encroaching darkness. Now she was alone, apart from the hundreds of spirits that surrounded her. Scurrying forward, she reached the grave where the earth had been newly smoothed and saw worms writhing blindly in the soil. A garland of holly and ivy had been placed on the mound.
Quickly she took out her bag, knelt down, and began to scoop up handfuls of the damp dirt. It came up easily, in sticky clumps, clawing ’round her fingernails. She was doing well; a few more handfuls and she would have enough. Just then a bird swooped overhead. It was huge and called to her with a voice that was shrill and trembling. She looked up. An ancestor, she thought, but then something caught her eye in the far corner of the churchyard. A man in a long black robe was approaching her. He was waving a stick. Now he was shouting. She must go. What was it the obeah-man said? Enough to fill a goat’s horn. She looked at her bag, whose sides now bulged. What she had was sufficient. Scrambling to her feet, she headed for the lych-gate. The man was coming closer. She broke into a run. She winced with pain as the cuts on her back reopened.
“You! Stop!” cried the man. But from his gait she could tell he was old and from his robes a priest, perhaps. He thought she was disturbing the dead. He did not understand that they were all around; that they never stayed in the ground, unless their burial chambers were locked or sealed.
She ran on until she joined the path leading to the lych-gate, but just as she slowed down at the entrance, her foot caught a jagged stone and she tripped, dropping her bag and spilling some soil. A gasp escaped her lips as the man approached. She turned her back to him. He must not see the color of her skin. Grabbing at the bag, she made off once more, down the path, through the gate and out onto the lane.
Running as fast as if Mr. Roberts himself were in pursuit with his whip, she soon reached the end of the lane and turned left to the road that would take her back to the big house. It was only then that she stopped momentarily to look inside her bag. Almost half its contents had spilled out when she fell, but there should still be enough for her obeah-bag—still enough grave dirt for the curse to work.
Chapter 10
S ir Theodisius Pettigrew had embraced the game of golf with great enthusiasm if not skill. The Oxfordshire coroner had found that since taking to the sport only a few months ago, he might even have shed a few pounds from his not inconsiderable midriff. Of course he could not play a whole round without recourse to his hamper, carried alongside his clubs by his caddy. But suitably sustained by the frequent consumption of chicken legs, sausage rolls, and the occasional plover’s egg, he found the new pastime an excellent way to spend his leisure hours.
After the frightful weeks spent in the grip of the Great Fogg, he had promised his dear wife, Harriet, that he would take her to London so that she could shop in Oxford Street. While there he could combine her pleasure with his own business. He had a few small interests that required his attention and had been delighted when an invitation had come from Hubert Izzard, an acquaintance of many years’ standing, to join a party to play golf at Blackheath Club.
It was a crisp, clear morning when the four gentlemen set off for the first hole on the heath course. The purple heather carpeted the rough and the views of the Thames below were quite breathtaking. Hundreds of ships, large and small, could be seen plying up and down the river, or stationary in dock, forming a forest of masts in the water.
“A sight for sore eyes, eh, Sir Theodisius?” declared the ruddy-faced gentleman who strode out toward the first tee, taking in the view. The coroner and Mr. Izzard had been joined by Mr. Samuel Carfax and his associate Mr. Josiah Dalrymple, accompanied by his Negro slave Jeremiah Taylor. Both merchants were vaguely known to Sir Theodisius as being involved in
Quickly she took out her bag, knelt down, and began to scoop up handfuls of the damp dirt. It came up easily, in sticky clumps, clawing ’round her fingernails. She was doing well; a few more handfuls and she would have enough. Just then a bird swooped overhead. It was huge and called to her with a voice that was shrill and trembling. She looked up. An ancestor, she thought, but then something caught her eye in the far corner of the churchyard. A man in a long black robe was approaching her. He was waving a stick. Now he was shouting. She must go. What was it the obeah-man said? Enough to fill a goat’s horn. She looked at her bag, whose sides now bulged. What she had was sufficient. Scrambling to her feet, she headed for the lych-gate. The man was coming closer. She broke into a run. She winced with pain as the cuts on her back reopened.
“You! Stop!” cried the man. But from his gait she could tell he was old and from his robes a priest, perhaps. He thought she was disturbing the dead. He did not understand that they were all around; that they never stayed in the ground, unless their burial chambers were locked or sealed.
She ran on until she joined the path leading to the lych-gate, but just as she slowed down at the entrance, her foot caught a jagged stone and she tripped, dropping her bag and spilling some soil. A gasp escaped her lips as the man approached. She turned her back to him. He must not see the color of her skin. Grabbing at the bag, she made off once more, down the path, through the gate and out onto the lane.
Running as fast as if Mr. Roberts himself were in pursuit with his whip, she soon reached the end of the lane and turned left to the road that would take her back to the big house. It was only then that she stopped momentarily to look inside her bag. Almost half its contents had spilled out when she fell, but there should still be enough for her obeah-bag—still enough grave dirt for the curse to work.
Chapter 10
S ir Theodisius Pettigrew had embraced the game of golf with great enthusiasm if not skill. The Oxfordshire coroner had found that since taking to the sport only a few months ago, he might even have shed a few pounds from his not inconsiderable midriff. Of course he could not play a whole round without recourse to his hamper, carried alongside his clubs by his caddy. But suitably sustained by the frequent consumption of chicken legs, sausage rolls, and the occasional plover’s egg, he found the new pastime an excellent way to spend his leisure hours.
After the frightful weeks spent in the grip of the Great Fogg, he had promised his dear wife, Harriet, that he would take her to London so that she could shop in Oxford Street. While there he could combine her pleasure with his own business. He had a few small interests that required his attention and had been delighted when an invitation had come from Hubert Izzard, an acquaintance of many years’ standing, to join a party to play golf at Blackheath Club.
It was a crisp, clear morning when the four gentlemen set off for the first hole on the heath course. The purple heather carpeted the rough and the views of the Thames below were quite breathtaking. Hundreds of ships, large and small, could be seen plying up and down the river, or stationary in dock, forming a forest of masts in the water.
“A sight for sore eyes, eh, Sir Theodisius?” declared the ruddy-faced gentleman who strode out toward the first tee, taking in the view. The coroner and Mr. Izzard had been joined by Mr. Samuel Carfax and his associate Mr. Josiah Dalrymple, accompanied by his Negro slave Jeremiah Taylor. Both merchants were vaguely known to Sir Theodisius as being involved in
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