He explained that he was creating a database of herbs and their therapeutic uses. “Scientists in search of a drug for a disease will be able to consult it to find out what herbs have been used to treat the symptoms. Then, instead of playing molecular roulette with synthetic substances, they can start by isolating the active chemical principle of the herb.”
“But I thought scientists at the pharmaceutical companies did that as a matter of course,” said Charlotte.
“They used to,” he replied. “In fact, one in four of the drugs prescribed today contains constituents that were originally derived from plants. But the profit-making pressures are such today that it’s easier and more profitable to recycle old drugs in new guises than to develop new ones.”
“I see,” said Charlotte.
Fran returned from the barn, carrying a canvas bag from which she removed four garlands woven of herbs and flowers, one for herself and one for each of the women guests. In her hand she carried a magic wand, which was actually a wire sphere woven with herbs and flowers and fastened to a rod.
“Have I stumbled onto a production of A Midsummer-Night’s Dream?” asked Charlotte, placing the fragrant garland on her head.
“Sort of,” said Fran with a big smile. “A midsummer night’s festival. To celebrate the turning of the year from waxing to waning. We’re supposed to have a midnight revel, but since everyone around here is in bed by nine, we’re having cocktails instead. I guess that means we’ll all die in our beds.”
“What are you talking about, Fran?” asked Kitty.
“The soul leaves the body at midnight on Midsummer Night and travels to the place where death will eventually separate it from the body,” she explained. “That’s the reason for the midnight revel. If you fall asleep during the vigil, it means that you’ll die within the year.”
Charlotte noticed that Fran wore no shoes. She had big, misshapen feet, with unsightly bunions.
“Midsummer is also when the witches and evil spirits walk abroad,” she continued. “The herbs in the chaplets are to break their power.” She pointed them out: “St. Johnswort, vervain, and mugwort. I picked them all at the stroke of noon today. That’s when they’re at their most powerful.”
“What’s to protect the men?” asked Thornhill. “I need special protection. Living with a witch is a dangerous position to be in.”
“No need to fear,” said Fran. “I’m a white witch. The basic principle of the white witch’s canon is ‘harm none.’ The white witches say that whatever magic one performs will be returned to them threefold: ‘three times ill or three times good.’ So it pays to perform good magic.” Reaching into her bag, she pulled out three boutonnieres, and passed them out to each of the men. “But just in case there are some black witches around, here’s a boutonniere of mugwort. Mugwort is the magic plant of midsummer.” She chanted an incantation: “Eldest of worts/Thou hast mighty for three/And against thirty/For venom availest/For flying vile things/That through the land rove …”
“Artemesia vulgaris,” said Thornhill, pinning on his boutonniere. “Called mugwort after ‘mug,’ the drinking vessel, because it was used to flavor beer before the introduction of hops in the seventeenth century.”
“Also an old-fashioned remedy for Parkinson’s disease,” added John, not to be outdone when it came to herbal lore.
“It helps in astral projection, too,” Fran chimed in. “You put a vase of it on your bed stand at night. You’ll have to let me know where you go.”
“How about Paris?” joked Daria.
“These are also for the ladies,” Fran continued. Reaching into her bag again, she produced three handkerchiefs, which she passed out to the women. “I put a drop of dogwood sap on each of these this afternoon. If you put a drop of dogwood sap on a handkerchief on midsummer, your wish will be granted.”
“Wonderful,” said Kitty. Gripping the handkerchief tightly in her hand, she closed her eyes and made a wish.
“But,” added Fran, “you must carry the handkerchief with you at all times until your wish comes true.”
Charlotte followed suit, wishing for a good film script or a good play. It had been her steady wish for the last forty years.
“Now I’m going to light the midsummer fire. To keep the evil spirits away. It’s a symbol of the conquest of the darkness by the light.” She went over to the cauldron and lit the fire that had been laid inside, with the incantation: “Fire! Blaze and burn the witches.” Once the fire had caught, she returned to the barn and emerged a few minutes later with three masks, which she affixed to posts that had been set into the ground on three sides of the witches’ garden. At the base of each, she set a candle in a glass jar and a small earthenware cup. “Midsummer is also an auspicious time for divining the future,” she explained as she worked. “I’m going to use a divination ritual from ancient Greece. The masks symbolize the triple face of the all-seeing goddess: the maiden, the mother, and the crone.”
“Where does she get this stuff from?” Felix whispered as she worked.
“She says they’re Greco-Roman and Druidic rituals that she gets from my herbals, but I think she makes them up,” replied Thornhill. “If she doesn’t watch out, she’s going to be burned at the stake one of these days.”
“But first I’m going to use a ritual to improve my eyesight,” Fran continued. From her bag, she withdrew a bunch of herbs, which she held up to the fire. Removing her glasses, she stared into the fire through the herbs. “If you look at a midsummer fire through a bunch of larkspur, your eyesight will be protected for the next year,” she explained. “Anyone else want to try?”
“Sure,” said John, jumping up to join her by the fire.
As he removed his glasses Charlotte noticed how handsome he really was. He had an Englishman’s good looks, a bit washed-out by American standards. With a tan and a few extra pounds, he would be very handsome indeed.
After John had finished, Fran proceeded with her ritual. At the mask of the maiden, she raised her wand—which, she explained, protected her while she invoked the spirits—and uttered an unintelligible incantation. Then she held up the earthenware cup to the mask. Finally she emptied the contents of the cup onto the fire. She repeated the ritual for the other two masks.
As Charlotte watched all she could think of was the words from Macbeth: “Eye of newt, and toe of frog/Wool of bat, and tongue of dog/Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting/Lizard’s leg and howlet’s wing—”
Lastly Fran circled the cauldron three times and returned to her seat, still gripping her magic wand.
“Now what?” asked Thornhill. He addressed the other guests: “Never a dull moment around here.”
He made it sound as if he was barely tolerating Fran’s self-conscious rituals, but Charlotte suspected he rather enjoyed the bizarre note in his otherwise stuffy routine.
“Now we wait for the fire to die down,” Fran replied. “Then we do the scrying: looking into the future. You look for the pattern in the coals. I can do it for you or you can do it yourselves.”
As they waited the conversation turned to Charlotte’s film career. John turned out to be an old-movie buff. As he talked about her films, she was astounded by his knowledge. He could list the credits of her major films, which she would expect of a movie buff, but he could do the same for her dogs. She was a bit baffled by the attention the younger generation paid to movie trivia. She didn’t see the appeal of knowing who had won the Oscar for best supporting actress in 1952. She would rather have memorized some poetry. She was always caught off guard by these younger fans. She had a tendency to think of her fans as blue-haired old ladies, but many of them hadn’t even been born when she had won her second Oscar, to say nothing of her third and fourth.
But if her career was of interest to the other guests, it certainly wasn’t to her, and she was relieved when Fran got up to check on the fire.
“Okay, I think it’s ready,” Fran said, pulling the bench up to the cauldron. “Who wants to go first?”
“I will,” said Daria.
“Do you want to scry yourself, or do you want me to do it for you?”
“Oh, please, you do it for me.”
Fran sat down, waved her magic wand, and peered into the coals. “The fire is hotter on one side,” she said after a minute. “That means love is in the air.” Setting down her wand, she picked up a poker and stirred the coals, sending sparks into the still air. “I see a young man coming into your life.”
“What does he look like?” asked Daria.
“Tall, thin, good-looking, blond hair …” Fran looked up at John, who smiled his lopsided grin and looked over at Daria. “Wait, I see two men,” Fran continued, peering back into the cauldron. “Two good-looking men.”
“Looks like you have some competition, young man,” said Felix.
“The other is stocky, brown hair.” She leaned closer to the fire, the glow of the coals reflected in her glasses, and then looked up. “He’s the one you should stick with. He’s your lucky guy.”
John curled down the corners of his lips in an expression of mock dismay.
Kitty was next. Again, Fran waved her magic wand and peered into the coals. Kitty was not to move: her present house brought her good luck. After Kitty came Felix, who was told that a big consignment he was anticipating would come through, earning him a big commission.
Next came John. As he asked whether he would be granted tenure at his university, he looked over at Thornhill.
“Good luck, young man,” said Thornhill.
A bit sarcastically, Charlotte thought.
Fran replied that he would receive tenure.
Good news for all.
When Charlotte’s turn came, she decided to take a stab at it herself. As she approached the cauldron, Fran instructed her to relax before peering in. “Don’t look for symbols,” she said. “Wait for them to appear.” Taking a seat on the bench, Charlotte waved the wand over the fire and then stared into the glowing reddish-white mass of charred wood. The heat felt good on her face. Breathing deeply, she let her eyes unfocus. Suddenly she saw the body of a yellow dog take shape amid the glowing coals. Jesse! It was a little unnerving to have his death dredged up from her subconscious like this. Not that she didn’t realize how it must have been lurking at the back of her mind.
“What do you see?” asked Kitty.
“Nothing,” said Charlotte, rising from the bench. She didn’t want to discuss it. She shrugged. “I guess I just don’t have the gift.”
“I’m next,” said Thornhill. Taking a seat on the bench, he waved the magic wand and stared dramatically into the cauldron. “A picture is emerging very clearly. I see an old man with a red mustache. He’s wearing a tuxedo …”
Fran sat grinning, pleased that her parlor game was going so well.
“He’s standing at a table. The table is covered by a white tablecloth. No, it’s not a table, it’s an altar. He’s in a church. Yes, there’s the minister.” Picking up the poker, Thornhill made a show of stirring the coals, and then peered back into the cauldron. “A woman is standing next to him. She’s wearing a white dress. It looks like some sort of ceremony. Yes, a wedding. It’s a summer day. I think it’s August. Yes. August twenty-second, to be precise.”
“Frank!” exclaimed Kitty. “Are you getting married?”
Thornhill looked up, grinning. “That’s what the coals say.”
“Oh, Frank, that’s wonderful,” she gushed.
“Congratulations, old man,” said Felix, raising his glass. “I propose a toast to our dear host and his bride-to-be.”
The group drank the toast.
“Tell us all about her,” commanded Kitty. “Where did you meet her? How long have you known her? Where does she live? We want all the details.”
“We met on the tour of the gardens of Spain and Mallorca that I conducted last April,” he said. “She lives in Connecticut. She’s president of her local garden club. She has a big show coming up, which is why we can’t be married sooner. Frances has met her. She was up here over Memorial Day weekend.”
Charlotte looked over at Fran, whose expression was sour. She clearly wasn’t pleased with Frank’s announcement. Marching back up to the cauldron, she again waved the magic wand over the fire and recited the words: “This rite of midsummer is ended. Merry meet and merry part.” She then closed her eyes and stood silently for a few minutes. But merry she wasn’t. Without a word, she padded off in her bare feet down the gravel path to the house, a chorus of the guests’ thank yous ringing behind her.
“Well,” said Kitty, breaking the awkward silence. “I think Charlotte and I will get back to Stan.” She stood up. “We don’t want to be caught wandering around after the sun goes down.”
“That’s right,” said Thornhill. “Remember to stay awake for the witching hour. Forestall death for at least another year. As for me, I’m risking all by going to bed at my usual hour of ten o’clock.”
Charlotte and Kitty bade goodbye to Thornhill and the other guests, and took their leave. As Charlotte looked back, she could see the twisted limbs of an old apple tree silhouetted by the glow from the fire in the cauldron.
Tracey had asked her to keep an eye out for anything unusual. She wondered if Fran’s Midsummer Night festival would qualify.
4
Though Thornhill might have chosen to go to bed, Charlotte, Kitty, and Stan had kept their midnight vigil, assuring their survival for yet another year. On the way home from Ledge House, Kitty had kept up a steady chatter about the witches: on Midsummer Night the air was filled with them flying to and from their sabbat with the devil. After that, they hadn’t dared to go to bed. Actually, Kitty told them, modern science believed the witches’ rides to have been hallucinations induced by a mysterious herbal ointment. But you could never rule out the possibility that the witches had actually left their bodies, she added. After all, hadn’t one scientific law after another been thrown out as knowledge had become more advanced? Perhaps astral projection existed on a plane that modern science was not yet able to comprehend. All of which had provoked not a little caustic commentary from Stan. Happily, they’d all survived to greet another beautiful day.
At midday, Charlotte headed up Broadway to the luncheon at Ledge House. For someone who had just left Broadway, she was spending a lot of time there, she observed. Turning in at the garden gate, she headed down the gravel path. As she neared the barn a clump of plants came sailing past her nose. Looking over at the knot garden, from which direction the clump had come, she saw what was happening: Fran was on her knees, ripping up the knot garden, her pride and joy. Plants were flying in every direction. The intricate pattern of the design was now interrupted by gaping holes, and torn-up plants lay scattered about in heaps.
“What are you doing?” Charlotte cried.
Startled, Fran stopped her frenzied pulling and turned around. Removing her glasses, she wiped the tears from her eyes with a muddy hand that left her face streaked with dirt. “She’s not going to have it,” she said.
“Have what?” Charlotte asked, kneeling down beside her.
“Have the garden, that’s what,” Fran said, pushing her gray bangs out of her eyes and taking a deep breath.
Once again she was dressed entirely in green, this time a pale gray-green. But instead of the chaplet of herbs, she was wearing a peculiar green skull cap. On her feet she wore bulky tan orthopedic shoes.
“Who’s not going to have the garden?” asked Charlotte. She waited patiently while Fran struggled to regain her composure.
“That woman,” she said finally, laying down her trowel. She looked up at Charlotte. “He’s going to be sorry he did this to me.” Rising from her knees, she waved an arm at the garden. “I created this herb garden: every plant, every sign.”
“Would he make you leave?”
“Yes, he would.”
“But how long have you lived here?”
“Eighteen years. He owns it, but I consider it my home as much as his
. Oh, I have an apartment in Massachusetts where I live during the winter—I don’t live here year-round—but …” Her voice trailed off. “You know what he said to me? He said that he and Eleanor would do everything in their power to make me welcome. Now, isn’t that generous of them. Me! Welcome!” she said, pointing at her chest. “In my own home. Some strange woman making me welcome in my own home.” She sat back down on her knees and reached out to pick up an uprooted plant. “Besides,” she added, toying with the plant, “he’s too old to get married. He’ll be sixty on Tuesday.”
“That’s not too old,” protested Charlotte. She hadn’t been much younger herself when she’d been married for the fourth time. And who knew? Maybe there would be a fifth. “Besides, maybe she’s really very nice.”
“Oh, no,” said Fran, shaking her head. “I’ve met her. One of those spoiled garden-club types. The mink coat brigade, I call them. She’ll want to take over. She’s already acting like she owns the place. You know what she said to Frank? ‘Frank honey,’” she mimicked in a high, flirtatious voice, “‘herbs are nice, but they just don’t have the display that annuals do. Couldn’t we replace some of the herbs with something more showy, like zinnias?’”
“Zinnias!” Even to Charlotte’s untutored eye, replacing the herbs with zinnias seemed like sacrilege.
“Do you believe it? ‘More color,’ she said.” Fran continued: “I’m sorry about running off. It’s just that it was such a shock. He had hinted around, but I didn’t think he would actually go through with it, not after all these years. But do you know what? I cast a protective spell just before I left.”
Charlotte remembered her waving her wand over the fire.
“Magic shouldn’t be used for negative purposes, but it’s okay to use it to protect yourself. Which is what I did. I used it to protect myself from the machinations of that greedy bitch.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Thornhill,” said Charlotte. “But I’m sure things will work out all right.”
Murder at Teatime Page 4