshake. ‘I’m afraid I’m not a churchgoer.’

  ‘No need to apologise. I don’t think I’d go myself if I wasn’t paid for it.’ He blinked up at the house. ‘I haven’t been here for a while. Not since the Anglepoyse-Smythes.’

  I showed him in. ‘Are you visiting someone in particular?’

  ‘Mrs Jones asked me to call. Ah, here she is.’

  Indeed, here was Mrs Jones, approaching with a rigid smile. ‘So sorry, Reverend. Please come this way.’ She shot me a venomous look, which I took to signify I wasn’t included in the invitation for tea.

  ‘I had better get on with my work. Pleased to meet you, Reverend.’

  He nodded sagely. ‘Upsticks. Reverend Upsticks.’

  Mrs Jones swept him away to the sitting room. I resumed my normal post i
n the library though I thought rather than working. Molly had said Reverend Upsticks covered services at Uggley church. With a sudden rush of excitement, it struck me that he might know something more about Reverend Templeton, author of the pamphlet, madman and attempted murderer.

  When I heard voices in the hall, I popped out ready to intercept the vicar. But it was only Hack and Madame on their way in, little dog and all.

  ‘Miss Wright, there you are. Madame was just remarking on your aura.’

  ‘Indeed. It is quite striking. Tell me, my dear, do you have any experience of spiritual phenomena? Unexplained noises? Dreams?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ The dog hadn’t liked me since we met. It lunged at my ankles, yipping.

  At that moment, Mrs Jones and the vicar emerged from the sitting room.

  ‘I’m afraid the modern church doesn’t approve of exorcisms. I appreciate your concern, Mrs Jones, but, you see, ghosts don’t exist, and so one can’t expel them.’

  ‘I don’t think you quite understand, vicar, it’s…’ Mrs Jones saw Madame. She stopped dead, eyes narrowed like an alley cat squaring up for a fight.

  ‘You must be Reverend Upsticks.’ Hack advanced, hand out. ‘So pleased to meet you.’

  Introductions covered the awkward moment. The vicar greeted Madame without any sign of surprise as if he had in his time seen absolutely everything. Or possibly he was short-sighted. The dog yapped hysterically and had to be restrained. Mrs Jones looked daggers and said nothing.

  ‘In my opinion,’ Hack said, ‘the established church has nothing to fear from spiritualism, and a closer relationship would only benefit both sides. Don’t you agree, Reverend?’

  ‘Ahah. Spiritualism. I can’t say I’ve ever thought on the matter. If you don’t mind, I must be on my way. Mrs Jones.’

  ‘Thank you so much for visiting, Reverend. You’ve set my mind at ease.’

  ‘I have? Oh, good. Where’s my hat? Ah, thank you.’

  I followed him out. We walked a short way up the drive together, him wheeling his bicycle.

  ‘Reverend, could I ask you something?’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘IS IT ANYTHING to do with ghosts or spiritualism?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In that case, you’re very welcome. How can I help?’

  ‘The previous vicar here, Reverend Templeton.’

  ‘Ah. A sad case. Poor man.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Taunton Asylum, as far as I know. Chewing the walls, last I saw. Poor chap.’

  So it wouldn’t be much use talking to Templeton. ‘My godfather asked me to find out what became of him.’

  Since Professor Dernstrum was my godfather and his letter had prompted me to ask about Templeton, this was true enough. I wasn’t sure I should trust Upsticks with the whole story, but it didn’t seem right to lie to him.

  ‘They were friends, were they? He didn’t have many. It’s a lonely posting here. I did my best, of course, but he was an odd sort at the best of times.’

  ‘Was Professor Dernstrum a friend of his?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I believe so.’

  Not surprising. There weren’t many educated men in Uggley for the Professor to talk to.

  ‘What happened to Templeton? I heard a rather lurid story.’

  ‘Ha. It was a rather unusual episode. He apparently attacked a woman in the street. Alice Mudd. Claimed she poisoned him.’

  ‘And had she?’

  ‘Alice does have a certain reputation. She gave Templeton some sort of tonic for his sciatica. I told him not to touch the stuff, God knows what might be in it. But it actually did him good, at least for a while. He was a new man. Then…’ He steered the bike round one of the many pot-holes in the driveway.

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t have any more back trouble. But he was withdrawn, hardly came out of the house. Couldn’t sleep at night. Jittery. I told him to see a doctor, but… I should have done more.’

  ‘And then he attacked Alice?’

  ‘Yes, quite so.’

  A low stuttering thunder drifted across the flat fields, coming from the park behind us. We both stopped.

  ‘Good Lord, what is that?’

  The vicar’s shock was understandable. I was stunned myself, and I had some idea what to expect.

  ‘It’s the Giant Walking War Machine.’

  It actually was walking. Slowly, juddering and lurching, but walking. The front section of the chassis extended first. The fore and middle legs took the weight while the back section moved forward. Then the middle legs folded and the main body crawled forward to complete the cycle. It was like watching an infant take its first clumsy steps, unlikely and yet so uplifting, I wanted to cheer it on.

  ‘Heaven preserve us,’ the vicar said.

  Whoever drove the thing was working the controls like a demon. it must be Sam. The stout man on the ground alongside, jumping up and down and waving his arms, was certainly Rickett. I wondered what he was so worked up about. The Machine seemed to be running remarkably well for a first trial.

  Then I saw the front legs punch through the fence of the cabbage plot. The timber posts and rails might as well have been matchwood.

  Over the roar of the twin engines, I heard a shout. Enfield rushed to defend his plants, arms waving. The Machine just kept coming, as if the driver, having started, wasn’t sure how to safely stop.

  With a final awful grinding noise, the Machine halted in the middle of the cabbage patch. The driver sagged. Rickett and Enfield came face to face, both waving their arms and shouting. I didn’t need to hear what was being said to have a good idea.

  ‘My. You do have exciting times here,’ Upsticks said. ‘Is it true you keep a monster in the cellar?’

  ‘Only the electric dynamo.’

  ‘I should go. The tide waits for no man, and I have appointments to keep.’ He shook my hand, his deep-set little eyes shrewd and kindly. ‘If you want to talk, you’re welcome to visit. The vicarage in Up Uggley, you know it?’

  ‘Thank you.’ I watched him cycle off, wobbling on the rough road.

  I needed more information about Templeton and there was an obvious person to ask. I followed in the tracks of the vicar, making my way to the post office.

  ‘Alice Mudd?’ Mr Chunley looked at me with interest across the shop counter. ‘What do ee want to know for?’

  ‘Just curious. Is it true the vicar tried to kill her?’ I eyed the dusty jars of sweets on the shelf behind him as if I was torn between humbugs and pear drops.

  ‘Oh, ah. Right outside here. Took five men to hold him.’

  ‘But why Alice?’

  ‘Have ee met her? Ee’d know if ee had. Doubled up like a concertina, stinks like a fox. Her’s the witch.’

  I looked at him sharply, sure he was pulling my leg. ‘The what?’

  ‘Witch. Allus been a witch in Uggley. Tradition. Mother to daughter, it go. But Alice don’t have no children, so I reckon her’ll be the last.’

  ‘A witch?’ I had trouble fitting witchcraft into my world view. ‘You mean casting the evil eye, wearing a black hat, eating children?’

  ‘I never heard her ate no children. No harm to her, really. Her give me a wonderful liniment for my rheumatics once.’

  ‘So the vicar attacked the witch. Why?’

  ‘He was mad.’

  ‘Yes, but even mad people have reasons. Even if they’re mad reasons.’

  ‘He was yelling ‘bout poison.’ Chunley frowned. ‘Ah, said Alice give him poison.’

  ‘And had she?’

  ‘How should I know? Her could’ve, I spose.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ I ran my fingertips along the counter, leaving a furrow in the dust. ‘I’ll take a quarter of humbugs, thank you.’

  The sweets rattled into the pan of the scales. ‘Can you tell me where I might find Alice?'

  'Ee don't want to go bothering her. Her's mad, is Alice.' He scooped the humbugs into a paper bag and twisted
it closed with a practised flick of the wrist.

  'I only want to speak to her about something.’ I passed over my coins in exchange for the bag of sweets. ‘Is she dangerously mad?'

  'Oh, no. Well, not often. Might curse ee, but her do that to everyone. Don't work, far as I know. Leastways, hasn't done me no harm.'

  'I think I'll risk it then. Where does she live?'

  'Number Three, away by the church.'

  For the convenience of the postal service and officialdom in general, numbers had been applied to the cottages. On the left side of the street, starting from the church, were the odd numbers. Even numbers were on the other side of the street. The only confusion was that only a few of the cottages had an actual, visible number painted on the door or gate, since all the locals naturally could remember which was which if they had any need to.

  It took me a few minutes to figure out the numbering system from the available evidence. I stopped outside what I hoped was number 3. Straggling grass and weeds filled the small fenced garden in front of the cottage. The fence was rotting, as were the door and window frames, the last fragments of paint dropping away. The sagging roof contained more moss than thatch.

  I really wasn’t sure what I was doing here. But Alice was connected to Templeton, and Templeton’s pamphlet had been together with the letter. It must mean something. I tapped on the door.

  The door creaked open halfway, then jammed. A face peered out at me, a face brown and wrinkled like a dried apple, with dark eyes peeping under matted grey hair. Her hand on the door frame was clawlike, twisted with rheumatism, the nails black and broken.

  'Excuse me. Are you Alice Mudd?'

  'I don't want none. Go away.'

  'I'm not selling anything. I just wanted to ask you something, if you don't mind.'

  'I does mind. Go away.'

  'Alice, could you tell me what happened with the vicar? You won't get into any trouble, I just want to ask some questions.'

  Alice pointed at me with her clawed hand. 'I curse thee. By sea and blood, fire and flood. All ee love, ee’ll lose.' Her voice rose to a shrill crescendo.