Death at Bishop's Keep (24 page)

In spite of her troubled thoughts, Kate managed to finish the transcription of the cipher manuscript by teatime. She wasn't quite sure what use Mr. Yeats would make of it. The magical rituals were fragmentary, not very interesting, and actually rather silly. As far as she could see, its real value was not in its hocus-pocus, but in its history: it was, after all, supposed to be very old, written down by some long-ago secret society and passed from one adept to another, carefully safeguarded by its communication in cipher.

Well, Kate thought, putting the transcript aside, whatever the value of the document to Mr. Yeats, it was typed, and neatly, too. At least he would be able to read it clearly. Her next task—and by far the most important she had undertaken so far—was to translate the letters Fräulein Sprengel had written, in German, to Dr. Westcott, giving him the authority he needed to establish the Order of the Golden Dawn. She was looking forward to the work, for she enjoyed translating. While she was not expert in German, she felt she knew it well.

But as Kate began to work, she discovered something that both surprised and puzzled her. Fräulein Sprengel was supposed to be an educated German woman, but her letters contained several very elementary mistakes in grammar, not to mention numerous spelling errors, the sort usually committed by English speakers with an imperfect knowledge of the language. For example, the word
adressiert
—address—was spelled with two d's when it should have had but one; the English word secretary appeared in place of the German
Sekretar,
and “Lodge” had been used instead of
Loge.
Kate pressed her lips together and shook her head. If she had not been told differently, she would have guessed that the letters—which were of vital importance to anyone concerned with the Order's legitimacy—had been written by an Englishman who was only superficially acquainted with German! This guess would have been further supported by the fact that Fräulein Sprengel's name and modem address were part of a document which purported to be quite ancient.

But the business of the cipher document seemed academic. Kate had a larger and more immediate problem to worry about—and, anyway, it was getting late and she was tired. She folded the letters and put them back in the box, her mind returning to her own dilemma. What would she do if Aunt Jaggers insisted that she leave and Aunt Sabrina had neither the will nor the strength to withstand her sister?

Kate stood up and went to the French doors to look out at the afternoon. The rain had stopped, the clouds were clearing away, and a pale, translucent light seemed to suffuse the landscape. She rested her cheek against the cool glass and stared out at the rain-wet trees.

What could she do to prevent Aunt Jaggers from sending her back to America? She had been at Bishop's Keep only a few weeks, but already she felt at home here, and the idea of leaving was surprisingly painful. She twisted a lock of hair around her finger, considering what she should do. Unfortunately, there did not seem to be many choices. She suspected that Aunt Sabrina might find it easier to let her go than to confront her sister, whose threat of revelation—revelation of what?—had almost seemed to annihilate her. And without Aunt Sabrina's protection, she would be, like Jenny Blyly, homeless.

But not, Kate thought, helpless. She straightened her shoulders and her lips firmed. Aunt Jaggers might be able to eject her from Bishop's Keep, but she could not force her onto the boat. In the circumstances, Aunt Sabrina would probably be generous in the matter of severance pay. She would have what she had earned so far, and Beryl Bardwell was due a payment from
Frank Leslie's Popular Monthly
when she delivered “The Conspiracy of the Golden Scarab.” She might be able to find a cottage to let in Dedham or in Colchester, where she could see Aunt Sabrina from time to time.

Kate stepped back from the window, already beginning to feel better. No, she could not prevent Aunt Jaggers from doing whatever she chose to do. But she was not by nature one who surrendered easily. If she were forced to leave, she was resourceful enough to fend for herself. Unlike Jenny Blyly, she knew she would survive.

“A prudent mistress disciplines without resort to the whip, for a servant violently dealt with will respond in kind.”

—MRS. AUGUSTA MANNERS The Arts of Household Management, 1886

 

 

 

A
half hour later, Kate finished her work, set her desk in order, and covered the Remington with its black oilcloth shroud. Aunt Sabrina had said she wouldn't be home for tea, and Kate, who was not yet accustomed to having people wait upon her, hated to put the servants to the bother of doing something she could do perfectly well for herself. She left the library to go down to the kitchen and find something to eat.

But the kitchen was the scene of chaos. Harriet was huddled in a heap on the floor, her apron pulled over her head. Aunt Jaggers, cap, hair, and face streaming water, was shrieking in fury at Mrs. Pratt. And Mrs. Pratt, her cheek and eye reddened as if from a smart blow, was holding the half-empty slops pail at the ready.

“Slut!” Aunt Jaggers cried. “Fat, lazy—”

“Hold yer tongue!” Mrs. Pratt cautioned fiercely, raising the bucket. “Or I'll douse yer again. Th' nerve o'yer, hittin' a pore child with yer fist!”

“You are dismissed, Cook!” Aunt Jaggers shrilled. She raised her hand and stepped forward as if to strike Mrs. Pratt another blow. “Pack your bags and—”

“Stop, both of you!” Kate commanded sharply. “What in heaven's name has happened?”

“She hit Harriet i' the face with her fist,” Mrs. Pratt said in a tone of outrage, “an' then she hit me. The woman's out o' her bloody mind!”

“I won't have brazen insolence in my house!” Aunt Jaggers cried. “The girl is impertinent.”

“ 'Tis not yer house,” Mrs. Pratt retorted with great dignity. “ 'Tis yer sister's house, and none o' yers.”

Aunt Jaggers stamped her foot, her face livid. “Send Pocket for the constable, Niece Ardleigh. I want this woman jailed for assault.”

Mrs. Pratt's eyes were narrowed, her glance steely. “As to assault, 'twas Jaggers who struck th' first blow, against pore Harriet. All I did was—”

Aunt Jaggers pointed a trembling finger. “You threw a bucket of slops on me!”

“ 'Twere a half bucket,” Mrs. Pratt replied calmly. “An' if need be, I'll use th' rest of it, an' th' bucket besides.” Her mouth tightened. “An' as fer packin' me bags, it was a Ardleigh wot hired me an' it'll be a Ardleigh wot sacks me.”

“I think,” Kate said firmly, “that we had all better calm ourselves.” She looked at her aunt. “I do not believe this is a matter for the constable, Aunt Jaggers. My uncle O'Malley is a policeman, and I know that they are reluctant to intervene in domestic matters. And there would be the embarrassment of—”

“Who asked you to intervene, miss?” Aunt Jaggers's face was wrathful. “When the constable comes, I will order him to—”

But Kate did not discover what order her aunt intended to give the constable, for Mudd came into the kitchen at that moment, carrying a coal scuttle. Aunt Jaggers, apparently feeling outnumbered, choked off her threat, glared balefully at the three of them, and stamped out. Crooning words of comfort, Mrs. Pratt bent over the sobbing Harriet and lifted her to a chair. With a savage look at Aunt Jaggers's departing back, Mudd thumped the scuttle on the hearth and went outside, slamming the door behind him.

“Do you think we should summon the doctor?” Kate asked worriedly, with a look at Harriet. The girl's cheek was heavily bruised, and her right eye was beginning to swell.

“No,” Mrs. Pratt said, smoothing Harriet's hair away from her face. “I'll make a comfrey poultice. Th' doctor culd do no better.” She went toward the pantry.

Impulsively, Kate bent over the frightened girl. “It will be all right,” she said, touching her cheek gently, but she was at once swept by a feeling of sad helplessness. How could she promise Harriet that Aunt Jaggers's brutality would be restrained, when she herself was vulnerable to the woman's whims? If Aunt Sabrina would not do what should be done, no one could protect the servants.

Biting her lip and wishing she had not offered such an easy comfort when there was none to be had, Kate turned away to prepare her tea. She kept her eyes on what she was doing, but as she heard Mrs. Pratt moving about the kitchen, preparing Harriet's poultice, a gnawing apprehension, a kind of fearful expectation grew in her mind.

“Jaggers is who killed Jenny,” Mrs. Pratt had said bitterly. “All o' us knows it. All o' us hates her fer it.” Kate could not escape the terrible feeling that a hurricane was about to strike abovestairs, and a volcano to erupt below, and that both events would leave behind a scarred and barren landscape that none of them would recognize.

There was a soft knock at the back door. With an unreadable glance at Kate, Mrs. Pratt moved toward it. “Who's there?” she called out quietly.

“Tom Potter,” a muffled voice replied.

Kate frowned. Tom Potter?

Mrs. Pratt faced Kate. “If yer done makin' yer tea, miss,” she said pointedly, “Mudd'll take that tray up fer yer.”

Kate picked up the tray she had prepared. “Thank you,” she said, “but I can do it.” She walked toward the door to the stairs. When she reached it, she turned.

Mrs. Pratt had already admitted Tom Potter, speaking to him in quick, hard sentences. He was a slender, boyish-looking young man in a rough brown coat, brown trousers, and brown felt hat. A fierceness shone in his eyes, and when he stepped to the fireplace to bend over Harriet, his voice was soft but vibrating with a scarcely restrained anger.

“Don' cry, child,” he said quietly. “We'll make it right, I swear t' yer. She'll not be beatin' yer again.”

Mrs. Pratt stepped swiftly forward, interposing herself between Kate and the visitor. It was clear that there would be no introduction. Instead, she said, her voice level, “I'm grateful t' yer, miss, fer what ye did this evenin'.”

“I wish I could have done more,” Kate said.

“Ye did what ye culd.” She squinted at Kate, considering. “ 'Tis true yer uncle's a copper?”

“Yes,” Kate said.

“Ah,” Cook said thoughtfully. She seemed about to say something else, but instead grasped the stairway door and opened it so Kate could go through. “Well, ring if yer wants anythin' else.”

“I shall,” Kate said. “Thank you.”

The apprehension did not leave Kate as she carried her tray upstairs to her room; rather, it was magnified by the recollection of Jenny's lover, vowing to right Harriet's wrong. All considerations of morality and ethics aside, Aunt Jaggers was inviting trouble when she mistreated the servants. It was not unheard of for them to take revenge, for the person who felt entrapped and powerless to turn to crime. There was the Belgian maid who strangled her elderly employer. And the Irish maid-of-all-work who was hanged at Newgate for bludgeoning her employer, hacking her body into pieces, and—

Kate shook herself. She couldn't dismiss the fears that menaced her. They were legitimate, for the wrongs Jenny and Harriet had suffered were real wrongs, just as the Belgian maid and Kate Webster were real murderers, and not merely characters in Beryl Bardwell's sensational thrillers. But she couldn't give way to her apprehension, for if she did, she would have to ask herself what would happen to
her,
caught as she was in the web of her aunt's malice.

Kate carried her tray into her room, lighted the fire, and sat down to eat, grateful for the silence and the opportunity to be alone. When she was finished, she pulled off her shoes and took out the manuscript of “The Conspiracy of the Golden Scarab.” If she expected to meet her deadline, she had to work—regardless of what storms might be brewing around her.

She scribbled furiously for several hours, pausing only to refill her teacup and mend the fire. When she finally laid down her pen and gulped the last of the cold tea, her draft of the next chapter—set in an English country manor and featuring characters that greatly resembled Sir Charles Sheridan and Bradford and Eleanor Marsden—was done. It was a trifle short on sensation, she thought critically, but it was satisfyingly full of the realistic details her readers loved. Perhaps she could devise a startling plot twist—a death or some other disaster—involving the medium, whose character was beginning to seem to Kate more and more ambiguous. She still had the notes she had scribbled after her visit to Mrs. Farns-worth's. She might even work Oscar Wilde and Conan Doyle into the plot—suitably disguised, of course.

And the Irish maid who had been hanged at Newgate for bludgeoning her mistress.

But answer came there none.

—SIR WALTER SCOTT The Bridal of Triermain

 

 

 

I
t was raining in a drizzly, halfhearted fashion when Charles got back on his horse after leaving Mrs. Farnsworth's house on Keenan Street. If the lady had any answers, she had not imparted them to him. But perhaps there was another way to get to the bottom of the affair. He rode toward the village of Dedham, three miles to the north of Marsden Manor, along the River Stour.

Charles remembered Dedham quite well from the days of his youth. It was a market town for the hamlet of East Bergholt, where he had spent summers that he still recalled with joy and wonder, visiting his grandparents and wandering the wooded hills and sweet, shallow vales. Dedham lay on the south side of the river, whose lush green banks sloped into deep water, verges fringed with willow and hawthorn and populated by choirs of songbirds. Barges moved slowly westward on the river from the harbor at Manningtree, through locks at Flatford and Dedham and Stratford St. Mary.