“Bring it into the house, sir,” Mrs. Ryan said. “And we shall have a better look.”
I stood slowly, wincing painfully with the first step. Seeing my difficulty, Henry came directly to my side. “Please take these, Mrs. Ryan.” He handed over both the lantern and the package. He then placed his arm securely around my waist for support. We made our way to the house where we found Mrs. Ryan lighting more candles in the drawing room.
Henry deposited me safely in a chair before picking up the package from where she had set it on a side table. Truly mystified by what anyone would want to hide beneath the walkway, I watched Henry intently as he tugged off the string and folded back the cloth. A thick layer of straw came into view. Henry pushed this aside, uncovering a clear glass flask.
“Whatever could it be?” I asked, bewildered by our discovery. Henry held it up to one of the candles Mrs. Ryan had carried over, casting an eerie glow through the pale yellow liquid inside and showing a score of long dark strands, which looked disturbingly like hair.
“May I see that, Master Kilbrid?” Mrs. Ryan asked, her voice stiff with anger.
Henry handed over the bottle. We watched her turn it from side to side and then pull the cork to sniff the contents. “It’s as I thought,” she said, pursing her lips in displeasure.
“What is it?” Henry demanded.
“It’s a witch’s bottle,” she said. “And by the look of that dark hair, it’s been made to ward against Mistress Kilbrid.”
The room grew deathly still as Mrs. Ryan’s words slowly sank in, becoming a part of our understanding. The rest of the servants had gone to bed by now, and the only noise came from a large gilded clock above the fireplace. Henry spoke first, breaking the heavy silence, while I struggled to find my tongue.
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” he said, keeping his eyes steadfast on Mrs. Ryan. “Certainly you are mistaken.”
“No, sir,” Mrs. Ryan countered. “I’ve seen plenty of the kind back in the old country, and there’s no mistaking it. Upon my life, it’s a witch’s bottle if ever I saw one.”
Henry stood at my side, a hand resting protectively on my shoulder. “Very well,” he said. “Then tell us what it is and why it was buried under the front walkway?”
“To make a proper witch’s bottle the flask should be made of bellarmine. If that can’t be found, clear glass or even pottery can be used instead, but I don’t think this matters so much as the stuff inside.”
“And what is that?” Henry eyed the bottle suspiciously.
“To have the proper effect, the flask must be filled with the witch’s urine and then either her hair or nail clippings, whichever can be gotten most easily.”
It hardly took any time for the equation to come together. If the bottle was made to protect against me, then someone thought I was a witch and that was my hair and urine. Ick!
My primary concern probably should have been that someone thought me a witch, but having the contents of my chamber pot so clearly displayed seemed of higher importance at the moment. “That is utterly disgusting,” I said with a fair amount of dignity. “Please discard it at once.”
“Wait, Selah,” Henry said. “We need more information first. Mrs. Ryan, what is that bottle supposed to accomplish?”
“It’s a powerful ward to protect against witches. The flask is most often buried near doorways, like the one you found, to break a witch’s spells and stop her from entering the house. My grandmother hung one inside of a chimney once to block a witch from coming in that way.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake! The witch’s bottle and its alleged powers offended the human intelligence on so many levels, I didn’t know where to begin with my indignation. Even worse, that someone like Mrs. Ryan could believe such rubbish.
“And how do you know this was made against Selah?” Henry asked next.
“There’s no one else living at Brighmor, or even near about, who has dark hair that curls like my mistress’s. Miss Goodwin’s is straight as a stick and Agnes the washerwoman has more frizzle than curl. The hair in that bottle belongs to Mistress Kilbrid to be sure. Now what we need to be asking, no offense to you, sir,” she hastily added, “is why someone is making a bottle to begin with. There’s no rhyme or reason in doing something so vile against my mistress.”
Henry and I exchanged a quick glance, both guessing at the culprit. But Nathan couldn’t have been working alone and must have had an accomplice with access to my bedchamber.
“Mrs. Ryan, who have you assigned to empty the chamber pots?” Henry asked, as though reading my very thoughts.
“Oh, goodness, it could be either of the chambermaids depending on what needs to be done. Most days though, Mary Finney is in charge of cleaning Mistress Kilbrid’s room.”