The Curious Affair of the Witch at Wayside Cross

by Lisa Tuttle

“What?” She stared at me blankly for a moment. “No! I speak of society—of social expectations—of wicked, wagging tongues. What people will think, what they may say, seeing an unmarried woman traveling about with a strange man. Once her reputation has been blackened, the stain is never expunged.”

  As soon as she paused for breath, I jumped in. Although her foolishness angered me—in particular her bizarre prejudice against beautiful red-gold hair—I think I managed to remain calm, my voice low and well modulated. “Mrs. Ringer, your concern is unwarranted. I am not a girl of sixteen, but a spinster of nearly thirty. If you will forgive me, I think my understanding of what society considers acceptable is considerably more up-to-date than that of a vicar’s wife in rural Norfolk. You claim to be in favor of more occupations being opened to women, but how is that possible if we are to be kept in purdah—even self-imposed—because we are worried about ‘what people may think’? My response to that is the famous motto of the Knights of the Garter: Honi soit qui mal y pense. Now please excuse me; I have work to do.”

  I swept out of the room without giving her a chance to reply, and found myself in the entrance hall, with nowhere to go. Hilda had undoubtedly retreated to her bedroom, and I only wished to be alone. Voices from the smaller sitting room warned that the reverend was in conference with one of his parishioners, and I could think of no excuse for intruding upon the servants in the kitchen, which left me with only one way out.

  Collecting my coat, hat, and scarf from the stand by the door, I made a swift escape.

  Outside, it was even colder than before, the sun lower in the sky. I set off in the direction of Cromer, with no plan in mind except to keep moving. I certainly did enough of that; the road was busy with traffic, so I was forever having to step aside, onto the muddy verge. Occasionally I was offered a lift, and must explain that I wanted the exercise.

  Just as I was thinking about turning back, I saw something that made me change my mind: a figure approaching from Cromer on a bicycle. I felt certain it must be Mr. Jesperson, and a short time later, my hunch was proved correct.

  He looked very surprised to see me and jumped off the bicycle when he reached me to ask with obvious concern, “Miss Lane—what is the matter? No trouble, I hope?”

  “No trouble—but there might have been if I had stayed another minute longer in the company of that meddling, moralizing, silly Mrs. Reverend Ringer—I preferred a long walk in the cold.”

  “Moronic?”

  I flinched, and his eyes widened in alarm. “I only meant to chime with your alliterative scheme—the meddling, moralizing, moronic Mrs. R.”

  “Oh, of course.” Now I felt silly. “You are terrible.”

  “More terrible than you? Come along, we’ll walk back together and you can tell me about your visit to Wayside Cross,” he said, and began to wheel the bicycle. It seemed a rather contrary beast, requiring firm guidance, so our pace was slow.

  “I found them all in mourning—already aware of the death in London. I should have liked to know how. Miss Bulstrode—”

  “The witch?”

  “It is easy to see why she has that reputation. Her familiar is a big black crow called Gabriel; her consulting room is a gloomy place with specimens in bell jars and books from floor to ceiling.”

  “A witch with a consulting room! It must make life easier, if you don’t have to go wandering about a blasted heath in search of a witch when you want one. Does she have many clients?”

  “They come regularly in the mornings, although she calls them her patients. I was taken for one myself, at first.”

  “Pity you did not play along. I wonder what she would have said if you had asked her for a spell to get rid of some inconvenient relative?”

  “You may play that card yourself later,” I said. “I did learn that she is a sort of unofficial supporter of Felix Ott’s School of British Wisdom—despite what Doctor Ringer told us. She thinks it an excellent idea, although she also took pains to let me know she is not officially connected with it, so she has reasons for keeping her distance, I suppose.”

  “Ott described Charles Manning as his right-hand man. He made no mention of Wayside Cross, or the women who live there, and I could contrive no natural-seeming way to bring them up, at least not in our first interview. As delicately as I could, I inquired if there was any young lady who might have won his heart, who should be informed of his demise, but he said my question showed that I was utterly unacquainted with the younger Mr. Manning, who had been a serious scholar, with neither the time nor the interest for courtship.” He looked at me with eyebrows raised.

  I looked back, mirroring his skeptical expression. “Fooled by his right-hand man.”

  “Did you learn which of the sisters might have been ‘dearest A’?”

  “Not beyond the shadow of a doubt, but…” I hesitated and then took the plunge. “I believe Miss Bulstrode was his lover. Arabella Bulstrode spoke of him most warmly, and appeared the most deeply affected by his loss. I thought, when I arrived, that she had been weeping, and she wore a ring that she often touched. It was obviously very dear to her, and my guess is that it was a gift from Charles Manning.”

  “Woman’s intuition?” He smiled; this was an old joke between us.

  “If you like. Now, tell me about Mr. Ott. And quickly, for we shall not find it easy to have any private conversations at the Vicarage—Mrs. Reverend has very old-fashioned notions about friendships between unmarried men and women.”

  We had stopped, to keep ourselves and the bicycle well clear of a coach pulled by four galloping horses, and after they were past he did not move. “Felix Ott is a man in his forties, a shade under six feet tall, brown hair going gray at the temples, an impressive mustache, but no beard, a small scar on his chin, gray eyes flecked with yellow. He has a military bearing and walks with a slight limp—I suspect an old knee injury. He had already learned of Manning’s death—an early edition of a London paper was open on his desk, turned to the obituary columns.”

  We began to walk again, slowly. I did not think that the residents of Wayside Cross had read about Charles Manning’s death in today’s newspaper; they lived too far from the train station, and it seemed unlikely they would have made arrangements for an early delivery of any London journal.

  “What was Mr. Ott’s response to the news?”

  “He was in a state of agitation when I arrived, although he seemed determined to repress any outward show of grief. But it was clear that he took the death very personally. Not only was he naturally grief-stricken by the loss of one he described to me as a close personal friend, but he found it alarming because Manning is the second of his associates to die in less than a year. Both deaths sudden, unexpected, and not fully explained; both young men who were devoted to his cause. He takes their deaths as an attack on himself, perceiving the hands of an enemy bent on strangling the infant School of British Wisdom in its cradle.”

  “Two deaths? Who was the other victim?”

  He frowned at my slowness. “Surely you recall the man Doctor Ringer mentioned last night, as an acquaintance of Manning’s? Ott identified him as Mr. Albert Cooke. Originally from Bristol, he moved to Cromer late last year to devote himself to research into esoteric subjects, under Ott’s direction, and to help him establish the school.”

  Now I remembered: There had been a third mysterious death in the parish. “Doctor Ringer said the police were not treating it as a murder.”

  “Ott does not have a high opinion of the police, here or in London. He is certain both men were killed; he even named his suspect.”

  “Who?”

  He repressed a smile. “The Reverend Doctor Robert Ringer.”

  “Surely not.” The idea was too far-fetched to be shocking; it was simply ridiculous.

  My friend laughed gleefully. “Oh, but they hate each other. Each man thinks the other subscribes to a false and dangerous doctrine, a system of evil. And you must admit, possession of a doctorate in divinity does not make a man
a saint. And even a religion of peace, as Christianity has been described, is used as a justification for many deeds of violence. Might not a righteous man do evil for the greater good?”

  I remembered how concerned the vicar had been for his lodger’s soul, and felt a shiver run down my spine. It seemed madness, yet not so very long ago the church had sanctioned torture and murder, on the grounds that sometimes the mortal body must be destroyed to save the soul. Was Dr. Ringer secretly fanatical enough to feel the same?

  “We must keep an open mind,” said Jesperson. “At any rate, we now have two suspects for investigation.”

  “Surely not for Mr. Manning’s death,” I protested, glad that I had something more than “intuition” to back up my feeling that Dr. Ringer was no murderer. “According to Mrs. Ringer, her husband has not been to London for many months—and it should be easy enough to discover if he was away from the parish at that time.”

  “Ott declared he, too, was in Norfolk on the day Manning died in London. He also claimed to have no notion why Manning went to London—or even that he had gone, until he learned of his death from the newspaper. But I think he was lying about that.”

  My heart beat a little faster when he said those words in a calm, reflective way. At last, a clue! Although I wished I had been there to witness it for myself, I knew Mr. Jesperson’s perceptions were to be trusted.

  “Two deaths; possibly two murders,” he mused. “It seems unlikely they are completely unconnected—after all, both men were close associates of Felix Ott, and both died under mysterious circumstances, yet their deaths are not being investigated by the police. Maybe they both died of natural causes; maybe there is no villain to be uncovered, no one to blame. Yet there is a mystery in it; and the truth will never be known, unless we find it.”

  “So we are now to investigate a second case?”

  He stopped and looked at me. There was really no need for him to answer.

  Chapter 7

  The Second Case

  Mr. Jesperson stepped off the paved road and walked a few steps into the forest, pushing the bicycle with difficulty over the thick carpet of moss, grass, and dead leaves. I followed, with no idea of where he was leading.

  “Albert Cooke died in August, so I doubt there are many clues still in situ, but we may as well begin with a look at where his body was found.”

  “In this forest? Do you really think you can find it?” I had no great desire to hurry back to the Vicarage, but I had my doubts about the practicality of an expedition into the dark woods, especially so late in the day.

  “I have had a detailed description of the spot.”

  “From Felix Ott?”

  “Why should he tell me anything of the kind? To him, I am merely a friend of Manning’s surviving relative. I had no wish to rouse his suspicions by interrogating him about another man’s death. No, I went to the police station and identified myself as a private investigator from London.”

  He stopped and hid the bicycle beneath a bush—it would not be hard to find, but there was no chance that anyone passing by on the road would catch sight of it—and then took my arm to guide me. “There is a path…we should come upon it shortly. Mind those briars.”

  “And they were happy to share the details of the other case with you?”

  “The man in charge, Sergeant Canright, struck me as highly intelligent. When I informed him of Manning’s death, he immediately recognized the possibility that it was connected to the unsolved case of Albert Cooke.”

  “But I thought they did not see it as a case, only a natural death.” I tugged my skirt away from trailing branches and hoped Mr. Jesperson knew where he was going.

  “Although under pressure to declare Cooke’s death nothing more than an unfortunate accident, Canright remains suspicious, and what he learned from me has inspired him to reconsider the evidence. Ah, here is the path.”

  “Where will it take us?”

  “Ultimately, to a picturesque area known as the Lion’s Mouth, and from there to Aylmerton. But our way takes us past a shrieking pit—well hidden in the woods, and considerably deeper than the one in the field opposite the Vicarage. A few yards from that pit is the place where Cooke’s body was found—the Poison Ring.”

  His voice was matter-of-fact and he laid no particular emphasis on the final phrase, yet it made me shiver.

  “Was he poisoned?”

  “He had been dead for at least two days when he was found, and with no witnesses to his death, it was difficult—the doctor declared it impossible—to say for certain. Local gossip thought it a death by poisoning, and linked it with the deaths of Farmer Goodall and his wife, although no one could think how Cooke, a newcomer to the area, might have been involved with them.

  “The surgeon found a contusion on the back of the head, and decided, in the absence of any better evidence, that it was the cause of death. It is true that even a seemingly minor blow to the head may cause death in some people, depending on the fragility of the skull, the angle of the blow, and so on. The victim had not been robbed, and a quiet woodland glade seems an unlikely spot for a violent quarrel—although stranger things have happened. But on balance, the coroner’s court ruled it a death by misadventure, deciding it had been an unfortunate accident in which no one but the dead man had been involved.”

  I looked down at the path, which was damp and muddy even though it had not rained for several days. “Well, that sounds reasonable. Mr. Cooke might easily have slipped, taken a tumble, and bashed his head. It only seems suspicious in connection with the death of Mr. Manning.”

  “You will understand how unlikely a solitary death seems in the case of Cooke, when you see where and how his body was found.” He stopped and peered around in the shadowy gloom of the mixed woodland. “Ah, there. We are to leave the path and enter that stand of pines.”

  I followed his lead into a darker area of the woods. Here, the tall, thickly branched evergreens blocked even more of the daylight, but it was easier to walk on the thick carpet of dead needles where nothing else grew.

  He stopped, and I followed his gaze.

  “There it is,” he said. “The fatal spot—the Poison Ring.”

  Sprouting through the ground cover where nothing else could flourish was the biggest fairy ring I had ever seen. We all know those circles of mushrooms that sprout up overnight on lawns, in meadows, and in woodland, but this was another species entirely. Not only was it very much larger—I estimated it was more than twelve feet in diameter—but it was composed not of the little white or brown mushrooms I was used to, but of the toadstools with red-and-white-spotted caps that artists often include to add contrast to the greens and browns of a forest scene. The more fanciful may include a fairy or an elf using one for an umbrella or a stool.

  “Amanita muscaria.”

  I felt that prickling at the back of my neck and looked around quickly. But the woods were still and quiet—not even the rustle of a crow’s wing to suggest we could have been followed.

  “Where was the body found?”

  “Right there,” he said. “In the middle of the ring.”

  “You mean, the mushrooms were growing there even in the summer?”

  “This ring formation has been known for generations and features in local folklore—hence, the name. You may be surprised to learn that this is not uncommon. The way that mushrooms propagate—” At my sigh, he stopped before his lecture on mycology was fully launched. “However, what matters to us, and to the police, is that the corpse was found lying faceup in the center of that ring of sinister reputation. As you can see, the ground there is soft and mossy, and there was nothing on which he could have struck his head; nor was anything found that matched the wound when police searched the area for weapons. Another thing that adds to the peculiarity of the situation, and surely encouraged the belief that he’d been poisoned, was that he was found with half a cap of the amanita in his mouth.”

  I shuddered. “But that is poison.”

 
“No. Well, yes, in a way—they are called fly agaric because they have been used as a fly killer, and thus the local designation of this as the Poison Ring. But one, even half a dozen, would not prove fatal to a grown man. Half a cap—which I point out, he had not swallowed—is enough to cause violent nausea and vomiting.”

  I wrapped my arms around myself, and he looked concerned. “You are cold.”

  “Merely uncomfortable,” I said. “It is not just the chill in the air, but the thought of his lonely death in this strange place that affects me. What did the police conclude?”

  “They concluded he must have taken a blow to his head somewhere near—possibly struck his head on a low-hanging branch—and then staggered away, and decided to lie down to rest in a more comfortable spot.”

  “And take a bite of a toadstool?”

  He shrugged. “Peculiar, to be sure, but the blow to his head unhinged him. He was not in his right mind. He mistook it for a sandwich, perhaps—and died before he could swallow the first bite.”

  We looked at each other. If the subject had not been so serious—and horrible—I should have been tempted to laugh. It sounded so unlikely.

  “Come along,” he said. “It does our health no good to stand about in this damp, chilly place. Only, before we head back, I should like to check my own idea of where he banged his head.”

  I let him take my arm. As he led me further into the dark pine woods he warned me to take care and watch my step. “It would not be a good thing to fall into the shrieking pit.”

  But it turned out to be quite visible even in the crepuscular light, and we stopped at the edge and stared down into the shadowed depths. Then, before I had any hint of his intention, Mr. Jesperson took a step forward, and dropped out of sight.

  I gave a small cry of alarm, and heard his laugh, echoing slightly. I hurried closer and looked down to see his face turned up to mine, barely an arm’s length away. “Forgive me for giving you a fright. As you see, I am in no danger. But if Albert Cooke had slipped on the edge and fallen headfirst, the stony floor could have been the death of him.”