“You are a person of science,” I reminded her. “There must be a rational explanation for these sightings.” In fact, I was far likelier than Stoker to entertain the notion that there might be more in existence than our mere mortal senses could discern. I am a firm believer in open-mindedness in these things. Stoker, on the other hand, holds such notions in rank contempt. Whether one should blame his gender or his education for this failure of imagination is a subject for debate at another time.
“Who has seen this spectral orb?” I inquired. “And where?”
Miss Hathaway pointed and began to climb. “Just here, along the path between the Hall and the little cluster of cottages on the other side of the tor. It has been seen several times by cottagers returning home from the village pub.”
“Inebriates,” I said firmly. “It is little wonder they have seen something which defies rational explanation. They are intoxicated. Besides which,” I told her as the wind rose to a low moan, “the moor is an uncanny place. One’s imagination could easily run rampant, particularly in the dark.”
She laid a hand upon my sleeve. “I have done my part, Miss Speedwell. I have warned you that this is no place to be careless. Oh, look!” She pointed towards the tor. “A butterfly!”
It took only a quick look at the mazy flight of the winged thing to identify it. “A fritillary,” I corrected. “A Pearl-Bordered Fritillary, if I am not mistaken, although it is impossible to be completely certain at this distance.”
“And you without your net!” she lamented.
“Never fear. They are quite common, and it is just the beginning of the season. Where this one leads, legions shall follow.”
We made our way up to the top of the tor, following the meandering path of the fritillary. She flapped away on the wind just as we achieved the pinnacle, but it was no matter. The view was extraordinary, affording a sweeping survey of the landscape in all directions. From above, it was easy to see that the Hall lay nestled in a little depression, a small green island in the more muted sea of purples and browns and greens that made up the moorland palette. The Hall had been built of heavy grey stone, austere and forbidding, with its few embellishments serving to accentuate its severity rather than softening it. The steeply pitched roof was laced with carved stone coping and pierced with tall, narrow chimneys. Above it all rose a tower, a singularly unique addition, topped as it was with a sort of glass dome.
“That is the observatory,” Effie Hathaway told me, a note of pride ringing in her voice. “Granfer built it for his studies, and I use it now. At least for the present,” she added bitterly. “Mary wants it for a sewing room because the light is so very good,” she said, her voice rising to cruel mimicry of her sister-in-law’s refined tones. Without waiting for a response, she turned her face to the north. “There is the village of Shepton Parva, where you left the train. To the east, that small cluster of cottages belongs to the estate. Some are let to villagers, but the largest belongs to our old nanny.”
“I should like to meet her.” There were few retainers as close to a family as the nanny. If she had cared for Jonathan Hathaway in his youth, no doubt she could provide insights that might prove valuable.
Effie looked startled. “She is very old and not always amenable to visitors,” she began. “And I thought your interests were those of natural history.”
She was entirely correct, of course. Our ostensible purpose for being at the Hall was to evaluate the specimens and perhaps acquire a few fresh exemplars for the lepidoptery collection.
But I had the advantage over Effie Hathaway in that she was, for all her awkwardness and grievances, a girl from a good family, which meant she had been trained to be polite in all circumstances. I had not.
I bared my teeth in what might have passed for a smile. “I must insist,” I told her, setting off down the path.
As there was no cordial way to refuse me, Effie fell into a sullen silence as we trudged down the path to the east. Smoke spiraled out of the cottage’s chimney, and warm light glowed behind the thin curtains.
“I will go ahead,” she called back over her shoulder as she charged through the tiny wicket gate, stomping along in her heavy black brogues. “Nanny Burnham sometimes sleeps in the afternoons, and I should not like to wake her if she is resting.”
It was a pointless excuse—surely the old woman would be woken by Effie bursting into her cottage—but she went on ahead and I stopped to admire the small garden. The building itself was low, of native stone, and as austere as the main Hall. But the planes of it had been softened by climbing roses and gentle creepers, their leaves just beginning to waken to the spring warmth. A little patch of rhubarb had been planted to take advantage of the sunny side of the cottage, and the front step had been swept and scrubbed to gleaming.
After a long moment, Effie appeared in the doorway. “Nanny Burnham would be very happy to make your acquaintance,” she told me.
I stepped inside, taking a moment for my eyes to adjust. The day outside had been gloomy, with clouds scudding their shadows over the moor, but the heath outside had been brighter than this dim cottage. The lamp in the window and the fire on the hearth did little to dispel the shadows. And yet the cottage gave an appearance of coziness and warmth. A plump calico cat slept in a basket on the hearthstone, and two armchairs had been drawn near. An elderly lady sat in one, a rug spread over her lap to hold her knitting. On the mantel, a neat row of highly polished pewter pieces had been arranged with a few bits of flowery china. A door led off this main room, tightly closed against drafts, I was certain. From the rafters hung an assortment of bundled herbs which scented the air.
The woman made to get up, but I made a swift gesture. “Please, do not trouble yourself. You must be Nanny Burnham.”
“Aye, and you are Miss Speedwell,” she said, resuming her knitting. “Effie, fetch the lady some of my damson wine,” she instructed as the needles clacked together. “It is just the thing for a body when the wind blows from the east,” she informed me.
Effie did as she was told, taking a bottle and two tiny glasses from a small cabinet in the corner.
“What a comfortable home you have,” I said to Nanny Burnham.
“Aye,” she remarked placidly. “I was accustomed to living in the Hall, of course,” she said with a disapproving twist of the lips. “But when Mrs. Charles Hathaway came to live, I was informed my services would no longer be required and I was given this cottage. It is small here, but I have all that I require, especially when the young ones come to see me,” she added with a fond glance at Effie. The girl had poured out our wine and carried the glasses over on a small papier-mâché tray. a souvenir of bristol was painted around the edge of the tray in scrolling letters.
“Bristol,” I said, grasping at conversational straws. “I believe that is where Mr. Jonathan Hathaway entered this country after his recent travels.”