by Lisa Tuttle
“Whereas Alys may have planned to kill Manning for the same reason she has now killed Ott. Out of jealousy and fear—or you might say, out of love: a possessive love for her sisters that will not brook anything that might break their unity.”
“That was why you were so desperate to return, when you learned that Bella was betrothed to Felix Ott?”
He agreed. “The picture rose in my mind of the three sisters—a self-contained unit, a coven—menaced by a male outsider expecting to be admitted into their sacred female space. But it is even more complicated by the fact that Miss Bulstrode is like a mother to Ann and Alys—and they are like spoiled, demanding children who will not allow their mother any other love interest, or any life of her own. Marriage for her—the intrusion of a stepfather—is an idea they could not bear.
“And having once got away with murder, believing herself unsuspected, what could there be to stop her from killing again?”
Chapter 25
The Final Interview
We left the carriage by the front gate, but Mr. Jesperson suggested that rather than go to the front door, we should take the opportunity to look in the glasshouse first.
“I should like to see this suicide tree.”
I led him around the house to the back where, as expected, the glasshouse was unlocked and easily accessed. But finding the plant was not quite so easy, in the deeply shadowed aisles, with nothing but the uncertain yellow light from Mr. Jesperson’s lamp. I recalled that it had been in an out-of-the-way corner, but stared in perplexity at several different potted bushes with little to distinguish them.
“I should have said it was that one—the leaves look right. But where are the fruits? I must be wrong.” I searched in vain for anything resembling the large, green nuts that had first attracted my attention.
“How many fruits did you say it was bearing?”
“Three. In appearance, rather like limes. But they depended from thick, scaly stems, and it appeared that there should have been a fourth, which had either dropped off or been picked.”
“I should say they have all been picked now,” he said. “Whether harvested for future use, or destroyed as evidence against one of her sisters, I will not try to guess. Let us waste no more time—there is nothing for us here. On to the house.”
The back door was only a few steps from the glasshouse, and that was the route taken by Mr. Jesperson. He did not bother to knock, and the door was not locked. My heart beat faster with apprehensive fear, but I followed him inside without a murmur.
We were alone in the neat, tidy kitchen. Mr. Jesperson prowled about, his gaze raking the room from ceiling to floor. “Surely she will have hidden it; she would not leave it where someone, a maid or her sister, could be tempted and fall victim to its poison.”
“It would be safest hidden in her own room,” I said, remembering the cake box I had seen underneath Ann’s bed. I felt a useless wave of annoyance, wishing I had thought to look inside it. But what would it have meant to me then? I would probably have smiled at the cake, imagining it as a symbol of childish greed, thinking she had hidden it away for a private, midnight feast. I shivered and told Mr. Jesperson: “I think it was in a box under Ann’s bed.”
“Well, she took it out—or someone else did—and gave a piece to Mr. Ott. If she has not hidden it away again, it must be—”
The door swung open and there was Bella, staring at us in surprise. “I thought I heard someone…But who let you in?”
Mr. Jesperson bowed to her and, with his most charming smile, replied, “I blush to admit it, but we let ourselves in.”
His charm had no effect upon Miss Bulstrode. Her eyes flashed. “Indeed? Then I hope you will show yourselves out again, and without delay.” She stepped back, opening the door wide, indicating she wished us not to retreat through the back door, but to go past her and down the hall to the front.
As we hesitated, she said, “I notice Mr. Ott’s carriage is at the gate. Did he bring you here?”
“No. But I borrowed his carriage, as we have come on his business.”
“Indeed?” She looked surprised, puzzled, and no longer quite so unfriendly. “What business is that?”
“We should like the chance to discuss it with you.”
“Go ahead.” When Mr. Jesperson did not respond immediately she looked surprised. “What are you waiting for?”
“It is not a simple matter—and it is something your sisters must hear as well.”
“I will not bother Alys now; she has gone to bed with a sick headache—I have given her a powder—she is not to be disturbed.”
“I must insist.”
His manner was steely and determined, but so was hers.
“Tell me whatever it is; I will inform my sisters in the morning.”
He simply shook his head, and stared at her. She stared back. I had the unwelcome thought that their silent battle might last for hours, if not days.
“Please, Bella,” I said. “It is very important. Will you not agree, for Mr. Ott’s sake?”
I saw her waver. “I will get Ann.”
“Get them both,” I said. “And what about Elsie and Nancy?”
“What of them? Elsie has a bad cold; we have not seen her today. And it was so clear that Nancy was sickening for something, too, that I sent her home early.”
“So neither of the maids was here when Felix Ott arrived?”
“No—but what does that matter? He did not mind—I would have made dinner, and he would have stayed for a simple family meal with us—but then Alys began to feel poorly, so it was better not.”
“So you sent him away without his supper,” said Mr. Jesperson. “He was evidently not happy about that. Luncheon was a very long time ago. Did he have anything to eat before he left?”
“Anything…?” She stared. “Mr. Jesperson, I do not understand what business any of this is of yours. Why all these questions? Is Felix ill?”
“Please fetch your sisters, Miss Bulstrode.”
Her mouth a tight line, she stared at him, eyes blazing, but it must have been clear to her by now that there would be no speedy end to any staring match with him, and concern for Mr. Ott tipped the balance. Turning away, she spoke to me without catching my eye, her manner that of mistress speaking to an inept servant: “Take him through to my library, and wait there.”
As soon as she had gone, Mr. Jesperson made a dive for the pantry door. Inside, on a high shelf, were stacked several lidded tins, but apart from the smallest, half full of table water biscuits, they were clean and empty. He looked into the bread bin and inside the oven and even checked the ash can without finding any sign of the ginger cake.
“Perhaps Mr. Ott ate the last of it,” I said, but he shook his head. I persisted: “There may not have been much left, if it was the same cake the girls took to London—”
“Certainly it was the same. No ginger cake was baked here today,” he said, tapping the side of his nose. “Now, we had better go—or Miss Bulstrode may be forced to come searching for us again.”
But when we reached the library, it was empty except for the baleful presence of the crow Gabriel, who was perched upon the marble mantelpiece. Undaunted by the bird’s glare, Mr. Jesperson approached the fireplace and crouched down to work at reviving the fitful, smoldering fire. I kept my eye on the bird as I took my seat, noting how it turned its head from one side to the other and peered down at the top of my friend’s head. I wondered if Gabriel was tempted to try to snatch one of those gleaming red-gold curls.
The door opened and the draft made the fire flare up for a moment. Something else in the room caught the light and flashed silver. That silver flash caught my attention, and I recognized the gilt coffer I had first glimpsed beneath Ann’s bed, now on a table beside a bottle, a glass, a crumpled linen napkin, and a bowl of fruit.
“Here we all are, at your command,” said Bella Bulstrode. “Oh, don’t worry yourself about the fire, Mr. Jesperson. It doesn’t matter if it dies down—we’
ll only be with you a few minutes.”
She bustled around Alys, making sure she was well wrapped in her shawl before she looked at Mr. Jesperson. “What are you waiting for?”
“Only for your attention,” he said quietly. “Let me put again my question—this time to all three of you. Did Mr. Ott have anything to eat during his visit here this evening?”
Alys shook her head, and winced as if the movement had caused a stab of pain.
Bella said, “I already told you. When Felix called by unexpectedly, I invited him to stay for dinner. But Alys had meant to cook, and she suddenly felt unwell, so I said we must make it another time.”
“How did he respond to you rescinding your invitation?”
She made a gesture of impatience. “It was nothing so formal, and naturally he understood. No servants, Alys indisposed…Why not ask Felix, if it bothers you?”
“I should like to hear your story.”
She frowned, displeased by his choice of words. “It is not a story.”
“Was he angry?”
“What was there to be angry about? It had been a casual suggestion, and the situation had changed. He understood that.”
“And then?”
She sighed. “He did offer to take me to Cromer for a meal. But I did not like to leave Alys alone, and it was hardly fair on Ann, to leave her here to a bit of bread and cheese on her own while I dined in a restaurant, so I said we must make it another time. He tried to argue, but I suppose I am as stubborn as he is.”
Then Ann spoke up from her corner. “And he said he hoped—no, he said you had better think more of him when you were his wedded wife—then you would have to put him before your half sisters.”
“Ann!” Bella stared. “He never did! How can you—”
“He did not say it to you,” Ann said with a smug smile. “He said it to himself, after you had left—and I heard him. He meant to be your lord and master. He was only pretending to be otherwise, to trick you—and when you were married, it would have been too late.”
Bella went to her and sank down by her side, perching on the edge of the sofa. “Darling,” she said gently, caressing her hands. “It is not true. All men are not the same. Mr. Ott is not like Mr. Manning.”
“Yes he is.” Ann smiled to herself. “He is now. Now they are exactly the same.” She let out a brief, shrill giggle. Alys moaned and clutched at her head. Bella looked baffled and frantic as she turned from one to the other.
Mr. Jesperson looked at me. With my eyes, I indicated the box on the table. His own eyes widened fractionally and then he said conversationally, “I say, Miss Ann—did you give him a piece of cake?”
“It was my cake. We were supposed to share it. But he grabbed it—he grabbed me, too, and slobbered on me, the beast!—and after he stuffed it into his mouth like that, I did not want to—and Alys told me I should not.”
Alys moaned even more loudly, and Jesperson pitched his voice to be heard over her noise: “You are speaking of Charles Manning?”
“Yes, him! The beast. I thought he loved me and I loved him. It would have been so beautiful to die together, and never be parted. Like Romeo and Juliet. I think I had a dream about it, but I was awake, and then it never happened,” she said with wistful incoherence.
“You were both going to eat the cake,” Jesperson prodded when her voice trailed away.
Ann nodded. “But Alys would not let me. And I am not sorry—I would not want to be dead with Mr. Manning. He was horrible. He called us witches, and worse.”
Bella groaned. “Stop it, Ann! You don’t know what you’re saying!” She got to her feet and turned on Mr. Jesperson. “Leave her alone. The child is half mad with grief and fear. We know what caused Mr. Manning’s death—it was his own fault. Why rake it up now?”
“We did not come here tonight to speak of Charles Manning, but of Felix Ott,” he replied. “It is Ann who has made the connection.”
Bella caught her breath. “Felix,” she murmured. “You said you were here on his business.”
“Yes. I am sorry—very sorry—to have to tell you that Felix Ott is dead.”
As she swayed on her feet, Mr. Jesperson caught hold of her and eased her into a chair. “It was very sudden,” he said gently. “He died as he was driving back to Cromer. From the look on his face, it was a quick and a peaceful passing.”
Bella stared blankly ahead and said nothing.
After a pause, Mr. Jesperson continued, “The police surgeon was of the opinion that Ott must have suffered from an unsuspected weakness of the heart—which, you will recall, was the same diagnosis offered in explanation of Manning’s death. I believe both men were poisoned—and if you think about it, I am sure you must agree. The only question is what poison, and how did they come to ingest it? The autopsy revealed that Ott had eaten nothing for hours except a piece of ginger cake.”
“And a glass of Madeira wine,” Ann piped up suddenly. “There is nothing nicer with a glass of Madeira than a piece of cake. Fruitcake is best, but a slice of ginger cake would do very nicely, thank you.”
I felt the skin crawling on the back of my neck at the sound of her strangely innocent, mad young voice. She was certainly guilty, but was she sane?
“It is not true,” cried Bella. “Ann has dreams…fantasies…pay her no heed. Poor Felix…It was a natural death; his heart was weak.”
Jesperson’s eyes narrowed. “You knew him to have a weak heart?”
“He never spoke of it; perhaps he did not know himself; but it is the only explanation.”
“No, Miss Bulstrode, it is not the only explanation. The police in Norfolk may not be familiar with Cerbera odollam, called the pong-pong by the people in one of the countries where it grows, and better known as the suicide tree, but you are—and your sisters, too. Your specimen of this deadly plant had three nuts hanging from it when Miss Lane saw it last week—they are gone now. The meat of one nut is enough to stop the heart within an hour.”
Bella shot a reproachful look in my direction. “Anyone may enter my glasshouse, if they wish to take the trouble—as you know for yourself, Mr. Jesperson! Perhaps I should have it fitted with a sturdy lock. But no one took those seeds for any evil purpose—I destroyed them myself.”
“The police might call that destroying the evidence,” he drawled.
“How dare you!” Her fists clenched; the look she gave him was quite murderous. “I invited Miss Lane into my house and treated her as a friend, and this is my reward—to have her friend accuse me of causing the death of the man I loved.”
“We do not accuse you, Bella,” I said. “But someone killed Mr. Ott—and before that, Mr. Manning—you cannot deny it.”
“I can deny it—I do deny it,” she replied coldly. “Do the police call it murder? I think not. This is the fantasy of a man who wishes to show off his cleverness.”
I looked across at the sofa where Ann had Alys in an embrace, saw her pulling her head into her lap so she could gently stroke her brow. “Bella, I understand your desire to protect your sisters, but look what has happened. Getting away with murder once has emboldened her to do it again. And why should she stop at two? If she ever feels threatened, if she imagines anyone threatens your happy little family—she will kill again.”
Bella glared. “You are worse than absurd. The two of you fancy yourselves as detectives—so you want a crime to solve. There has been no crime committed here. Only a”—her voice wavered—“personal tragedy, the unexpected, sudden death of a dear friend, a man who might have achieved greatness if he had not been cut off in his prime. Felix Ott died too soon—but it was not any malicious act or person who killed him. You are cruel, knowing how hard this bereavement must strike me, to add to my pain by pretending he could have been murdered by one of my own sisters!”
“We shall have to let the court decide,” said Mr. Jesperson.
“Fantasist! There is no evidence, and no case to answer, except in your imagination.”
“No evidence?�
�� He smiled slightly and looked past her, at her sisters. “Miss Ann, I wonder if there is any of your ginger cake left?”
She smiled coyly and shook her head. “Not for you.”
“Please? I have not had any supper—and I do like ginger cake.”
She shut her eyes. “Stop it. There’s none left. Go away.”
“Forgive me if I do not believe you,” he said, and in two long strides he was beside the table, and the silver box was in his hands. He opened it; I caught a whiff of the moist rich cake, sugar and ginger and other spices, at the same moment that Bella came up out of her chair, whirling toward him.
“Give me that!” She seized hold of the silver box and gave it a yank. The contents were jarred; the cake bounced, and then as she pulled at the box again, it came flying out, to land on the carpet.
“Oh, look what you have done,” she cried, and stooped for it.
Mr. Jesperson was as quick as she to try to snatch the piece of cake, but both of them were slower than the bird. Swift and silent, the great black bird soared down from its high perch, dipped and grabbed up a large gobbet of the sweet brown cake, and flew away with it.
Bella immediately forgot about the cake that remained on the floor in her anxiety about her pet. “Gabriel, no!” she cried, straightening. “Drop it! Oh, drop it, Gabriel, my sweet! Nasty! Drop it!”
The bird landed on the top shelf he so often favored and cocked his head, peering down with one bright, beady eye at his mistress. The bit of cake, bigger than a grape, was still gripped in his beak. So often before, I had noticed how intelligent the bird seemed, or at least how great an understanding there was between it and the woman he served. Surely, I thought, he would do what she told him now.
Mr. Jesperson stood up, wrapping the remains of the ginger cake in his handkerchief and carefully stowing it away in a pocket while Bella’s attention was fixed on the bird.
“Gabriel,” she called clearly. “Drop it; drop it now.”