Scarlet Widow

by Graham Masterton

  Augustus took them round the house and across a red-brick yard to the stables. Behind the stables, with their own small gardens, there was a row of cottages where the Gilman’s nine slaves lived, with their wives and children. Most of them were standing outside the cottage at the farthest end of the row, sobbing and wailing.

  A young woman in a black headscarf and a plain grey cotton dress was standing inside the open door of the cottage, with three small children clinging around her. She hadn’t been crying, but Beatrice thought that she had never seen anybody looking so bereft.

  ‘This is Quamino’s wife, Sally,’ said Augustus. ‘Quamino is right inside here.’

  Inside the cottage there was only a single room with three wooden chairs and a table and a wide bed under the window. Quamino was lying on the bed covered by a blood-patterned sheet. His face was puffed up with yellowish blisters and his hair had been burned to crisp white ash.

  Beatrice approached the bed and looked down at him. It was suffocatingly hot inside the cottage and the smell of stale cinnamon and sweat was overwhelming. When she bent over the bed, however, and inhaled deeply through her nostrils, she picked up several other aromas – pine resin, and naphtha, and a sulphurous odour, too.

  ‘Come away now, Bea,’ said Francis from the doorway.

  ‘I won’t be a moment,’ said Beatrice. She folded back the sheet so that she could see Quamino’s chest. The upper part was covered with suppurating yellow blisters, like his face, but lower down his flesh had been burned so deeply in places that his ribs were gleaming through. Around his armpits she could see a white crusty tidemark that looked like salt. She licked the tip of her finger and touched it, and almost at once she felt an intense burning sensation, as if she had pressed her finger against a smoothing-iron. She hastily wiped it on her shawl. It was quicklime. She could guess now what had happened to Quamino and his fellow slaves. They had been stripped naked, tied up, and then liberally plastered in a thick blend of pine resin, quicklime and naphtha, and probably saltpetre, too.

  The Devil hadn’t done this, not unless the Devil was a chemist. This was Greek fire, or sticky fire. Her father had once mixed some up to burn out a hornets’ nest that was too high up to be knocked down with a pole.

  Beatrice drew back the sheet over Quamino’s body and stepped out into the sunshine. Chickens were strutting up and down outside the cottages and somewhere a dog was barking. Francis said, ‘Well? Have you learned anything? Do you have any idea who might have killed him?’

  Beatrice turned to Quamino’s widow, Sally. Although she had three children, she couldn’t have been older than twenty-one or twenty-two. She dropped her gaze when Beatrice looked at her so that she wouldn’t appear disrespectful.

  Beatrice laid a consoling hand on her arm and said, ‘I’m sorry. I know you tried your best to save him, but there was nothing that you could have done. He was burned by a kind of fire that not even water can put out.’

  She wasn’t sure that Sally understood her, but she nodded, even though she still didn’t raise her eyes.

  Francis frowned and said, ‘Bea? What do you mean? What kind of fire is it that water cannot put out?’

  ‘The fire of hell, reverend,’ George Gilman put in, before Beatrice could answer. ‘The fire that the Devil keeps stoked for all eternity to punish sinners and threaten the pious.’

  ‘So it was Satan who did this?’ asked Francis.

  ‘In a way, yes,’ said Beatrice. She didn’t want to contradict George Gilman to his face or to give the impression that Francis had a wife who was too outspoken.

  *

  She climbed up on to Nathaniel’s wagon so that he could drive her home. Just before they reached the carved wooden archway across the entrance to the Gilman farm she saw Jonathan Shooks approaching them in his calash, from the direction of Penacook. She heard him call out to Samuel to slow down and as their carriages drew alongside each other he raised his tricorn hat to her.

  ‘Goody Scarlet!’ he greeted her. ‘Fancy seeing you here!’

  ‘I should say the same to you, Mr Shooks.’

  ‘Well, I received news that something untoward had occurred here and so I came at once to see if there was anything that I could do to help.’

  ‘If you can describe the burning alive of four of Mr Gilman’s slaves as ‘untoward’, sir – then, yes, something untoward has happened. My husband is here to pray for their souls.’

  ‘Ah, that’s good. We all know how effective your husband’s prayers can be.’

  ‘There is no call for sarcasm, Mr Shooks.’

  ‘Please – I hold nothing but admiration for your husband’s faith. Is there any indication who might be responsible for this atrocity?’

  ‘I thought you were the expert on colonial demons, Mr Shooks.’

  Jonathan Shooks took a breath, as if he were about to answer back, and perhaps accuse her of sarcasm, but all he did was to nod and give her a smile that said ‘touché’ and then rap with his cane on the side of his calash. Samuel let out one of his unearthly screeching noises and Jonathan Shooks went rattling off.

  *

  Back at the parsonage, Beatrice strained the pale green lungwort infusion through a muslin bag and then poured it into an earthenware bottle, which she corked.

  She wrote a note to Judith Buckley, explaining that she should give each of the twins two tablespoons once every three hours, and that she would call into the village tomorrow to see how they were improving. She gave the bottle to Mary so that she could take it to the Buckleys on her way home.

  ‘And, Mary, please don’t drop it! You know what a butterfingers you can be!’

  ‘Yes, Goody Scarlet. No.’

  As Beatrice turned to go back into the house, she caught sight of the tall figure in the brown hooded cloak standing at the very end of the driveway, in the darkest shadows underneath the trees. She shouted, ‘Mary!’ but Mary was too far away now to hear her. She thought of running after her, but then she heard Noah tumble over in the kitchen and start to cry.

  She went to the kitchen and picked him up, and carried him out to the porch. By now, though, Mary had reached the end of the driveway and the figure had vanished.

  Twenty-one

  It was almost dark by the time Francis returned home, riding their new horse, Uriel. He had been named for the archangel of healing, one of only four archangels who could stand in the presence of God. Beatrice came out with a lantern to help him see his way round to the paddock.

  ‘There, he’s going to be a fine strong driver,’ said Francis, patting Uriel on his glossy reddish-brown flank. ‘It was very generous of Henry to let us have him for such a reasonable price. It proves that there are still good people in this world.’

  ‘How are Henry’s cattle?’ asked Beatrice as they walked back into the house.

  ‘Well – they’re all recovered, he says. Even the worst of them, he says, that were very close to death.’

  ‘So your prayers did work, after all. So much for those who would say that you have lost your connection to God.’

  Beatrice blew out the lantern and then they went through to the parlour, which was lit by four sconces on the walls. ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked. ‘I have had no appetite at all after what I saw today, but you should eat.’

  Francis shook his head. ‘I couldn’t, Bea. I keep thinking of what agony those poor men must have suffered. George is so devout and yet it doesn’t seem to enter his mind that slaves can feel pain as keenly as the rest of us. He seems to worry more about their value than their souls.’

  He hesitated, and then he said, ‘Besides, there is something else that has greatly disturbed me.’

  Beatrice took hold of his hand, but he turned his head away as if he were ashamed of himself.

  ‘What is it, Francis? Tell me.’

  ‘Henry Mendum. He told me that his Devons had recovered, but only after a visit from Jonathan Shooks. Apparently, Shooks dosed the cattle with some elixir, and spoke some incantation over
them, and only a few hours afterwards they began to revive. Yet you and I saw for ourselves, didn’t we, how desperately sick they were? I know little of animal husbandry, Bea, but I would have given them very little chance at all.’

  ‘Francis, you must not allow Jonathan Shooks to unsettle you so much! You don’t get upset when Dr Merrydew relieves somebody’s fever, do you? Or if Rodney Bartlett cures a horse of the staggers?’

  ‘Of course not, because they don’t make me feel that my prayers are completely ineffectual, in the way that Jonathan Shooks does. They regard my prayers as a spiritual supplement to the practical work that they do, not as some Old World irrelevance.’

  ‘Francis, God is not an Old World irrelevance. God is relevant the whole world over!’

  ‘You know that and I know that. But now that Jonathan Shooks has healed the Buckley children, and Henry’s cattle, I suspect that more and more people in the village are beginning to doubt my ability to protect them, and are turning to him. “The Reverend Scarlet knows nothing of the demons that plague us here in the colonies.” “The Reverend Scarlet couldn’t even stop them from slaughtering his own pigs, or causing his own horse to drop dead in its tracks, right in front of his nose!”’

  ‘Oh, Francis, the people of Sutton know you and love you too well. They wouldn’t speak like that about you.’

  Francis gave a quick, bitter shake of his head. ‘When their own families and their own livelihoods are threatened, Bea, people will turn on anybody.’

  *

  The next morning, very early, Mary came bursting into the house when Francis and Beatrice were still in bed and called up the staircase, ‘Goody Scarlet! Goody Scarlet! Are you awake yet?’

  Beatrice threw back the sheet and climbed out of bed. Francis lifted his head from his pillow, blinking, his hair sticking up at the back like a cock’s comb.

  ‘What is it?’ he blurted. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Beatrice ran downstairs in her nightgown and bare feet. Mary was standing in the hallway, biting her lip with anxiety.

  ‘What’s happened, Mary?’ She prayed that it wasn’t another dreadful atrocity like the Gilmans’ slaves.

  ‘Little Tristram Buckley, Goody Scarlet... he looks as if Jesus is just about to take him!’

  ‘We’ll come directly. Give us a few moments to dress and harness the shay. The Reverend Scarlet brought home a new horse yesterday evening.’

  ‘I saw it in the paddock. I can harness him for you while you get yourselves ready.’

  ‘How is Apphia? Is she bad, too?’

  ‘No, no. It’s only Tristram who’s so sick. Goody Buckley is beside herself.’

  ‘You’ll take care of Noah, won’t you, while we’re gone?’

  ‘Of course I will, Goody Scarlet. I’ll guard him with my life.’

  Francis was almost dressed by the time she came back upstairs and she quickly stepped into her petticoats. She had to ask Francis to lace her corset for her because Noah had woken up and started crying and Mary had gone to attend to him.

  ‘Not tight enough!’ she told him as he fumbled with the laces.

  ‘Dear God, Bea, I don’t want to squeeze the very life out of you!’

  They hurried outside. Mary had harnessed Uriel and tethered him to the split-rail fence beside the driveway. Uriel was restless. Although it was warm this morning, the sky was slate-grey and thundery, and serpents’ tongues of lightning were flickering on the horizon towards Bedford.

  Francis clicked his tongue and Uriel set off along the driveway at a trot, his head held high. Even if Henry Mendum had upset Francis by appealing to Jonathan Shooks for help in curing his cattle, he had sold him a very handsome young bay.

  When they arrived at the village green there were only three or four women gathered by the front door of the Buckley house. It was nearly six o’clock now and every woman in the village had her morning duties – baking and washing and scouring the rooms and preparing the family breakfast. Francis and Beatrice went into the house and the second they stepped into the hallway they heard a terrible, heart-tearing cry of anguish.

  The cry was so shrill and so agonized that at first Beatrice thought it was Judith, but when she entered the children’s bedchamber she saw that it was Nicholas, who was standing next to Tristram’s crib holding the little boy pressed to his chest. His face was a mask of anguish, his mouth dragged downwards and tears sliding down his cheeks. When he opened his eyes and saw Beatrice and Francis he could only choke out, ‘Why, Lord, why? Why have You taken this poor innocent child, who has done no harm to anyone?’

  Beatrice went over to Judith, who was holding Apphia close to her. Apphia was sobbing, too, although she was still wheezy and struggling for breath. Judith’s eyes were almost blind with tears and her mouth was puckered tightly, but she was silent.

  ‘You gave them the lungwort?’ asked Beatrice in a gentle voice.

  Judith nodded. ‘They both took it, and at first they both seemed better.’

  She had to pause for a moment to swallow her emotion, but then she said, ‘At midnight I gave them more, and still they both appeared well. But when I came in to see them this morning Tristram was gasping for air.

  ‘Several times he stopped breathing altogether, but then he would start again. I tried to give him some more lungwort, but he couldn’t swallow it. It was then that I saw Mary passing the house and I asked her to send for you.’

  Nicholas laid Tristram gently back on his horsehair mattress. It was damp with sweat and stained with urine. Beatrice leaned over him and felt for his pulse, but there was none. She lifted his eyelids, one after the other, but his pale blue eyes were staring only at heaven. Last of all, just to make sure, she asked Judith for a hand-mirror. She held it close to Tristram’s face, but there was no clouding of breath on it.

  Nicholas stood close beside her with his fists clenched, looking both miserable and angry.

  ‘That witch!’ he said, with his nostrils flaring. ‘I shall have that witch burned at the stake, I swear to God!’

  ‘Nicholas,’ said Francis, ‘this is a case for the court, not for revenge. Besides, what proof do you have that the Widow Belknap was responsible for this?’

  ‘Who else could it be? Who else has the ability to make children sick unto death without even entering their bedchamber? Who else is always so vindictive and constantly makes such threats against us?’

  ‘Nicholas, if you have any accusation to make against the Widow Belknap you should send for Constable Jewkes.’

  ‘That tosspot? He’s more than likely still in bed, or under the table, or in a ditch, or wherever he fell asleep last night. No – I will speak to her myself. I want to hear from her own lips why she harboured such hatred for us that she took away the life of our beloved boy.’

  Beatrice said, ‘Nicholas, you should be careful. I have no reason to suppose that you are right and that it was indeed the Widow Belknap who put a curse on Tristram, but at the same time you should beware of making an enemy of her.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of her witchery,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’m going to go and confront her now, this minute!’

  Francis caught at his sleeve, but he twisted it away and pushed through the goodwives crowding in the hallway. There were many more women gathered in the house now, and outside on the village green, too. Beatrice followed Nicholas through the front door and as she did so she saw that Jonathan Shooks had arrived and was just stepping down from his calash. Today he was wearing a coat of a much darker grey, as if it had been cut from the thunderous clouds above their heads. When he saw Beatrice he gave her his usual smile of acknowledgement, part appreciative and part mocking.

  Nicholas stalked to the far corner of the village green, to the Widow Belknap’s house. By the time he reached it, rain had started falling, fat heavy drops that rustled into the weeds and flowers of the Widow Belknap’s front garden.

  Beatrice came close behind him as he marched up to the porch, and both Francis and Goody Rust came close behind he
r, as well as Jonathan Shooks and William Rolfe, the shoemaker, who had happened to be walking past and was obviously keen to find out what the fracas was all about.

  A large brass knocker hung on the Widow Belknap’s green-painted front door, in the shape of a snarling wolf’s head. Nicholas took hold of it and banged it hard, three times. Almost immediately, the door opened and the Widow Belknap appeared, wearing the same brick-red gown that Beatrice had seen her in yesterday. Her black parrot, Magic, came strutting out, too.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked, looking from one of their faces to the next. ‘Have you all come to pay me a social call? If so, I regret that I am freshly out of cake.’

  ‘I am come about my baby son, Tristram, you witch!’ said Nicholas. His voice was wobbling with anger. ‘I am come to ask why you took his life. If you had wanted to take your revenge on us, for whatever reason, why could you not have asked for money, or some other recompense in kind, or even taken my life – but not the life of a child who had so many years to look forward to?’

  There was a very long silence, during which the Widow Belknap stared at Nicholas unblinkingly. He started to repeat his accusation, but she interrupted him and said, ‘I can hear what you are accusing me of, Mr Buckley. However, I had no involvement in it whatever. How could I have taken your baby’s life when I was here in my own house all of yesterday and all of last night? And why would I want to? I would have thought you had enough trouble with your own wife without accusing me of any misconduct!’

  ‘You can’t deceive me, you witch!’ Nicholas retorted. ‘Everybody in the village knows that you have no need to leave your lair to spread your mischief! You can send that infernal black bird of yours, or one of your cats, or simply a wraith that flies invisible through the darkness, with breath that can suffocate anybody who happens to have displeased you!’

  The Widow Belknap looked him up and down with her intense green eyes, as if she were trying to decide what size of coffin he would need.

  ‘How dare you come to my door and slander me so?’ she replied, although her voice was much quieter and more controlled than his. ‘How dare you?’