Sir Jasper followed us as far as the second-floor landing, where there hung a large portrait, covered by thick velvet curtain. He tugged on a cord, and the curtain fell open, revealing the portrait of a girl, seventeen or eighteen, sitting in a garden swing. She was bareheaded, her hat fallen down over her shoulders, and her dark hair blew about her face. She was laughing, her blue eyes bright and shining.
“I wanted you to see her as she was.” Sir Jasper’s voice shook. “Perhaps now you understand how terrible it is to see her like that.”
“She was very beautiful,” I said quietly.
We looked at the portrait in silence for a few moments. Sir Jasper stared at it as though by looking he could pull the lively, laughing girl from the portrait; to have his daughter back again as he had known her. I felt for him; the contrast between what she was in the portrait and what we had seen in that room was almost unimaginable. I did not blame him for covering it up—looking at the bright face on his journey up the stairs each time he saw her would have been too painful for words.
Hal had also been examining the portrait, and now he stood back, rubbing his chin. “Who painted this portrait?”
Sir Jasper’s face clouded over, and with a quick twist of his wrist, the curtain fell over the portrait again. “Marcus—that is to say, my nephew.”
“Hm.” Hal folded his arms over his chest, brow furrowing. “Then he must have stayed here some time.”
“The better part of a year.” Sir Jasper sighed. “Well, this is where I leave you, gentlemen. Reeves will take you from here.”
Hal watched him walk away, brow still furrowed, until Reeves cleared his throat, and we followed him back down to the second floor. Two large rooms, connected by a door, would be our quarters for the duration. In Hal’s room, his bag had been laid upon the bed and a fire made up.
Hal sat down at the desk, refilling his pipe. I sat down on the bed across from him; I was still puzzled by his words to Cecilia, and I wanted to know just what he thought he had learned from his experiment with the coin. “Well?”
He looked up at me. “Well, what?”
“What do you think is the problem with Cecilia?”
He sighed, leaning back in his chair, and gave me the patient look that a tutor might give a particularly dense pupil. “Oh, come now, Jem. A girl goes for a walk, returns much altered, and can’t stand the touch of metal? Does that suggest nothing to you?”
I frowned. “Ought it to?”
“Oh, never mind.” He shook his head, looking gravely disappointed. “Of course, they don’t teach this sort of thing in school.”
“You might just tell me what you think, instead of going about it in this cryptic fashion,” I said crossly, rubbing my forehead.
“Well, the circumstances are tremendously suggestive to me.” He puffed at his pipe, now frowning in a thoughtful way. “But it is too soon to say anything definite—and certainly nothing to Sir Jasper, else he may act rashly.”
He lapsed into silence then, his pipe sending smoke weaving into the air. This meant that he was deep in thought; Hal seemed all but incapable of cogitating without the benefit of tobacco.
I waited a moment for him to elaborate, but nothing seemed forthcoming. “Well, what is it, then?”
“We shall wait and see if I am proved correct.” He sat up, eyes bright. “But Mr. Bonham has found a plum for me, and no mistake. This is a worthy puzzle.”
“I’m glad you think so.” I yawned. “If you’re not going to explain anything, I’m going to bed.”
He did not reply, simply sitting back in his chair and puffing away on his pipe. I made for my own room.
“Jem.” Hal’s voice stopped me just as I reached the door. I turned, and he tossed another packet of herbs at me. “For your fireplace. Otherwise you likely won’t sleep tonight.”
“How many of these do you have?”
He leaned back in his chair. “That’s the last of them. We’ll have to see the yarbwoman in the morning.”
I left him to his pipe and his thoughts. My own room had its fire made up and my bag waiting for me. I tossed the packet onto the fire, and felt a moment of gratitude to Hal, for my headache eased at once, and I was left feeling pleasantly drowsy. I climbed into bed and was asleep the moment my head hit the pillow.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning, after breakfast, Hal obtained the name and address of the yarbwoman who had seen Cecilia, and it was decided that she should be our first errand of the day. Hal seemed quite keen on talking to her, though I couldn’t imagine why—as she wasn’t a trained magician I doubted that she would be any help at all in breaking the curse. I said as much to Hal.
“You know much less about magic than you think you do,” he said. “Those packets that I was flinging about yesterday—the ones that helped your headache so much—where do you think they came from?”
I shook my head. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“A yarbwoman in Kent Street.” He shrugged into his coat. “She made them up for me on my request some time ago.”
“When?” I was surprised; I couldn’t think of a single reason my brother might have needed these herbs—specifically designed, according to him, to ward off evil spirits.
A shadow passed over Hal’s face. “Never mind,” he said brusquely, stepping out the front door.
I followed him, blinking in the sudden brightness of the sunlight. We would be walking to the yarbwoman’s cottage, Hal having categorically refused the offer to be driven in Sir Jasper’s aether-carriage, so I was glad that the lowering clouds of the day before had passed. It was a clear, crisp sort of day; as I stepped outside, I took a deep breath of the bracing cold air. Merely being out of the Hall did wonders for my spirits; it was as though a weight had been lifted from my back.
The yarbwoman’s cottage lay at the foot of the hill on the other side from the mine. It was a cheerful-looking little place—a small, cozy cottage tucked away from the wind in the shelter of the hill, with a curl of smoke rising from its chimney. The yarbwoman must have had some knack for magic, for I could feel it in the air about the place. It was different from the smoky metal smell and bracing feel of industrial magic, and different too from the twisting, curling, eerie magic that hung about the Hall. This was a magic that put one in mind of fresh-baked bread or a clear spring day—a homey, comfortable sort of magic—and there was something soothing about it.
Hal rapped sharply at the door. We were greeted by the yarbwoman herself, a sturdy-looking woman with gray hair knotted in a sensible bun at the top of her head. She looked at Hal shrewdly as he introduced us, and introduced herself as Mrs. Ogham.
She stood aside to let us in, and we seated ourselves at a low wooden table in the center of her kitchen. She brought over a tea tray and served us before sitting down herself. I took a sip of the tea, and almost choked—it did not taste remotely like any tea I’d ever had. It was like licorice candy, but surprisingly bitter. I saw Mrs. Ogham watching me, and I hastily took another sip.
“It’s an herbal tea.” She frowned at me. “Very good for your health.”
Hal watched me with amusement, sipping his own tea equably. He set down the mug, and looked at Mrs. Ogham, pulling a slip of paper from his pocket. “Perhaps you have these items on hand?”
She took the paper from him, sliding a pair of spectacles from her apron pocket. She raised her eyebrows as she read, then handed the list back over to him. “I certainly have those herbs. But—if I may ask—why do you want them?”
Hal sketched out briefly the terms of our employment with Sir Jasper. Mrs. Ogham shook her head and sighed when he finished.
“That poor girl,” she said. “It’s a pity that it should happen to her—she was always such a lively girl, smiling and laughing. But I’ve always said there’s something rotten in that place—always something that felt wrong about it.”
Hal leaned back in his chair. The pipe had come back out of his pocket, and the smoke was curling in circl
es about his head. “What makes you say so?”
Mrs. Ogham shook her hands as though shooing something. “Oh, nothing in particular. But it’s always had a bad feeling about it; especially after young Lord Marquardt died.”
“You mean Sir Jasper’s brother?” I sat forward; this sounded interesting. “How did he die?”
“It was an accident.” She folded her hands in her lap and looked out the window, as though staring at something far away. “He fell from one of the third-floor balconies. It was all very tragic. Old Lord Marquardt—his father—had died only a few months before. His own son was only a year old. His wife was from Italy—I suppose she went back to her family after the death.”
“And Miss Pryce?” Hal had closed his eyes, and was drumming his fingers upon the table. “How old was she when this happened?”
“Oh, she wasn’t born yet,” Mrs. Ogham said. “Though she wasn’t long after it. That was a tragic thing, too—her mother died of fever just a few days after she was born. Sir Jasper’s always been terribly fond of her—perhaps because she is the only thing he has left.”
“It would certainly seem that his family has seen more than its share of misfortune.” I remembered Sir Jasper comparing himself to Job, and thought the comparison more apt than ever.
“Yes.” Hal sat up. “But we are here to prevent a misfortune. Mr. Bonham mentioned that Sir Jasper had consulted with you regarding his daughter. I would like to know what you made of it.”
Mrs. Ogham drew her shawl tightly over her shoulders, and shivered. Her face seemed to age suddenly, and her expression became grave. “It’s a spell, and no mistake. I think you know already—it’s one of the old spirits. It made me ill just to stand in that room.”
Hal resumed his tapping on the table. “You must know the local spirits well—did nothing about this one strike you as familiar?”
She furrowed her brow, looking down at her hands. “No, I can’t say that it felt familiar to me. But the story he told me—how she came to be in that state—that did strike me so.”
“How so?”
“You’ll think it rather foolish.” She wrung her hands together in her lap. “It’s only a fairy tale—something my grandmother used to tell me when I was a girl.”
“There’s something of truth to those old tales.” Hal puffed at his pipe, looking at her expectantly. “Tell me the story, and I shall see for myself if it leads anywhere.”
I would have thought he was merely indulging the old woman, but for the look on his face. He was genuinely interested—as though this old wives’ tale could possibly have some relevance to our case.
Mrs. Ogham’s face showed the same surprise that I felt. “If you insist—there was an old legend here, about a fairy called the beldam. They used to say that she would steal away little children and pretty maids to dance at court for her—and leave behind one of her own twisted children to take the place. When I saw the girl—and when Sir Jasper told me what had happened—it leapt to mind at once.”
Hal closed his eyes again, puffing out clouds of smoke from his pipe. “Hm. Well, it may mean nothing—but it is interesting that you should think of it.”
Mrs. Ogham shook her head. “You’re very odd—even for a magician. I’ve never met any that were interested in the old fairy tales—or who knew the first thing about herbs, for that matter.”
Hal smiled around his pipe. “I happen to think there is more to magic than merely binding spirits in enchantments—that perhaps some spirits are beyond our power to make them drive our engines and light our lamps for us.”
Despite his smile, his tone was bitter. I wondered again at his obvious distaste for the industrial magic our father had been so famous for—and exactly when and how he had developed his interest in folk magic. He had been right when he said this sort of thing wasn’t taught in school. It was out of fashion—and more than that, it was regarded as rank superstition. Magic was meant to be a science now, like chemistry. My professors would have laughed at the suggestion of a fairy stealing children—and yet, here, in this place, it seemed like something that might happen.
“Well.” Mrs. Ogham’s voice broke into my thoughts. “However that may be, I hope that you know what you are doing. I think there’s real evil in that house—and that poor Miss Pryce is only the latest victim of it. I’d tread careful if I were you, Mr. Bishop.”
“I intend to,” Hal said. “Now, if I could have those herbs, we’ll be out of your way.”
She looked over the list again. “I’ll give you what you’ve asked for, if you insist upon it. But you’d do better to take some of that tea with you.”
Hal took her advice, and we took our leave, making our way back up the hill. The sky had grown overcast while we spoke to Mrs. Ogham, and the Hall loomed dark against the grey clouds. I looked up at the third floor, thinking of Sir Jasper’s poor brother.
“It’s curious that there should be so much tragedy in one family,” I said. “Don’t you think?”
“Not particularly.” Hal had his hands thrust into his pockets; his pipe was clenched between his teeth. His mind was plainly occupied. “Death is, after all, a fact of life.”
“I suppose.” I walked on a bit in silence. My mind was also occupied—with the questions the visit to the yarbwoman had raised. “Hal, what made you interested in this sort of thing?”
“It’s interesting. Don’t you find it so?”
I frowned. “That’s not what I mean. How did you come to learn so much about folk magic? And why?”
“So many questions,” Hal muttered. “Can’t I have an interest in something?”
“Well, yes, but. . . .” I chewed at my lip a moment, until finally the question I wanted most to ask simply burst out. “Does it have something to do with Father?”
Hal stopped abruptly. “Why should it have anything to do with Father?”
I looked down and shoved my hands into my pockets. “You were never interested in it before. You were always working with Father on his engines. And now . . . .”
He swung around to face me. “Let me tell you something about Father,” he said, almost angrily. “Father was arrogant. He thought he knew everything.”
I stepped back, startled by the sudden intensity of his tone. “Why are you so angry at him? What happened between you?”
Hal sighed, running a hand over his face. “Never mind.”
It was my turn to be angry. I folded my arms over my chest and raised my chin stubbornly. “No. I’m not a child, Hal. And he was my father, too. Tell me what happened.”
He looked at me strangely, then nodded. He sat down on a stone at the side of the road. “He was working on something before he died. He never told me what it was. But there was something wrong with it—the magic was strange, and then he became ill . . . I didn’t know how to help him. I looked in all my books, I spoke with everyone I could think of, and there was nothing.”
He looked lost, remembering, and I sat down beside him. “What did you do?”
“I went looking elsewhere,” he said. “Into books that Father never told me about, to people he never knew. And I found things.”
There was something about his tone that made my spine creep. “What sort of things?”
“There’s so much to magic that we never learned in school,” he said, looking down the hill at the smoke curling up from the mine. “There’s a price for everything. I wonder what we’re paying for these wonderful machines, this great progress. I hope it isn’t too great a shock when we find out.”
I followed his gaze down to the mine, and shivered, remembering Father wasting away, and Cecilia’s mocking face. “But I don’t understand. What does that have to do with curse-breaking?”
“I’m interested in the sort of magic that doesn’t have a simple answer,” he said. “A real chance to understand magic.”
I watched the smoke rise against the grey sky, and felt again the cold, slippery underfeeling of the magic there. It gave me the same stomach-turning feel
ing I’d had once when as a boy I had poked a dead rabbit with a stick and seen an army of insects emerging from its mouth and nose. It made me sick to think that there was something like that behind all magic.
“But Father did great things,” I said, a little desperately. “His engines . . . .”
“I know.” Hal’s tone was quiet, and almost sad. “But I’m not him. And I don’t want to be.”
He stood up and resumed walking toward the Hall, picking up his pace. I followed behind, not bothering to catch up with him. There was a knot in the pit of my stomach, and I wished I had never asked him about Father—some things I thought I was better off not knowing.
CHAPTER FIVE
In spite of the lingering presence of the magic, I was almost glad when we returned to the Hall. My conversation with Hal had unsettled me deeply, and I wanted a distraction. Here I was fortunate; for there was a luncheon waiting, and we were joined at table by Sir Jasper. He seemed to be in a foul mood; he glowered down the table at the bread and cheese as though it had personally offended him, and put his knife through the butter as though he were running through an enemy.
When he had finished savagely buttering his bread, he looked up. “I suppose you’re wondering what the reason for my temper is. Well, I’ll tell you. Those wretched farmers are making a new accusation against me.”
“A new accusation?” Hal had been brooding and silent since our return from the yarbwoman’s cottage, but at Sir Jasper’s words he perked up at once, as though he, too, was glad to return his mind to the matter at hand. “What sort of accusation?”
Sir Jasper sighed, setting his butter knife down. “They’ve thought—at least, Matthew Gilley has thought—that I’ve been trying to put them off their land for some time now. I wanted to expand the mine, you see—but I couldn’t buy them out of their leaseholds.”
Hal rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And how are you meant to have been putting them off their land?”
The Rowanwood Curse (Hal Bishop Mysteries Book 1) Page 3