Page 100 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

“A turf maze,” Symington explained. “An intricate labyrinth of raised turf. The best preserved is on Breamore Down in Hampshire, but some think the one at Leigh is the oldest.”

“It’s been overrun for many years now,” Desmond explained. “But that is the purported pattern.”

“Anne wore such a brooch always. It was one of her accuser’s proofs of her witch-hood—the Leigh mizmaze was also known as Witches Corner, you see. Dorset is rife with superstitions and legends about witchcraft. Anne Ballew was merely the most famous. She was rumored to be a necromancer. They believed she could see the dead and speak with them. But not only that, she could make them come to life again. It was what made her so feared...and envied. It was a time of hysteria about heretics. Easy enough to be adjudged doing the devil’s work and end up at the stake.”

“What about the instrument she made, the Eye?” Desmond prompted.

“Ah, yes, the infamous Eye. It was supposedly how she was able to raise the dead. As the tale goes, Anne sold her soul to the devil to obtain the knowledge to create the Eye. It’s hard to distinguish how much of the story is from Anne’s time and how much was added to it in later retellings. There have been differing renditions. I have heard the legend in many places, not only Dorset—London and Hampshire, even the north. I assumed the Eye was apocryphal, frankly, given the extravagance of the tales. I could hardly believe my eyes when Gordon brought it in.”

“He showed it to you?” Desmond asked, sitting forward.

Symington nodded. “Had it wrapped in green velvet inside a beautifully carved box.”

That sounded like her grandmother’s Eye—more proof, if they needed any, that it was Gordon who stole the instrument. “Did you try it?”

“Oh, yes.” Symington chuckled. “I felt sure it wouldn’t work, but I couldn’t resist looking through it. It distorts everything. Poor Gordon was most distraught because it didn’t work. He wondered if it was a counterfeit, a copy. He thought I might be able to help him, being knowledgeable about Anne Ballew.” He nodded toward Desmond. “But, of course, working with him, you know all about that.”

“Were you able to put his mind at rest?” Thisbe asked.

“Sadly, no. I’m afraid my answer distressed him even more. The legend says no one can use the thing successfully besides one of Anne’s blood. Others see only a mess.”

“Her blood?” Thisbe glanced at Desmond. “Did she have descendants?”

“I’ve no idea. She had a family, but no one knows what happened to them. One would assume they fled. Changed their name, perhaps. I would have. I suppose they went home to Dorset—it would have been too dangerous for them in London. But they could have struck out for someplace new, perhaps farther away—Cornwall or Northumberland. Impossible to tell.”

“What did Mr. Gordon say when you told him?” Thisbe asked.

“Don’t you know?” Symington raised his eyebrows and turned to Desmond. “I would have assumed he told you.”

“No. That’s why we’re here. We don’t know what happened to him. No one has seen the professor for days. He’s not at the university nor his laboratory nor his home,” Desmond replied, managing, Thisbe noted, not to tell an outright lie.

“Oh, my. He said he had to tell...someone. I thought it would be the people at his laboratory.”

“Did he say a name? Or where he was going?”

“No, neither. Let me think.” Symington furrowed his brow. “He became quite agitated when I told him. I was alarmed—he looked as if he might fall down in a fit. He jumped and paced a bit, muttering to himself. I was at a loss for what to say. He said something like ‘I have to tell him’ or ‘he must know.’ Then he rushed out the door without even taking his leave.” Symington seemed more astounded by that than he had been about seeing the legendary Eye.

“Do you remember which day he came to see you?” Desmond asked.

“It must have been Wednesday—I remember because I have bell ringing rehearsal every Wednesday, and I was a bit afraid his visit might run into that.”

“But it didn’t, I assume, since he left so abruptly.”

“That’s right. It wasn’t quite teatime when he departed.”

They continued to chat politely for a few minutes before they, too, took their leave, though Thisbe would have liked to rush off as quickly as Mr. Gordon had. As soon as they were out the door, Thisbe turned to Desmond and said, “He was going to see Wallace, don’t you think? Who else would he feel he must tell about it?”

“I don’t know. I suppose he could have some other partner in the crime—perhaps one of the other men at the laboratory. Carson, for instance.”

“You just don’t like Carson.”

“That’s not true. I like Carson. I just...” Desmond stuck his hands in his pockets, studying his feet. “I just don’t like him around you.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. I know it’s very dog-in-the-manger of me, but I can’t help it.”

Thisbe smiled. “I don’t mind.” She linked her arm through his, then leaned close and whispered, “I think I wouldn’t like to have some female scientist working at your laboratory, either. So if that’s horrid, we’ll be horrid together.”

“I’d like that.” A look of longing flickered in Desmond’s eyes for an instant, then was gone. Desmond cleared his throat. “I agree that Professor Gordon went off to tell Wallace. If the Eye has been useless to Gordon—which I suspect it is for anyone. Not being Anne’s descendant is merely a handy excuse—then Wallace already knows that Gordon has failed or will soon know it. The odds are—”

“He’ll cut off Professor Gordon’s funding,” Thisbe said, finishing his thought.