by Robin Cook
Finally, with her superficial genealogical inquiry, Kim descended the steps of the Peabody-Essex Institute with the idea of retrieving her car and heading out to the compound. But at the foot of the steps she hesitated. The passing question that she’d entertained about Ronald’s character and the possibility of foul play on his part gave her another idea. Returning inside the institute, she asked directions for the Essex County Courthouse.
The building was on Federal Street, not far from the Witch House. It was a severe Greek Revival structure with a stark pediment and massive Doric columns. Kim entered and asked to be directed to court records.
Kim had no idea whether she would find anything at all. She didn’t even know if court records were saved from so long ago, nor did she know if they did exist whether they were available to the public. Nonetheless she presented herself at the appropriate counter and asked to look at any court records of Ronald Stewart. She added that she was interested in the Ronald Stewart who’d been born in 1653.
The clerk was a sleepy-looking woman of indeterminate age. If she was surprised by Kim’s request she didn’t show it. Her response was to punch it up on a computer terminal. After glancing at the screen for a moment, she left the room. She’d not said a word. Kim guessed that there had been so many people researching the Salem witch trials that the town’s civil servants were jaded about inquiries from that era.
Kim shifted her weight and checked her watch. It was already ten-thirty, and she’d not even been to the compound yet.
The woman reappeared with a manila pocket folder. She handed it to Kim. “You can’t take this out of the room,” she said. She pointed to some Formica tables and molded plastic chairs along the back wall. “You can sit over there if you like.”
Kim took the folder over to an empty chair. She sat down and slipped out the contents. There was a lot of material. All of it was written in reasonably legible longhand.
At first Kim thought that the file contained only documents associated with civil suits Ronald had filed with the court for debts owed to him. But then she began to find more interesting things, like reference to a contested will involving Ronald.
Kim carefully read the document. It was a ruling in Ronald’s favor involving a will contested by a Jacob Cheever. Reading on, Kim discovered that Jacob had been a child of Hannah’s from a previous marriage and that Hannah had been significantly older than Ronald. Jacob had testified that Ronald had duped his mother into changing her will, thereby depriving him of his rightful inheritance. Apparently the justices disagreed. The result had been that Ronald inherited several thousand pounds, a sizable fortune in those days.
Kim marveled that life in the late seventeenth century hadn’t been as different as she’d imagined. She’d been under the delusion that at least legally it had been simpler. Reading about the contested will suggested she was wrong. It also made her think again about Ronald’s character.
The next document was even more curious. It was a contract dated February 11, 1681, between Ronald Stewart and Elizabeth Flanagan. It had been drawn up and signed prior to their marriage, like a contemporary premarital agreement. But it wasn’t about money or property per se. The contract merely gave Elizabeth the right to own property and enter into contracts in her own name after the marriage.
Kim read the whole document. Toward the end Ronald himself had written an explanation. Kim recognized the handwriting as the particularly graceful script she’d seen on many of the bills of lading in the castle. Ronald wrote: “It is my intention that if actions pursuant to my mercantile endeavor require my prolonged absence from Salem Town and Maritime, Ltd, that my betrothed, Elizabeth Flanagan, may justly and legally administer our joint affairs.”
After finishing the document, Kim went back to the beginning and reread it to make sure she understood it. It amazed her. The fact that such a document was necessary in order for Elizabeth to sign contracts reminded her that the role of women had been quite different in Puritan times. Their legal rights were limited. It was the same message Kim had gotten from the letter Elizabeth’s father had written to Ronald concerning Elizabeth’s hand in marriage.
Laying the premarital agreement aside, Kim went back to the remaining papers in Ronald Stewart’s folder. After a handful of additional debtor suits, Kim came across a truly interesting document. It was a petition by Ronald Stewart requesting a Writ of Replevin. It was dated Tuesday, July 26, 1692, a week after Elizabeth’s death.
Kim had no idea what Replevin meant, but she quickly got an idea. Ronald wrote: “I humbly beg the court in God’s name to return to my possession forthwith the conclusive evidence seized from my property by Sheriff George Corwin and used against my beloved wife, Elizabeth, during her trial for witchcraft by the Court of Oyer and Terminer on 20 June 1692.”
Attached to the back of the petition was an August 3, 1692, ruling by Magistrate John Hathorne denying the petition. In his denial the magistrate said: “The Court advises said petitioner, Ronald Stewart, likewise to petition his excellency the Governor of the Commonwealth for the aforementioned evidence since, by executive order, custody of said evidence has been transferred from Essex to Suffolk County.”
In one sense Kim was pleased. She’d found indirect documentary evidence of Elizabeth’s ordeal: she’d been tried and evidently convicted. At the same time Kim felt frustrated that the nature of the “conclusive evidence” was never mentioned. She reread both the petition and the ruling in hopes she’d missed it. But she hadn’t. The evidence was not described.
For a few minutes Kim sat at the table and tried to imagine what the evidence could have been. The only thing she could think of was something to do with the occult, and that was because of her father’s vague statement. Then she got an idea. Glancing back at the petition, she wrote down the date of the trial. With the date in hand she returned to the counter and got the clerk’s attention.
“I’d like to see the records of the Court of Oyer and Terminer for June 20, 1692.”
The clerk literally laughed in Kim’s face. Then she repeated the request and laughed again. Confused, Kim asked what was so funny.
“You’re asking for something just about every Tom, Dick, and Harry would want,” the clerk said. She sounded as if she’d just come from the back country of Maine. “Trouble is, no such records exist. Wish they did, but they don’t. There’s no record of that Court of Oyer and Terminer for all the witch trials. All there is is some scattered testimony and depositions, but the court records themselves plumb disappeared.”
“How unfortunate,” Kim said. “Maybe you could tell me something else. Do you happen to know what ‘conclusive evidence’ means?”
“I ain’t no lawyer,” the clerk said. “But hold your horses. Let me ask.”
The clerk disappeared into an office. Seconds later she reemerged with a heavyset woman in tow. The second woman had oversized glasses balanced on a short, wide nose.
“You’re interested in a definition of ‘conclusive evidence,’” the woman said.
Kim nodded.
“It’s pretty much self-explanatory,” the woman said. “It means evidence that is incontrovertible. In other words it can’t be questioned, or there is only one possible interpretation that can be drawn from it.”
“That’s what I thought,” Kim said. She thanked the two women and went back to her material. Using a copy machine in the corner, she made a copy of the petition for a Writ of Replevin and the ruling. Then she returned the documents to their envelope and handed the envelope back to the clerk.
Finally Kim drove out to the compound. She felt a little guilty, since she’d told Mark Stevens she’d be there in the morning and already it was approaching noon. As she rounded the last bend in the road leading from the gate and broke free from the trees, she could see a handful of trucks and vans parked near the cottage. There was also a large backhoe and mounds of fresh earth. But Kim didn’t see any people, not even on the backhoe.
Kim parked and got out of
her car. The noontime heat and dust were oppressive, and the smell of the freshly turned earth was pungent. Kim closed the car door, and, shielding her face from the sun, she followed with her eyes the line of the trench that ran across the field toward the castle. At that moment the door to the house opened and George Harris stepped out. Sweat lined his forehead.
“Glad you could make it,” George said. “I’ve been trying to call you.”
“Is something wrong?” Kim asked.
“Sorta,” George said evasively. “Maybe I’d better show you.”
George motioned for Kim to follow him toward where the backhoe was parked.
“We had to stop work,” George said.
“Why?” Kim asked.
George didn’t answer. Instead he encouraged Kim to come over to the trench.
Hesitant to step too close to the edge for fear of its giving way, Kim stretched forward and looked in. She was impressed by the depth, which she estimated to be more than eight feet. Roots hung out of the sheer walls like miniature brooms. George directed her attention to the end, where the trench stopped abruptly fifty feet short of the cottage. Near the bottom Kim could see the damaged end of a wooden box protruding from the wall.
“That’s why we had to stop,” George said.
“What is it?” Kim asked.
“I’m afraid it’s a coffin,” George said.
“Good grief,” Kim said.
“We found a headstone as well,” George said. “It’s an oldie.” He motioned for Kim to come around the end of the trench. On the opposite side of the mound of excavated earth was a dirty white marble slab lying flat in the grass.
“It hadn’t been set upright,” George said. “It had been laid flat and eventually covered with earth.” George bent down and wiped away the dried dirt on its face.
Kim took an involuntary gasp of air. “My God, it’s Elizabeth!” she managed. She shook her head. There were too many coincidences.
“She a relative?” George asked.
“She is,” Kim said. She examined the headstone. It was similar in design to Ronald’s, and gave only the specifics, namely Elizabeth’s birthdate and date of her death.
“Did you have any idea her grave would be here?” George asked. His tone wasn’t accusatory, just curious.
“Not in the slightest,” Kim said. “I only found out recently that she’d not been buried in the family plot.”
“What do you want us to do?” George said. “You’re supposed to have a permit to disturb a grave.”
“Can’t you just go around it and leave it be?” Kim asked.
“I suppose,” George said. “We could just widen the trench along here. Should we be on the lookout for any others?”
“I don’t think so,” Kim said. “Elizabeth was a special case.”
“I hope you don’t mind me saying this,” George said. “But you look kinda pale. Are you okay?”
“Thank you,” Kim said. “I’m fine. Just a bit shocked. I guess I’m feeling a little superstitious about finding this woman’s grave.”
“So are we,” George said. “Especially my backhoe operator. Let me go get him out here. We got to get these utilities in before we pour the basement.”
George disappeared inside the house. Kim ventured back to the edge of the trench and peered down at the exposed corner of Elizabeth’s coffin. The wood was in surprisingly good shape for being buried for over three hundred years. It didn’t even appear rotten where the backhoe had damaged it.
Kim had no idea what to make of this unexpected discovery. First the portrait, now the grave. It was getting harder to dismiss these as fortuitous findings.
The sound of an approaching auto caught Kim’s attention. Shielding her eyes once again from the noonday sun, she watched a familiar-looking car kicking up a plume of dust as it followed the dirt road across the field. She couldn’t mentally place the vehicle until it pulled up next to her. Then she realized why it had been familiar. It was Kinnard’s.
With some anxiety Kim walked over to the vehicle and leaned in through the passenger-side window.
“This is a surprise,” Kim said. “What on earth are you doing out of the hospital?”
Kinnard laughed. “They let me out of my cage once in a while.”
“What are you doing in Salem?” Kim asked. “How did you know I was here?”
“Marsha told me,” Kinnard said. “I ran into her in the SICU this morning. I told her I was coming to Salem to look for an apartment since I’m rotating through Salem Hospital for August and September. There’s no way I’m going to live in the hospital for two months. You do remember me telling you about my Salem Hospital rotation.”
“I guess I forgot,” Kim said.
“I told you several months ago,” Kinnard said.
“If you say so,” Kim said. She had no intention of getting into an argument. She already felt uncomfortable enough.
“You’re looking good,” Kinnard said. “I suppose dating Dr. Edward Armstrong agrees with you.”
“How do you know whom I’m dating?” Kim asked.
“Hospital gossip,” Kinnard said. “Since you’ve chosen a scientific celebrity, it gets around. The irony is that I know the man. I worked in his lab the year I took off to do research after my second year of medical school.”
Kim could feel herself blush. She would have preferred not to show any reaction, but she couldn’t help it. Kinnard was obviously trying to upset her, and as usual he was doing a good job.
“Edward is a smart man scientifically,” Kinnard said, “but I’m afraid he’s a little nerdy, even weird. Well . . . maybe that’s unfair. Maybe I should just say eccentric.”
“I find him attentive and considerate,” Kim said.
“I can imagine,” Kinnard said, rolling his eyes. “I heard about the daily flowers. Personally I think that’s absurd. A guy has to be totally unsure of himself to go to that kind of extreme.”
Kim turned a bright red. Marsha had to have told Kinnard about the flowers. Between her mother and her roommate she wondered if she had any secrets.
“At least Edward Armstrong won’t irritate you by going skiing,” Kinnard said. “His coordination is such that a flight of stairs can be a challenge.”
“I think you are being juvenile,” Kim said frostily when she found her voice. “Frankly, it doesn’t suit you. I’d thought you were more mature.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Kinnard laughed cynically. “I’ve gone on, as they say, to greener pastures. I’m enjoying a new burgeoning relationship myself.”
“I’m happy for you,” Kim said sarcastically.
Kinnard bent down so he could see out through the windshield as the backhoe started up. “Marsha told me you were fixing this place up,” he said. “Is old Doc Armstrong going to move in with you?”
Kim started to deny the possibility, but caught herself. Instead she said, “We’re thinking about it. We haven’t decided yet.”
“Enjoy yourself one way or the other,” Kinnard said with equal sarcasm. “Have a nice life.”
Kinnard threw his car into reverse, shot backwards, and skidded to a stop. Then he put the engine in drive and tromped on the accelerator. With a shower of dirt, small pebbles, and dust he shot across the field and disappeared through the trees.
At first Kim concentrated on shielding herself from flying stones. Once the danger was past, she watched Kinnard’s car until she could no longer see it. Even though she’d known almost from the moment he’d arrived that his goal had been to provoke her, she’d not been able to prevent it. For a moment she felt emotionally frazzled. It wasn’t until she walked back over to the trench that was now being widened and saw Elizabeth’s coffin that she began to calm down. Comparing her troubles with Elizabeth’s at the same age made hers seem trivial.
After pulling herself together emotionally, Kim set to work. The afternoon passed quickly. Most of her time was spent in Mark Stevens’ office going over details of the kitchen and bathroom d
esign. For Kim it was a supreme pleasure. It was the first time in her life that she was creating a living environment for herself. It made her wonder how she had allowed her career goals to be so easily circumvented.
By seven-thirty Mark Stevens and George Harris were both exhausted, but Kim had gotten a second wind. The men had to tell Kim their eyes were blurry before Kim admitted she had to get back to the city. As they walked her out to her car, they thanked her for coming and promised her things would move quickly.
Driving into Cambridge, Kim didn’t even attempt to look for a parking place on the street. Instead she drove directly into the Charles’ parking garage and walked over to the Harvest Bar. It was filled to overflowing with a Friday-night crowd, most of whom had been there through happy hour.
Kim looked for Edward but didn’t immediately see him. She had to worm her way through the crowd standing five deep around the bar. Finally she found him nursing a glass of chardonnay at a table behind the bar. As soon as he saw her, his face lit up and he leaped to his feet to pull out her chair.
As Edward pushed the chair in under her, Kim remarked to herself that Kinnard would not have made the effort.
“You look like you could use a glass of white wine,” Edward said.
Kim nodded. She could tell instantly that Edward was either excited or self-conscious. His stutter was more apparent than usual. She watched while he caught the waitress’s attention and gave the order for two glasses of wine. Then he looked at her.
“Did you have a good day?” he asked.
“It was busy,” Kim said. “What about yours?”
“It was a great day!” Edward said excitedly. “I’ve got some good news. The dirt samples from Elizabeth’s food bins grew out a mold with hallucinogenic effects. I think we have solved the question of what at least kicked off the Salem witch trials. The only thing we don’t know is whether it was ergotism or something entirely new.”
Edward went on to tell Kim everything that had happened at Kevin Scranton’s office.
Kim’s response was concerned disbelief. “You took a drug without knowing what it was?” she asked. “Wasn’t that dangerous?”
