Death at Bishop's Keep

by Robin Paige

  “Yes, thank you,” Kate said. She seated herself in the leather chair beside the desk. “But my curiosity has caught fire,” she added with a smile. “Your remarks yesterday about my work only fueled it, I fear.”

  Aunt Sabrina aligned a stack of papers. “I must be ... circumspect when your aunt Jaggers is present. She does not fully appreciate my interests, which she views as eccentric and not altogether respectable, perhaps even ... dangerous.”

  “I see,” Kate murmured. “And those views are—?”

  Aunt Sabrina picked up a gold letter opener in the curious shape of a heron, turning it in her fingers. “I have had for many years an interest in spiritualism and the occult. Some time ago, Vicar Talbot, whom you met last night, solicited me to membership in the Order of the Golden Dawn. The vicar is an antiquarian and an occultist of unblemished reputation.” She hesitated slightly. “The Order is an esoteric society organized for the study and practice of ritual magic.”

  Kate—or rather, Beryl Bardwell—could not help herself. “How interesting!” she burst out.

  Aunt Sabrina smiled slightly, then continued. “The authority for the Order of the Golden Dawn is ancient, having been handed down from Christian Rosenkreuz, the fifteenth-century father of Rosicrucianism. Our chief is Dr. William Westcott, who obtained this authority through an accidentally discovered cipher manuscript. Dr. Westcott founded the first temple several years ago in London, and authorized others, such as Mr. MacGregor Mathers’s temple in Paris. Florence Farnsworth has just established the Temple of Horus in Colchester.”

  “That is the temple of which you are a member?” Kate asked.

  Aunt Sabrina nodded. “Recently, I was asked to serve as the Order’s Cancellarius, or secretary-historian.” She gestured at the stacks of papers on the desk and the large box that stood in the corner. “I have been entrusted with many valuable papers, letters, relics, documents, and so on—all of which must be sorted through, cataloged, and described before a history of the Order can be begun. As well, there is the continuing work of correspondence, membership lists, and so on—a very great deal of writing to be done.” She paused and looked directly at Kate. “That is why I need you, Kathryn. To make the work easier, I have ordered an American typewriter for you, a Remington, I believe it is called.”

  “Oh,” Kate breathed. Beryl Bardwell had longed so much for a typewriter—and to think it would be hers!

  “We have not yet spoken of remuneration,” Aunt Sabrina said. “I propose a salary of fifteen hundred pounds a year. I hope this is acceptable.”

  Kate did a rapid calculation in her head. It was more than acceptable. “Thank you,” she said.

  Aunt Sabrina nodded. “But the question your aunt Jaggers raises is a pertinent one,” she continued. “While I am assured of the propriety, even the significance of this work, it may seem to you like so much”—the corners of her mouth twitched—“ ‘taradiddle and deviltry,’ as my sister calls it.”

  Kate thought of “Amber’s Amulet,” whose chief characters were the mysterious medium, Mrs. Bartlett, and her lover, the Egyptian gentleman. “The occult is of very great interest to me,” she said, speaking with greater truthfulness than Aunt Sabrina could appreciate. “I should be pleased to consider myself your employee, even”—she paused, and looked Aunt Sabrina straight in the eye, so there could be no mistake—“your apprentice.”

  Aunt Sabrina gave her an equally direct look. “That is your wish?”

  “It is indeed,” Kate said firmly. The more she could learn of magical ritual, the more realistic Beryl Bardwell’s story would be. “The typewriter. Will it be available for my personal use—during my free time, of course? I have some work of my own to pursue. Nothing very important,” she added hastily. “It is just something that—”

  “By all means, leave ample time for your own work,” Aunt Sabrina said. “But there is something else I must ask,” she added, her voice darkening. “The unfortunate gentleman whose body was found in the excavation at Colchester—” She paused and shifted uncomfortably.

  Kate looked at her, remembering the odd coincidence of the golden scarab. “Yes?”

  “I wish to know more about him,” she said, “but I cannot myself make inquiries. Would you mind going to ... could you...?”

  “You would like to find out the identity of the dead man?” Kate asked.

  Aunt Sabrina looked relieved at Kate’s matter-of-fact response. “I would,” she said. “I regret that I cannot give you my reasons just now, and I also regret that I must ask you to undertake such an unseemly inquiry. But I—”

  Impulsively, Kate leaned forward. “Dear Aunt,” she said, “I have no objections at all to looking into this matter for you.” Kate’s face was serene and her voice calm, but deep within her, Beryl Bardwell was jumping up and down, clapping her hands. A murder to investigate! An opportunity to learn the methods of criminal detection firsthand!

  Aunt Sabrina looked pleased. “Well, then,” she said, “I propose that Pocket drive you to Colchester immediately after luncheon. The purpose of your trip, of course,” she added, “must be private, between us.”

  “Of course,” Kate murmured.

  Aunt Sabrina straightened. “In the meanwhile,” she said, “I believe that your aunt Jaggers wishes you to speak with her.”

  “Yes,” Kate said with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, and stood.

  Aunt Sabrina put her hand on Kate’s arm. “Kathryn, one more word, please.”

  Kate sat back down, regretting that she had not concealed her feelings. She and Aunt Jaggers had not gotten off to a good beginning. But Aunt Jaggers was as she was, and there was nothing to be done about her unpleasantness. It was not fair to Aunt Sabrina to so openly reveal her feelings that discomfort was created between them.

  Aunt Sabrina’s mouth tensed, then relaxed, as if she were forcing herself to speak calmly. “Your aunt—I speak in confidence, of course—is a deeply unhappy woman. She married very young, against your grandfather’s wishes. He was a man with a great concern for the appearance of things, and denied her any share in his estate. She was widowed some years ago, and left with nothing, a situation that she quite naturally resents. At ... ah, my suggestion, she returned here, to our family home. At her wish, she manages this household.” Aunt Sabrina shifted uncomfortably, as if she were speaking of something that gave her pain. “My sister relieves me of domestic responsibilities I do not relish. In gratitude for her willingness to undertake these chores, I have given her a free rein belowstairs.” She hesitated. “Too free a rein, perhaps. I daresay I bear some guilt in that unpleasant business last spring.”

  Kate said nothing, but the situation was coming clear. With Aunt Sabrina deeply engaged with her own interests and disinclined to involve herself in belowstairs matters, Aunt Jaggers was free to do as she liked. But what was the business about last spring?

  Aunt Sabrina turned the letter opener in her fingers, continuing with evident discomfort. “I trust, Kathryn, that your aunt will not seek to impose a strict discipline on you, as she does on the servants. If this occurs, please discuss the matter with me.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Sabrina,” Kate said, quite sincerely. She sensed again, as she had yesterday, the complexity of the relationship between the sisters. If Aunt Jaggers was so profoundly disliked, perhaps even feared, why was she permitted to stay at Bishop’s Keep?

  “Do remember, Kathryn,” her aunt said, and the words were clearly a warning. “Come to me, first.”

  “I shall,” Kate murmured. But as she rose to leave the room, she told herself sternly that she would not trouble Aunt Sabrina to intervene. Whatever difficulties Aunt Jaggers posed, she would deal with them herself.

  14

  “Remember, that whatever your situation be, housemaid, or through-servant, or nursemaid, your mistress will expect you to obey her orders. The first and chief of your duties is, to do what you are desired to do.”

  —TEACHER, SERVANTS’ TRAINING-HOUSE, TOWNSEND STR
EET, LONDON, 1887

  Aunt Jaggers’s suite of rooms lay in the west wing of the house. When Kate answered the summons to enter, she stepped into a dim and crowded twilight. Aunt Jaggers obviously adhered to the principle that a room was not quite furnished unless it was full. This one held no fewer than nine chairs, a Chesterfield settee and a chaise, four occasional tables, a red lacquered Japanese cabinet and a mahogany cupboard, a large burnished gong, and a tall green vase filled with dyed pampas plumes and peacock feathers. The fireplace mantel was elaborately draped in wine-colored velvet, and not another vase or bowl could have found a place on the mirrored mantelshelf. In the corner, a red-and-green parrot clacked and complained in a tall bamboo cage half-hidden behind ferny fronds.

  “Mind that dog.” Aunt Jaggers spoke sharply from her chair beside a fire that made the room unbearably hot. She was knitting what appeared to be a black wool muffler.

  Kate lifted her skirt and looked down. At her feet stood a small terrier, plump as a piglet. It bared yellow teeth and growled.

  “Nice doggie,” Kate said nervously. She had never gotten on with dogs.

  The parrot gave a malicious squawk. “Step to it, men!”

  “The dog bites,” snapped Aunt Jaggers. Her knitting needles clicked ferociously. “Don’t provoke him.”

  “I’ll try not,” Kate said, moving to the red velvet settee. The terrier flopped on the hearth, chin on paws, and regarded Kate with red-eyed suspicion. She sat, feeling very much like Alice with the Red Queen, wondering when Aunt Jaggers would cry out, “Off with her head!”

  Aunt Jaggers did not look up from her knitting. On the wall behind her hung a large multisectioned picture of the Plagues of Egypt. “I have asked you here to ensure that you understand the rules of the household. If you are staying, that is,” she added waspishly. “Perhaps you have reconsidered your rash decision to accept employment from my sister.”

  Kate pressed her lips together. “I have not.”

  “More’s the pity,” Aunt Jaggers remarked, her eyes still fixed on her knitting. “You will find, when you inyolve yourself with that unspeakable Temple of Doris—”

  “Horus, I believe it is called,” Kate said diplomatically.

  Aunt Jaggers’s shoulders went rigid with disapproval. “Its name is of no importance. As I have said to my sister very often, what matters is that its work is of the devil—séances, incense, astrology, cards, magic.” Her voice became shrill. “Should you become an apprentice to these sorcerers, Niece Kathryn, you will endanger your immortal soul. As does my sister.”

  “Thank you, Aunt,” Kate murmured. “I appreciate your concern. I shall strive to guard my soul.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, miss! It is unbecoming. You will not get on in the world that way.”

  “No, Aunt,” Kate said humbly.

  “To your post,” snapped the parrot. “Attention!” These military orders were followed by a silence, broken only by the furious clicking of needles and the terrier’s asthmatic wheezing.

  After a moment, Aunt Jaggers dropped her knitting into her lap. “My sister has expressed her belief that your Ardleigh kinship raises you above the level to which your occupation consigns you. I do not concur, but my opinions clearly have no weight. You should nevertheless be aware of the conditions of service in this household. God has given the young and malleable hearts of the servants into my trust,” she added with passionate intensity, “and it falls to me to see that they perform the duties for which He has fitted them.”

  “Damnation,” the parrot remarked amiably. “Rule Britannia.”

  Aunt Jaggers got up and threw a velvet drape over the parrot’s cage. The bird subsided with a surly cluck. Sitting down, she said, “We observe the Sabbath strictly. No hot meals, no hot water, fires only in winter. Prayers each morning of the week at six-thirty in the back parlor. No jam, butter, tea, sugar, and most especially beer are permitted to the servants. In these practices, I am supported by The Young Servant’s Own Book, which warns against excessive eating and drinking.” She reached for a well-worn book on the table beside her, opened it to a marked page, and began to read. “ ‘Eating too much is bad for the health, and drinking too much leads to misery. It is not wise for servants to accustom themselves to drink strong tea with a great deal of sugar; for, should they have to buy for themselves, they will find it very expensive to do so.’ ” She shut the book and turned to Kate, her eyes feverish with passionate intensity. “You see, by guarding those in our employ against their own wicked desires, we do them a service for which they will be grateful in later years.” She dipped her hand into a box of candy on the table beside her and put a chocolate into her mouth.

  “I see,” Kate said thoughtfully. Was Aunt Jaggers’s severe guardianship the reason for Amelia’s fear and Mudd’s warning? Somehow, she thought not. Her own earlier employer had been almost as strict, without any noticeable effect on the servants. No, if the servants’ fear and bitterness were directed at Aunt Jaggers, it flowed from some other source, darker and deeper than mere resentment.

  The terrier had fallen noisily asleep, and Aunt Jaggers’s voice became hoarsely sententious against the background of its snore. “It is our duty to reprove and correct those in our employ and to guard them from their own natural inclinations to become apprentices of misrule. That, of course,” she added, but not as an afterthought, “is why the reading of novels is prohibited.”

  In other circumstances, Kate might have laughed. Now, seeing Aunt Jaggers’s face, her upper lip beaded with sweat, she knew this was nothing to laugh about. “You do not deem novels fit reading,” she ventured cautiously.

  “A sign of moral depravity,” Aunt Jaggers replied firmly. “Witness this teaching from The Christian Miscellany and Family Visitor.” She took a booklet from the table, adjusted her glasses, and again read aloud. “ ‘Novel reading tends to inflame the passions, pollute the imagination, and corrupt the heart. It frequently becomes an inveterate habit, strong and fatal as that of a drunkard. In this state of intoxication, great waywardness of conduct is always sure to follow. Even when the habit is renounced, and genuine reformation takes place, the individual always suffers the cravings of former excitement.’ ”

  “A horrible fate,” Kate murmured, thinking of Beryl Bardwell’s embryonic story in the writing desk in her room upstairs, through which she fully intended to intoxicate the imaginations and inflame the passions of her readers. She would have to be more careful to conceal the evidence of her moral depravity.

  Aunt Jaggers lowered the booklet and fixed glittering eyes upon Kate. “I trust that you will agree to do as I desire out of courtesy, if not out of strict requirement.”

  “I thank you,” Kate said, “for communicating your concerns to me.” She took a deep breath. A lie would finish this unpleasant business in an instant. Was it honesty or sheer stubbornness that made her so contrary? “But I cannot agree to keep a rule made by another,” she said, “when I would not make the same rule for myself.”

  Aunt Jaggers took off her glasses and stared at Kate. “Impertinence!”

  Kate bowed her head. “I do not intend it so, Aunt. But I do plead guilty to candor.”

  Aunt Jaggers’s thin lips pursed into a knot. “You will reap the wages of your transgression!”

  Kate stood. “I daresay, Aunt,” she said, and walked to the door. As she closed it behind her, she heard the parrot squawk again. “God save the Queen.”

  And as she turned to go down the gloomy hall, she glimpsed the flying ties of Amelia’s lacy white apron fluttering like startled doves around the corner.

  15

  “When constabulary duty’s to be done, A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.”

  —GILBERT AND SULLIVAN The Pirates of Penzance

  Inspector Howard Wainwright sat at a small table in his dingy office in the even dingier basement of Town Hall, frowning down at the hastily scribbled autopsy report Sergeant Battle had laid before him. His frown deepened to a scowl, and he
wished fervently that the borough police could afford one of those new typewriters. It would make Dr. Forsythe’s crabbed hand legible.

  But his superiors were not likely to authorize the purchase of a typewriter, the inspector knew. And even if they did, his sausage-fingered sergeant would have to learn to operate it. One eventuality was as improbable as the other, and either was as unlikely as the installation of a telephone, which the inspector also fervently desired.

  Inspector Wainwright was a practical man and knew the limitations of his position. But he was also ambitious and wished for the tools that would not only help him do his work but assist him to rise in his profession. His experience with the Essex constabulary, however, had made him pessimistic about the future. His pessimism pervaded his view of his work, indeed, of his life, and deepened his naturally melancholy state of mind.

  The inspector was still squinting at Dr. Forsythe’s indecipherable scribble when a figure darkened the doorway. He looked up impatiently. “Yes, Sergeant?”

  Sergeant Battle came in and closed the door behind him. “ ’Tis th’ gennulman from th’ dig, sir,” he said, sotto voce. “Th’ one wot I tol’ yer ’bout. He’s got th’ pichures.”

  “Has he?” Inspector Wainwright put down the report. He looked at Sergeant Battle’s fat, oily fingers. Not only improbable and unlikely, but impossible. “Well, show him in.”

  The gentleman who came into the room was carrying a large leather portfolio. Inspector Wainwright stood.

  “I fear I neglected to introduce myself to your subordinates yesterday,” the gentleman said, taking off his dusty felt hat. “My name is Charles Sheridan.” The sergeant retired discreetly and shut the door.

  The inspector was at a disadvantage, and he knew it. He had been absent from the murder scene yesterday because he had been summoned to look for some missing plate at Hammond Hall—plate that had turned up in the kitchen slops while he was questioning Lady Hammond’s cook. If he had been at the dig instead of pursuing his futile errand, he would have forbidden the gentleman to take photographs. It was not that he had anything against cameras; quite the contrary. He was firm in his opinion, however, that the documentation of crime should be done by the police—and the borough force, which possessed neither typewriter nor telephone, possessed no camera.