The Mystery of the Empty Eaves (Part 1)

The streets below our little room flow with people like the waters of the Fleet; thronging wall to wall are eel-sellers, shoe menders, rat-catchers, itinerant lutenists, apothecaries and alchemists trying to out-shout each other; but as one climbs storey by storey the air seems to coddle the noise until all that remains is a faint murmur and all is quiet but for the ticking of the pendulum-clock in the corner by the bookshelf.

And now, a little bell – for Lord Hawley has arrived.

Deb shows him in and takes his coat. I greet him with effusive enthusiasm.

“Lord Hawley, by God! What an honour to finally meet the man in the flesh instead of by correspondence. It must have been five years since last I saw your cousin Jerome at Cambridge. Do you know, you look the very spit of him. It’s rare, I think, to resemble one’s cousin, but fortuitous when it occurs, strengthening as it does the bonds of family for all to see. Pray, take a seat. Did Deb make you right at home? Brandy? No – of course, it’s hardly midday… How was your trip? I hear the thoroughfares at this time are quite slick with mud, our neighbour’s horse slipped just last week…”

As I talk he looks about the room nervously as tho expecting to find some hidden spy-hole in the cupboard. I see him read the titles of the books upon my shelf, which read things like MALLEUS MALEFICARUM and DE OCCULTA PHILOSOPHIA, because such things are what people expect when they visit and it does well to meet their expectations. Eventually his eyes slide to the seat by the window, whose occupant sits knitting without so much as taking a look at the visitor. He looks back to me with a question on his lips.

“Ah – have you met my aunt? Aunt! This is Lord Hawley. He is come to discuss business with me.” She sets her needles down to her lap and nods with a beatific smile. “Fear not, she’ll stay out of our way. It’s simply this seat is her favourite, you see, it has the finest view of the street, and the sun’s warmth, and she isn’t so mobile these days, she prefers to remain in one place as best she can. Of course I can ask her to move downstairs if it suits Your Lordship? It’s no problem at all.”

His Lordship declines wholeheartedly, as I knew he would. He looks again at my aunt, who has gone back to her knitting, and he sees the curve of her spine. I can almost see the thoughts file slowly through his head that say – What a good nephew is Mr Bell, to care for a hunchback in his own house; and what a good guest am I, that I would not inconvenience such a creature, and be happy about it.

With the guest settled, I ready my pen and ask: “Well then, to business: your letter asked my forgiveness for omitting detail in favour of discussion, sir – what brings you to my door?”

Lord Hawley clears his throat.

“Well… truth be told I fear you’ll mock me, sir, as I’d mock one who took such a far-fetched story to my attention… but of late it feels all my world is upturn’d, a shadow-world, where I no longer recognise what was once familiar…”

I listen patiently and wait for our lordling to pull himself together. Many who knock on the door need time to overcome themselves as this, tho he seems to take longer than most.

“You see, it is my betrothed – Carlotta. She is Italian, you see, from Padua – that most beautiful of Shakespeare’s cities. Her father sells glass, and brought her here along with the rest of the household a year gone. Her mother is dead and so the family is just the two of them; and his business they call the finest glass to be had in all of London. I met her as I took an order of Murano goblets for my manor in Herefordshire. And by God! Instantly I fell in love. Her charm, her delicacy… I am no poet, sir, I cannot describe it. Trust me only when I say no man could be happier than I when I asked her father for her hand and he agreed.

“But the difficulties set in once society knew we were to be wed. My brother, for example – who has always distrusted and undermined my judgement – he thought Carlotta was beneath me, that I should marry an Englishwoman, and one of proper birth, too. My friends thought the same and one by one turned against me. But I thought nothing of it – I was proud to wed Carlotta despite their misgivings, as I do not want for money and I knew I could keep her well on my own income. Then – the rumour began to spread that Carlotta was a witch.

“Yes! A witch! – for I heard tell that the Italians dance naked before a fire and worship the Devil, or whatever other nonsense has been invented in the taverns of Bishopsgate; tho I’m sure some of it is true, and mere popery, the most painful and wicked parts are vile slander, and the truth merely sprinkled in to give the lies the semblance of truth. My Carlotta is a pure-hearted being who with her father converted to Protestantism upon arriving in England. But then she retains the hot-headedness of her countryfolk – she is proud, and will not wait idly by when insulted; in truth, her relationship with my brother is all the worse for her being unwilling to let his muttering go unheeded.

“And, if truth be told, there is basis for the rumours too. Carlotta is known to buy certain herbs which lend credence to her image as one who is versed in the plant lore of Italian old wives. And of late her father has been away on business, leaving her alone in the house and with few friends in London. Her house, you see, is overrun by little birds – starlings – which cluster in the eaves and keep her awake at night. When she sent to have them exterminated the pest-killer climbed up and came straight back down again, saying he could see no birds, preposterous as that may sound, for their twittering was all about us as he spoke. So she sent him away, and sent for another, who had the same reply; and in the meantime she still was unable to sleep, and became steadily less and less even-tempered, and all the more convinced that all of England was out to get her.

“Matters all came to a head one week ago, when my brother came to visit, and we three dined together at Carlotta’s – my own misguided idea, my attempt to broker a peace between my kin and the woman who would soon be my wife. Throughout I tried to make conversation but neither Carlotta nor my brother would participate – a lonely soliloquy it was. Then – misery – as the food was cleared away my brother took ill, and brought up the food he had eaten, and so we ushered him to bed. Tho at first we all assumed he had simply eaten something bad, neither I nor Carlotta took ill in turn, tho we’d eaten the same dishes from the same table. And instead of recovering quickly as we had hoped, his condition worsened, and soon he was laid up in bed gaunt as a skeleton and half as talkative. Between gasps for air he asked me, “send her away! Renounce her! She is the death of me!” But I, ashamed, did nothing.

“This was last Thursday, and now all the town talks of how Carlotta poisoned him with witch’s brew, out of revenge, or jealousy, or more absurd rumours like them being lovers and her wanting rid of him to marry me – still he is abed, tho now at his own house, and shows no signs of recovery.

“I want only to be free of this misery, and to eagerly await my wedding next month – but if my brother does not recover in time, or does not recover at all… I think I could not bear it. The doctors say my brother has simply taken ill of his lungs, or his liver, or his spleen, depending whom you ask; none call it witchcraft, but none are able to help. You are the only hope I have left. I beg of you, clear Carlotta’s name, rescue my brother, and bring an end to this woe.”

He comes a halt and looks at me, expectant.

Just then my aunt falls into loud, hacking coughs. “Pardon me,” I say, and cross the room to her chair. “Aunt, is all well?”

She brings her coughs under control and whispers in my ear. “Of course, aunt.” I pour a cup of water from the jug on the sideboard and hand it to her before returning to my desk.

“Now, Lord Hawley, the first question we must ask is which herbs Miss Carlotta has been acquiring. For this of course tells us what type of poultice or charm might be made from such plants.”

Lord Hawley scrunches up his face in thought. “Some are ordinary – mint, chamomile. Others – oil of rue and of savin – juniper, alligant and muskadine… I know not to what purpose such herbs might be put.”

I note these down. “To be sure, I shall compare them against their known apothecarial properties, but it can be trusted that these are all herbs one might find at any shop, which lack poisonous qualities. My next question, then – the meal, did you notice anything amiss about it, and did your brother partake of any foods that you and Carlotta did not?”

Lord Hawley shakes his head vehemently. “None whatsoever. The doctors asked me this in their turn and I replied the same. We ate roasted pigeon, with greens and a pottage; a cheese from Wales, and boiled quail’s eggs; and a pudding of raisins and cream. Peter ate what I ate and drank what I drank. And – I know you will ask the question – neither did I see Carlotta put anything in his food. I was sat between them the whole time and cannot fathom how it would have been possible.”

I nod. “Very good, sir. Of course, witchcraft may find ways of doing such ills unfathomable to you or I; but we must undertake a thorough investigation. Finally – may I ask, does Carlotta keep at her house any animals or companions? For it is known that witches keep a familiar such as a cat or dog; and while there are many ladies in the land who keep animals innocently and without such motive, it is also true that the presence of such a beast merits further study.”

At this Lord Hawley smiles. “This is a question I can answer easily, and I say no, sir – my betrothed hates animals, cats, dogs, birds, the like, and would squirm to live with one in the house. No familiar.”

“Of course,” I say. “And at that, sir, our interview is concluded. I know you are content with our fee – I would ask, sir, that you are still satisfied that I might continue my investigation, and call upon your brother and Carlotta in the service thereof? – Very good. I think that shall be all I require.”

He rises and shakes my hand. “You know, Mr Bell – Christopher – I knew not what to expect from London’s preeminent demonologist. I daresay you have surprised me wholeheartedly with your demeanour. I had expected an occultist to be a dry, humourless sort! And yet I hear your capabilities are quite unparalleled in all the city. For the first time in many weeks I feel a glimmer of hope for my hapless situation. I do hope you shall be able to help me and dear Carlotta. My very sanity depends on it, sir.”

With that, he leaves.

I watch him cross the street to board a waiting carriage, his figure warped by the glass. Behind me my aunt rises and goes to the sideboard, pours herself a brandy. “Well, what did you make of him?” she asks.

When I turn I see she’s offering me one too, which I decline. She shrugs and downs it in one go. As she goes to her desk I reply, “Seems a decent enough fellow. Jerome was, too. Clearly this woman Carlotta is having some sort of influence over him. What do you think – all those herbs – is it a curse?”

“Curse? Ha, no.” She swills the liquid in her cup. “Those herbs are women’s plants, for the regulation of the menses.” (You must understand, I’m afraid, dear reader, that my aunt knows no propriety – or, more correctly, knows propriety full well and scorns him utterly. In the past I have expressed distaste or horror to her and discovered it serves only to encourage her.) “Nothing you wouldn’t find in any young wife’s kitchen.”

My aunt is, tho oft mistaken for an elderly maid, a lot younger than she wishes to appear. She is in but her third-and-fortieth year, which for a married woman would be an age of motherhood and caring, but for an early-bereaved widow such as herself marks her out as a curiosity. This, coupled with her back, frame her in the eyes of most as a harmless dear whose destiny is bounded by that little chair by the window and the knitting that, as far as I know, she has been working on for eleven years now and shows no sign of ever getting any longer.

This arrangement, as you see, serves her and I perfectly.

“Well then – nothing to be alarmed by. We need no further involvement.”

“Now, I never said that.” She glances over the notes I was making as he talked. “One cog does not fit in the mechanism, and that is his mention of starlings. Did you notice his fingers?”

“I confess I did not.”

“All picked over with marks, the kind which a bird might make with its talons. I think perhaps Lord Hawley did not tell us everything, or was too busy telling us of his heartache that he neglected to delve into the most important story of all. One which, I fear, may have repercussions for Lord Hawley’s marriage.”

“Whatever do you mean, Aunt? What could starlings have to do with anything?”

She makes a few notes on the page before answering. Tho I could not see the writing I knew it would be writ in her shorthand, a special modification of Mr Shelton’s style which none but she could read. “I fear I remember reading something of the like before. We shall just have to hope I am wrong. In the meantime, you shall pay Miss Carlotta a visit.”