Missing Joseph

knowledge that he was about to disappoint her. He drew out the book from against his stomach and flipped it to the floor between them. She didn’t look at it immediately. Instead, her fingers moved from her pullover to grasp the folds of the insubstantial gypsy skirt hanging unevenly beneath it. Its colours — bright red, gold, and green — caught the light of a floor lamp standing next to the sofa.

“Yours?” he said.

Alchemical Magic: Herbs, Spices, and Plants. He saw her lips form the first two words.

She said, “Glory. Where’d you get that ol’ thing?” sounding all the world full of curious confusion and nothing more.

“Where you left it.”

“Where I—?” Her gaze moved from the book to him. “Col, what’re you about?”

Col. He felt his hand tremble with the need to strike. Her show of guilelessness seemed less of an outrage than did the familiarity implied by her saying that name.

“Is it yours?”

“Was. I mean I s’pose it still is. Except I haven’t seen it for ages.”

“I’d expect that,” he said. “It was well enough out of sight,”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Behind the cistern.”

The light flickered in the lamp, a bulb going bad. It made a tiny hissing sound and went out, inviting the day’s exterior gloom to seep past the lace curtains. Polly didn’t react, didn’t seem to notice. She appeared to be mulling over his words.

He said, “You would have been wiser to throw it away. Like the tools.”

“Tools?”

“Or did you use hers?”

“Whose tools? What’re you about here, Colin?” Her voice was wary. She inched away from him so subtly that he might not have noticed had he not been anticipating every sign of her guilt. Her fingers even stopped themselves in the midst of flexing. He found that of interest. She knew better than to allow them to fi st.

“Or perhaps you didn’t use any tools at all. Perhaps you loosened the plant — gently, you know how I mean, you know how to do it— and then lifted it from the soil, root and all. Is that what you did? Because you’d know the plant, wouldn’t you, you’d recognise it just as well as she’d do.”

“This is about Missus Spence.” She spoke slowly, as if to herself, and she didn’t appear to be seeing him although she was looking in his direction.

“How often do you use the footpath?”

“Which one?”

“Don’t play games with me. You know why I’m here. You didn’t expect it. And Juliet’s taking the blame made it unlikely that anyone would ever come looking for you. But I’ve smoked you out, and I want the truth. How often do you use the footpath?”

“You’re mad.” She managed to put another inch between them. Her back was to the door, and she was clever enough to know that a glance over her shoulder would announce her intentions and give him the advantage which she currently seemed to believe was hers.

“Once a month at least, I should guess,” he said. “Is that right? Doesn’t the ritual have more power if it’s performed when the moon is full? And isn’t the power more potent if the ritual takes place in the direct light of that moon? And isn’t it true that communication with the Goddess is more profound if you perform the ritual on a holy site? Like the top of Cotes Fell?”

“You know I worship on the top of Cotes Fell. I make no secret of that.”

“But you’ve other secrets, haven’t you? Here. In this book.”

“I haven’t.” Her voice was weak. She seemed to realise what weakness implied, because she roused herself to say, “And you’re frightening me, you are, Colin Shepherd,” with an edge of defi ance.

“I was up there today.”

“Where?”

“Cotes Fell. The summit. I hadn’t been in years, not since before Annie. I’d forgotten how well you can see from there, Polly, and what you can see.”

“I go there to worship. That’s all and you know it.” She put another inch between them, saying more quickly, “I burned the laurel for Annie. I let the candle melt down. I used cloves. I prayed—”

“And she died. That very night. How convenient.”

“No!”

“During the harvest moon, while you prayed on Cotes Fell. And before you prayed, you brought her soup to drink. Do you remember that? You called it your special soup. You said to make sure she ate every bit.”

“It was only vegetables, for both of you. What’re you thinking? I had some myself. It wasn’t—”

“Did you know that plants are most potent when the moon is full? The book says that. You must harvest them then, no matter what part you want, even the root.”

“I don’t use plants that way. No one does in the Craft. It’s not about evil. You know that. P’rhaps we find herbs for incense, yes, but that’s all. Incense. For part of the ritual.”

“It’s all in the book. What to use for revenge, what will alter the mind, what to use for poison. I’ve read it.”

“No!”

“And the book was behind the cistern where you’ve kept it hidden…how long has it been?”

“It wasn’t hidden. If it was there, it just fell. There was lots of things on the cistern, wasn’t there? A whole stack of books and magazines. I didn’t hide this—” She touched it with her toe and withdrew, gaining yet another inch of distance from him. “I didn’t hide a thing.”

“What about Capricorn, Polly?”

That stopped her cold. She repeated the word without making a sound. He could see the panic beginning to take hold of her as he forced her closer and closer to the truth. She was like a rogue dog when at last it’s cornered. He could feel her spine stiffening and her legs wanting to splay.

“Hemlock’s strength is in Capricorn,” he said.

Her tongue whisked across her lower lip. Fear was a scent on her, sour and strong.

“The twenty-second of December,” he said.

“What about it?”

“You know.”

“I don’t. Colin, I don’t.”

“The first day of Capricorn. The night the vicar died.”

“This is—”

“And one thing more. The moon was full that night. And the night before. So it all fi ts together. You had the instructions, your how-to for murder, printed in the book: dig the root out when the plant is dormant; know its strength is in Capricorn; know it’s deadly poison; know it’s most potent when the moon is full. Shall I read it all for you? Or would you prefer to read it yourself? Look under H in the index. For hemlock.”

“No! She put you up to this, didn’t she? Missus Spence. I c’n see it on your face as big as c’n be. She said go see that Polly, go ask her what she knows, go ask her where she’s been. And she left it to you to think up the rest. That’s how it is, isn’t it? Isn’t it, Colin?”

“Don’t even say her name.”

“Oh, I’ll say it all right. I’ll say it and more.” She stooped and snatched the book from the floor. “Yes, it’s mine. Yes, I bought it. I used it as well. And she knows that — damn her— because I was fool enough once — more’n two years back when she first came to Winslough— to ask her about making a tincture from bryony. And more the fool I was, I even told her why.” She shook the book at him. “Love, Colin Shepherd. Bryony’s for love. So’s apple in a charm. Here, want to see?” She fl ipped a silver chain from beneath her pullover. A small globe hung from it, its surface fi ligree. She yanked it from her neck and threw it to the floor where it bounced against his foot. He could see the dried bits of the fruit inside. “And aloe for sachets and benzoins for perfume. And cinquefoil for a potion that you wouldn’t ever drink. It’s all in the book, with everything else. But you only see what you want to