by Julia Byrd
Mother’s brow creased. “You’re the one who told me we cannot support the house without the farm. How are you open to visitors?”
“Well.” It was an apt question. “Their need for accommodation was urgent, and they won’t be staying long. I must ask you to keep the knowledge to yourself.”
She gave a delicate huff. “Of that I can assure you. I have no desire to tie Mrs. Stephens’ name to yours. The things I have heard about that woman…Do you think she is nice?”
Nice. I thought of Juno: her words and deeds, her pointed chin and dimpled smile. Until you’re quivering and saying my name.
Then I thought of the infants laid to rest in Maida Green. “No, I would not say she is nice. She is unique.”
Some emotion must have crossed my face, for my mother drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, my darling boy. Be very careful.”
“All right, Mother. Don’t start any baseless worrying on my behalf. You know I’ll be fine.”
“Sometimes your resemblance to him is startling, but you’re so much stronger than he was.”
“Joseph?” I asked with a harsh laugh. “Any action short of death and ruin would prove me stronger than him.”
But Mother shook her head. “No. I do not compare you to your brother. I meant you are stronger than your father.”
I stopped and considered her. Was she mocking me? My father had been a pillar of our community and the steadfast center of our family. It was his death that had started our downfall. To compare me to him seemed ludicrous, but my mother’s smile was wistful, not cruel.
“I must be going,” I said, and she nodded.
“Will you come back on Sunday and walk with me to church?”
I rose and kissed the top of her head. “It would be my pleasure.”
My next destination was Juno’s house to fulfill her errand. Farmer Miller was not visible in his fields as I passed. I noted with some relief that the low-lying corner of the field was dry enough. The proper maintenance of those fields would, with any luck, be my responsibility someday.
The Crassula ovata on Juno’s porch looked happier in its new position in life. Her door swung open soundlessly by way of the key she’d given me. I stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at the foyer, trying to understand what was wrong about it. I had only seen it once, and I’d been distracted at the time.
Finally, I understood what was wrong—it wasn’t something I saw, it was the smell. Juno’s house during my previous visit had smelled like sage and soil and sunlight. But the odor on the air then was…rancid? I stepped inside.
The parlor looked normal. The kitchen smelled fine, although unwashed dishes and an overturned chair showed evidence of a hurried departure. A few drops of blood led toward the back door. Juno said she had stumbled.
The stench was stronger in the hallway, so I returned there.
Upon sliding open the door to the conservatory, a wave of rot rolled over me. But it wasn’t the green, moldy smell of decomposing plant matter. Quickly I walked along the aisle to the glass doors, flipped the bolt, and flung the doors wide open.
The rush of cool air was a relief. The awful smell began to dissipate. As I turned back to the room, a dark shape caught my eye.
On the floor of the other aisle lay a small creature in a pool of blood. “Good Lord,” I muttered. Given the smell, the thing had been dead for some time. Stepping carefully, I crouched beside the congealed pool. It was a black cat, its underbelly slit open. Entrails spilled out. I avoided looking at the poor creature’s face, and I held my cuff up to my nose. For a man whose work dealt in death, I found the maimed feline unsettling. Juno had been away from home for less than a day—when had the cat been killed? Was animal sacrifice another facet of her ceremonies? The idea made me shudder. As someone who paid attention to details, it seemed unlike Juno to abandon a dead cat on the floor. But all the doors had been locked.
The corner of the conservatory held a rack of gardening implements, and I fetched a pail and a trowel. The carcass I then collected and carried outdoors, where I buried it under a stately Quercus robur. The cat’s grave was even smaller than an infant’s. I spent another ten minutes wiping up the floorboards. I would have to inform Juno of my finding and judge her reaction. If it was a remnant of her dark rites…No. It couldn’t be. The dead cat was a warning—or a threat. It could have been Greeley, but Sarah believed him harmless, and he knew very well Juno was not at home. It was his presence that had chased her away. What if someone else had drawn a connection between Juno and the infant deaths? I needed to gather information from the other families. I had to know.
Finally, I was able to turn to my original errand, which sent me to the writing desk in the parlor. It faced the large front window. It was easy to imagine Juno sitting there. Opening her desk drawers was an intrusion, even with her permission.
I kept my eyes off her jumbled stack of papers and pulled out a square box. It was made of thin wood panels with a clasp on the front, and its weight was slight. I tucked it under my arm, then relocked the front door on my way out.
* * *
I worked at Maida Green with Everett in the afternoon. He did not ask about my morning, and I didn’t mention the dead cat. He would only worry. Together we opened a grave in preparation for an arrival from London—an elderly man, thankfully. We were knee-deep in the earth when he spoke.
“Did you ask Juno how long she intends to stay in your house?”
I tossed another shovelful of dirt. The protesting muscles at the base of my spine reminded me that I’d already dug a grave that morning, albeit very small.
“Not yet.”
“You said you would.”
“And I will.”
“Tonight?”
I stabbed my shovel into the soil and leaned on it, then looked hard at Everett. “Do you have some objection to Juno and Sarah’s presence?”
He continued working without pause. “No.”
“Then what is it?” I waited. Everett said nothing. “Just tell me.”
“My mother is nervous, that’s all,” he said in a rush. “She thinks somebody was in our kitchen, although nothing was stolen. I told her she’s jumping at shadows. And I don’t know why, but she doesn’t like Sarah Greeley.”
“You told her about Juno and Sarah?”
“Yes, although now I wish I hadn’t. It just made her anxious. Lucy is trailing me around the house. They both say that no one is bothering them, but I’m not sure they’re telling me the truth. What if another infant dies tonight? What if the villagers need someone to blame? Suddenly the brown-skinned Toth family have suspicious faces.”
“Your mother’s history in this village extends for decades. I cannot imagine anyone would look askance at her.”
“I can, Ben. They’re friendly until they’re not. You don’t know what it’s like.” He attacked the soil again and again with his spade. “I want to know why those babies died, so we have some facts to dispel fears. I thought you might have better luck at it even before I knew your family history. Now I’m sure it must be you. If you’re Benjamin Hood of Maida House, people will talk to you. Only if, of course, you go and talk to them.”
He was right about that. He just didn’t know I’d already been to the Pfeiffers’. “You think Juno is distracting me from what I promised you, but I have started looking into it. However, I’ve found nothing of substance yet.”
Everett’s mouth twitched in droll humor. “So, you’re sure she isn’t a distraction?”
I laughed. “She is prettier than you.”
“Scarcely.”
“Scarcely,” I conceded. “But the woman does have some power over me. I confess my thoughts often wander toward her without my conscious permission.”
“There is but a fine line between love and witchcraft.”
I turned to my shovel as an excuse to hide my face, for he’d hit very close to my fear. I resolved to put a proper space between Juno and me and to deal with her more firmly. She couldn’t sway
my actions if I didn’t allow it. I would root out the truth to prevent unfounded suspicions from pointing to Everett’s family—and to understand what sort of woman Juno Stephens was.
“Does all this hand-wringing mean that you’re not returning to Maida House tonight?” I asked.
“Not in the slightest,” Everett said. “Does it mean you’ve forgotten how to operate that shovel you’re using as an armrest?”
I huffed, rotated my wrists until they popped, and applied myself to my work. “This place will be all your responsibility one day if you’ll agree. I’m just making sure you’re up to the job.”
“You know I am, Ben. I’m just hoping you’re able to do the job that you promised me.”
“You know I am,” I echoed, then silently prayed it was true.
Chapter 13: Eviction Rites
We worked until dusk. The nights were growing cooler, and soon we would awake to frost on the grass. Everett went home to check on his mother and sister. His worry over their safety had increased recently, although he did not want to discuss it with me. I scrubbed my hands and changed my shirt in preparation for paying another visit.
The second name on my list of bereaved parents was Roberts. I did not know them, but I had devised a better strategy for gathering information. When I arrived at their house off a narrow side street in the village, I pulled out the leather-bound Maida Green record book and held it under my arm like a talisman.
A maid answered my knock. “Yes?” If the household was wealthy enough to maintain a staff, they were almost certainly of a social standing to be acquainted with my mother. I would have to ask her about them.
“Good afternoon.” The girl’s brow furrowed slightly as she parsed my stammer, but I smiled and plowed on. “Benjamin Hood. I’m updating annual parish health records. May I please speak with your mistress?”
“One moment.”
I was divested of coat and hat and ushered into a pleasant parlor. Soft voices came from the hall, and an elegant young woman entered a moment later. She paused in the parlor door.
“May I be of some assistance?” she inquired coolly.
“You are Mrs. Roberts?”
“Yes.”
I offered her my name and a warm smile, and her bearing eased somewhat. She stepped into the room and seated herself, then indicated that I should sit across from her. I wished I had worn a starchier neck cloth. Heavy footsteps overhead marked the presence of a person pacing on the second story, but Mrs. Roberts paid the noise no mind, so I ignored it as well.
My records showed her son had been buried only two weeks after the Pfeiffers’ baby. “Please allow me to offer my condolences on your recent bereavement.”
“Thank you.” Her even gaze betrayed no sign of emotion.
“The parish tracks such sad events.” I brandished my logbook and pulled out a pencil. “Do you mind if I ask a few questions? They are terribly intrusive, but your responses are anonymous. We simply use the information to distribute church funding and assignments, you see. The details are not associated with your name.”
“Except through you.”
“Pardon me?”
“Except you will, presumably, record my responses, and you know my name, Mr. Hood. The details are associated with me through you.”
I blinked like a cow in a misty rain. “I assure you of my discretion—”
“That’s not necessary. I have very little to report.”
“Did you experience any illness during your lying-in, or was there any illness amongst your household?”
“No.”
I made a notation on a blank page in the back half of the cemetery book. I’d have to rip it out later.
“When you took to bed with your child, did a doctor attend you?”
“No. My husband’s aunt is a midwife, she attended me.”
Another note on my page. The woman was as cool as a winter pond. “Your son, Mrs. Roberts. He was with you for…three days?”
Her gaze dropped to her hands, which were tense and pale. “Yes, three days. That’s correct.” Her voice was tight. Was it a lie?
“To what cause do you attribute his death?”
“Do not say death. I refer instead to his loss because my little John lives in God, sir, as we all do. Infant souls are but lightly tethered to this earth. In the air near his cradle, I smelled roses, the symbol of Mary. You see, God called him home.”
Mrs. Roberts was calm, but the thought made my throat tighten. If I never had to dig another infant grave, it might bolster my faith in God. I coughed to ease the knot in my windpipe. “I see. And how is your health…since then?”
Her eyes sparked as she looked up sharply. She was not as unaffected as I had thought. “How do you expect, sir?”
That reaction, at least, was honest. “My apologies,” I said simply. “Did you entertain visitors during those three days? Anyone who seemed ill?”
“Heavens, no, Mr. Hood. We received no visitors. I did not rise from my bed, much less dress for callers.”
She looked appalled at the idea, and I could not help but contrast her attitude with that of Mrs. Pfeiffer, who had a circle of women around her. “Of course.”
“Is there anything else?” she asked. It was a dismissal.
“You’ve been very helpful, thank you.” I stood to leave, but the sudden sound of rushed footsteps on the stairs made us both turn our heads. The wide frame of a man filled the parlor doorway. His neck cloth and collar were crisp white, but his scleras were webbed with tiny red veins.
“Who’s this?” the man thundered. Not a servant or a guest, clearly. He was Mrs. Roberts’ husband.
“Benjamin Hood, sir,” I said hastily.
“Mr. Hood was just leaving,” said Mrs. Roberts. She did not rise from her seat.
“Hood? From the cemetery? I hope it’s not about our son’s grave. You didn’t notice anything…unusual?”
Unusual? I had no idea to what he might have referred. “No. Just taking a few routine notes for the parish health files.”
“Alfred, he’s not just the gravedigger,” Mrs. Roberts chided. She cut her eyes to me, then back to her husband. “Mr. Hood is originally from Maida House.”
The label did not sit easily on me, and I shifted my feet. I could not interpret the silent interaction between husband and wife. “Recent years all spent gravedigging in Maida Green.”
“Not at present, though, eh, Hood?” Roberts narrowed his eyes. “I suppose the dead don’t mind if you leave them unattended while you…what was it? Update files.”
“Maida Green is not unattended.” Was he so concerned over the sanctity of his son’s grave? Maybe he had been reading about the London anatomists. “It’s quite safe. My apprentice is there.”
“Everett Toth. The dark-skinned foreigner who—”
“Was born about four streets from here, Mr. Roberts, and whom I trust,” I said in a growl.
“I suppose he can’t help his parentage.”
“No more than you can.”
“Bad luck, then, to get Adele Toth and her hexed lineage in God’s gamble.” The man moved out of the doorway and inclined his head towards the exit. “I believe you were leaving, Mr. Hood.”
Hexed lineage? The man wasn’t making any sense, so I accepted his suggestion with alacrity. Back out on the street, I took a deep breath and steadied my heart. Paging through the leather-bound record book, I considered my scribbles. Had I learned anything? A prejudiced, nonsensical remark about Mrs. Toth. Roberts had an unnatural distaste for Everett and a natural concern for his son’s grave. Juno had not attended the Roberts household. Perhaps the cluster of infant deaths was truly a coincidence.
I returned to Maida Green to meet Everett for our walk to the house. In my cottage, I exchanged the cemetery logbook for the box Juno had requested. My visit with Mrs. Roberts had been so brief, however, that I found myself waiting impatiently by the gate for Everett to return, Juno’s little box tucked into my pocket.
“My
apologies,” Everett said when he reappeared, panting. “My sister talks too much. She needs a cat to subject to her chatter instead of a brother. You will establish a date for Mrs. Stephens’ departure, yes?”
“I said I would.” Roberts’ rudeness to Everett had left me with a lingering sense of guilt. Was I any better than Roberts? I had not protected him or his family very well, and I professed to be his friend. It made me terse.
“Good.”
“What about Sarah Greeley? If I evict Juno, Sarah will have to go too, you know.”
Everett fell silent as we crunched along the path. “You’re not going to throw them out tonight,” he said at length. “Are you?”
“No. I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do.”
The walk to the Hood family plot, followed by the dark, hunched trek through the tunnel, made me long for a day when I could enter through the front door of my house like a man instead of a burrowing insect. But my abraded pride was soothed by Juno’s welcome. She had apparently been waiting for us at the tunnel’s exit in the hot house.
“Hello!” she cried, and I felt a rush of warmth despite myself. My chatelaine hung from the belt around her waist. “See, I haven’t even bothered to arm myself this time. Come in, I have something to show you. Oh, but are you hungry? Everett, come in.”
Her enthusiasm was endearing. I smiled like a loon, all my stern promises to put a cooler distance between us forgotten. She had twisted her hair back from her face, and she stretched up on her toes to press a tiny kiss to my cheek. After Juno turned away, Everett goggled at me in astonishment.
“You’re ridiculous,” he said.
“I know,” I muttered.
We followed Juno through the silent, musty dining room, but instead of going ahead to the library, at the hall she pivoted towards the rear of the building.
“Where are we—”
“This way,” she said. “I hope you’ll be pleased.”
A warm glow spilled from the kitchen doorway at the far end of the hall, along with a faint hum. We entered and found the whole kitchen sparkling with pristine cleanliness. The dust, the cobwebs, and the creeping mold along the windowsill were all gone. Even the copper pots hanging from the rack gleamed. A small, banked fire burned in the enormous fireplace. Around the table were four stools and four place settings, with a savory-smelling pie waiting in the center. Sarah stood by the sink, smiling shyly, and Juno went to stand beside her. She spread her arms wide.