His voice had risen. I had heard that same rising tone in the voice of the vicar who preceded Dr Fletcher at Hawkswood.
I raised my own voice and cut across Heron’s. ‘They took away one set of my picklocks, but I was carrying two! I used the other to set Sybil and myself free last night. But we were caught again, and I was foolish enough, Brockley, to show my second set to Master Ferris when he tried to pretend we’d escaped from the cellar by casting a spell! Now he’s still pretending it, and so is Maine, who was with him.’ I pointed at Maine. ‘They are claiming that the second set didn’t exist.’
‘It seems,’ remarked Ferris to the air, ‘that everyone in the world is lying except you, Mistress Stannard.’
‘Those picklocks did exist!’ said Brockley said, addressing Heron, Ferris and Maine impartially. ‘I know that. Witchcraft indeed! And there’s something else – I have another purpose here, if Sir Edward will permit.’
‘What would that be?’ enquired Heron.
‘Wilder,’ said Brockley, ‘you’ve got something to show.’
Wilder went to the table, set down the hamper and undid the hasps. ‘Your ankle,’ I muttered to Brockley. ‘It’s paining you again. What happened?’
‘I did it making my escape last night,’ Brockley whispered. ‘But it doesn’t amount to much. Shh.’
He nodded towards Wilder, who was pulling something out of the hamper. One in each hand, he held up two velvet cloaks, one green, one golden-brown.
‘What is this?’ Heron demanded.
‘Those are the cloaks I mentioned!’ I said. ‘The ones Master Ferris brought as wedding gifts for my daughter and her bridegroom. The used cloaks!’
‘Yes,’ Wilder said. ‘They were handed to us by Master Stannard, as evidence in his wife’s favour, if needed, and judging by what’s going on here, needed they certainly are. Walter Ferris presented them, as Mistress Stannard says, to her daughter and son-in-law, and they certainly are well worn. Hardly the sort of things one would expect a man such as Master Ferris, who owns a house like White Towers, to offer as wedding presents. Can anyone say who originally owned them?’
Bridget Ferris made a sharp movement, and her little dog yelped as one of her feet caught it. Walter glanced at her, and like Thomas earlier, she was still. There was a silence. If Bridget knew the answer to Wilder’s question, then she was not going to say so. She would not disobey Walter. Probably, she dared not. I found myself wondering about their marriage. Walter, no doubt, had insisted on her compliance in everything. She had kept her dignity by holding herself aloof from the world, never complaining and never crossing him. She had made herself into a figure of cool elegance and turned for love to her little dogs. I looked appealingly at her, but she avoided my eyes. There was no hope to be had from her.
And then Margaret, who had been gazing at the cloaks with a frown on her small freckled face, suddenly got up and went to look more closely at them. Wilder was still holding them up. She handled them both, examining their linings and then looked at Heron.
‘This green cloak used to belong to Lucy,’ she said. ‘Thomas’s sister. It’s certainly hers. Hers was worn at the neck . . . just like this . . .’ She pointed to the scuffed place where the nap had worn away. ‘And here, the lining has been mended. I did that myself! It was before Lucy was married. She lived here then, and we knew each other. I was better at needlework than she. She liked this cloak,’ Margaret said. ‘Even though it was old. She said it was warm, and she liked the colour.’
She looked at Thomas questioningly, a mute request for support, but he stiffened, noticeably still holding his back away from the bench behind him. ‘Well, I’m sure this was Lucy’s!’ she said. Thomas still kept silent, and looking deflated, she went back to her seat.
I seized my chance. ‘Lucy, Thomas’s sister, is the one who lately died of smallpox. It was just before my daughter’s wedding. Thomas said as much, when I . . . met him at that time.’
‘No doubt,’ said Heron. ‘But as to whether the green cloak was really hers . . . Margaret Emory is a sweet young girl, but for that very reason, I can’t give too much weight to what she says. A few marks of wear on a cloak are not enough to prove its provenance.’
‘There is something I wish to say,’ Sybil announced.
Ferris glared at her, but Heron nodded.
‘When I looked in Master Ferris’s document box, in his study,’ said Sybil clearly, ‘I found – found – the letter from Anne Percy, the one Master Ferris has said is a forgery. It isn’t. It was there in the box. Wasn’t it said, earlier, that Master Ferris has offered to produce it? I ask that this should be done. I also ask that Anne Percy’s original letter to Mistress Stannard should be brought here so that the handwriting can be compared. I have seen both letters, and I can say that they will match.’
‘As it happens,’ said Brockley, ‘I have that letter with me. Your husband gave that to us as well, madam, along with the cloaks. He said he wanted to arm us with anything we might need to prove that there is a campaign against you, possibly – even probably – on behalf of Anne Percy.’
I drew a long, thankful breath, thanking heaven that I had stopped Hugh from burning that letter. But Heron looked annoyed. Indeed, he resembled a heron who has aimed a stab at a fish, only to see the fish flick away just in time. His nose was not only long and slightly curved, I could swear that it was also, slightly, tinged with yellow, the finishing touch for his remarkable resemblance to the bird whose name he bore. I wondered if the name were really a coincidence, or if the long legs and long neck and yellow tinged aquiline nose were inherited characteristics that went back for generations and had won the family the name of Heron, in some previous century.
But Wilder and Brockley had brought something forceful into the room with them. Sybil and I were no longer two defenceless women; we had champions. Also, Sybil’s request was reasonable, especially as the letter she wished to have displayed was actually to hand. A responsible sheriff could scarcely refuse her. Jane Cobbold had said that Heron had integrity, and I had seen already that this was true. Bigoted though he was, he would not have been appointed sheriff unless he possessed a sense of responsibility. I held my breath, hoping that it would prevail.
It did, though I think only just. There was a pause, and then: ‘Very well,’ he said. Grudgingly, but he said it.
‘I will accompany Master Ferris to fetch his letter,’ said Brockley, meaningly. ‘Just in case something should happen to it on the way.’
‘I am perfectly willing to produce it,’ said Ferris coldly.
The two of them went off. While they were gone, Wilder busied himself in laying the cloaks out on the table, evidently hoping that someone else besides Margaret would inspect and identify them. Brockley and Ferris reappeared, Ferris holding a sheet of paper. ‘Here it is,’ Ferris said.
Sir Edward took it from him. Brockley pulled a small scroll from under his doublet and handed him that as well. ‘This is the letter that was sent to Mistress Stannard.’
I knew Anne Percy’s words to me by heart, and Sybil had told me what was in her message to Walter. Sir Edward was a Protestant. He must surely be repelled by such documents, full as they were of hatred not only for me, but also for the religion that both he and I followed.
Heron read both letters and then sat with one in each hand, glancing from one to the other. ‘I agree,’ he said, ‘that the writing on these two seems to be identical.’
The admission came easily, freely. I exchanged a glance of sheer relief with Sybil.
And then stark unreason filled the room.
‘I said before,’ said Ferris, ‘that the letter Mistress Stannard claims was sent to her could be a forgery as much as the one that was put in my document box. These people are clever. They are quite capable of inventing clues to clear themselves and point fingers at me.’
‘Yes. I am not satisfied,’ said Sir Edward Heron. He handed the letters to Parkes, who tossed them casually on to the table. ‘I am very
far from satisfied,’ Heron repeated. ‘I will deal with the letters first. That the letters were written by the same hand proves nothing. Mr Ferris has a point there. Both could indeed be forgeries, prepared as a means of defence against the charge of witchcraft – by incriminating him instead. One could well have been planted in this house by the woman Jester and the other made ready to support it.
‘Now, the matter of the love potion. Thomas Ferris is clearly willing to testify under oath that he purchased such a potion from Mrs Stannard. She claims that her servants would say otherwise, but the testimony of loyal servants can only be suspect. If she did make such a philtre, it was not illegal, but would indicate that she is acquainted with the dark arts. I have to say that the way in which she attempted to escape last night seems to bear this out. Mr Brockley says there was a further set of picklocks, but he is clearly one of her loyal servants and his evidence is doubtful on that account. As for the two well-worn cloaks; I repeat, I cannot trust the word of a young wench like Margaret here. Many old cloaks look alike.’
‘I know the green one was Lucy’s cloak!’ Margaret spoke up valiantly. ‘I recognized where it was mended; I mended it myself! And she had a brown one, as well, just like the other cloak!’ She pointed.
‘Young Mistress Emory no doubt believes what she says,’ said Heron, not speaking to Margaret but to the whole room. ‘But I repeat, many cloaks look alike, and many may have mended linings.’
‘I know my own needlework!’
‘Be quiet!’ ordered Ferris. ‘The sheriff is speaking. You are not to interrupt. Where are your manners, girl?’
‘It may be that Mistress Emory wishes to defend people she has come to like,’ said Heron, while Margaret went crimson and her eyes filled with tears of chagrin and helpless rage. ‘Either way, her testimony is as doubtful as that of Mr Brockley.’ Brockley swore aloud at this point, and I saw that on his high forehead, there were specks that were not freckles but sweat. Heron paid him no heed. ‘On the other hand,’ Heron said, ‘I have known Mr Ferris for many years. Despite our philosophical differences, I find it hard to believe that he is the villain that Mrs Stannard pretends.’
Sybil exclaimed: ‘But . . .’ and was silenced by Peter Maine, who stepped forward and put a hand over her mouth.
‘And there is one more thing,’ said Heron. ‘There is a further piece of evidence against Mrs Stannard – and therefore against her creature, Mrs Jester – which I have not as yet mentioned.’
He sounded triumphant, like an assassin who has just whisked out a hidden dagger. Or a heron who has impaled an elusive fish at last.
‘I suspect,’ he said, ‘that Mrs Stannard, and therefore, most probably, her woman servant, are coven members, since they are associates not only of the witch Gladys Morgan, who has so far escaped justice, but also – and this is certainly true of Mrs Stannard – of the condemned witches Jennet Ward, Margery Seldon and their servant, the whore Elizabeth Hayes, more commonly called Bessie. I dismiss the so-called evidence in their favour as worthless. They are now under arrest.’
EIGHTEEN
Unspoken Bargain
Brockley said: ‘What?’
And Sybil cried: ‘Oh, no!’
I was momentarily speechless. This was another thunderbolt from a blue sky, even more shocking than Thomas’s lying testimony, far more shocking than having Anne Percy’s letters dismissed as forgeries.
Then I found myself babbling incoherently: ‘But this is nonsense; Jennet and Margery, they’re two ordinary, decent women; and little Bessie’s no whore, she’s just a young girl who made a mistake, but Jennet and Margery are going to look after her and her child—’
Heron raised a silencing hand, and my wild outburst died away.
‘I have had suspicions for a long time concerning the two women Jennet Ward and Margery Seldon,’ said Heron. ‘Mrs Seldon has a reputation for brewing herbal remedies, to the point where some of her neighbours regard her as their local wise woman, and the gap between witch and wise woman is notoriously narrow. In addition, she and Mrs Ward have for years lived unnatural lives. Until lately, Mr Ferris was an occasional visitor to their home, taking an interest because one of them was the widow of a former employee of his. He has reported that even in warm summer weather, the two of them shared a bed.’
He was using the past tense. I began to tremble.
Heron pressed on. ‘They were often heard to address each other by endearments, and they divided the business of living in the way that husband and wife would do. Mrs Seldon worked with Elizabeth Hayes, cooking and cleaning the house – and also growing herbs and brewing potions – while Mrs Ward looked after the money.’
‘Mrs Ward does beautiful embroidery,’ I said, defiantly using the present tense, but I knew as I spoke that my protest was trite, feeble.
‘And,’ said Heron, unmoved, ‘their willingness to shelter a wanton like the girl Bessie Hayes is a further proof of their low morality. That you, who shelter Gladys Morgan, have also sought their company makes them still more questionable – even if there were not more serious evidence against them, and there is. When we met at a wedding, some time ago now, Mrs Stannard, did I not mention that a certain type of book had been found in a number of houses? I decided, recently, to have their home raided. Such a book was discovered there, hidden in a pile of music. That was when I ordered their arrest.’
I stared at him, dumbfounded.
‘The book was a collection of recipes for magical potions,’ Heron said. ‘It was the work of a printer who was executed in the days of King Henry for producing seditious literature. The women denied knowing that the book was there, of course, but to me, it was the evidence that proved their guilt. All three were executed yesterday, in Guildford. I was present, as was my duty. That was why I could not come here until today.’
‘I did not witness the hangings myself,’ Ferris remarked. ‘But I understand that they all died hard.’
There was a whimper from Margaret, who had hidden her face in her hands. Nausea clenched at my guts. Ferris’s face was smug; the expression of one who has brought a difficult mission to a satisfactory conclusion.
My mind worked feverishly. The full nature of the campaign against me was now clear. It had three prongs, not two. It was a trident instead of a pitchfork. The weakest prong was the nonsense about the love potion. The other two were the infected cloaks and the incriminating books. The books had been put into a household which was already under suspicion, and the ladies there had been persuaded to further their acquaintance with us, to cast the shadow of that suspicion over us – or me – as well. Hadn’t they said that Ferris himself had suggested that they should invite Hugh and myself to dine? From the start, Ferris had known that Heron would not be anxious to accuse me officially. He had done all he could to load the dice against me.
He had multiplied his chances by planting not one book on poor Jennet and Margery but two. Hugh had burned the other one. I recalled our moment of doubt when Hugh found it. If even the sceptical Stannards could wonder (for Hugh had shared my uncertainty), then Sir Edward would have been all too easy to convince. I was ashamed now of those doubts. It was plain enough to me that Jennet and Margery and their hapless maidservant were also Ferris’s victims, tools in his campaign to harm me, used and then abandoned to their fate. He had built on the friendship that was already growing between us. Dear God, we had almost signed their death warrants by inviting them to Meg’s wedding.
But I still couldn’t take it in. I could see, in my mind, their pleasant thatched house, the polished furniture, the musical instruments that occupied every corner; I could hear Margery and Bessie laughing in the kitchen, hear Margery warning Bessie against reaching to a high shelf or lifting a heavy saucepan . . .
They couldn’t be dead. They couldn’t have died like that! What had it been like for them when they were seized and taken from their charming home, their happy, harmless occupations, to be shut in some horrible cell in Guildford amid dirt and foul co
mpany and then dragged before a judge who probably shared Heron’s bigotry? They can hardly have believed what was happening. In Gladys I had witnessed the terror they must have felt. Jennet. Margery. Bessie!
‘Bessie was with child!’ I said desperately. ‘She can’t have been hanged! It isn’t right! It would have killed the child as well! It—’
‘A child of the devil, no doubt,’ said Heron coolly. ‘Engendered, most likely, in the course of their unholy rites.’
In his creaky voice, Giles Parkes said: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Nor a witch’s spawn. Perhaps you were present when the spawning took place?’
The very air around me seemed to be growing dark. I looked frantically round, and it was Brockley, understanding, who took my arm and steadied me on to a bench before my legs gave way completely. ‘Take deep breaths,’ he said. ‘Lean forward, put your head between your knees.’
I did as he said, and the darkness receded. I sat up again, slowly. I had not fainted. I was still conscious and able to look about me. I looked at the faces of my enemies: Heron, whose chilly eyes were like spears; the chaplain, self-satisfied and vengeful both at once. Peter Maine and Walter Ferris, both smiling contentedly. The three black crows.
Strange alliances here: Catholic and Protestant united to destroy me, though not for the same reasons.
My spinning brain clutched at reality, as someone falling downstairs might grab at a banister to stop themselves from toppling further. Walter Ferris had guided poor Jennet, and Margaret, and Bessie, into close contact with me. I was sure he had planted those books on them. Had he also planted some at Hawkswood? Through Dorothy, perhaps. We might not have found them. Somehow, I must get a warning to Hugh! And there was something else. According to the boastful Maine, it had been Walter who, by using a third party, had made Jane Cobbold—
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