The Witch Hunter's Tale

by Sam Thomas

  “Who are you?” she asked. “And what do you want with me? I’ve already been searched, so there’s nothing more to find.”

  “Rebecca Hooke searched you?” Martha asked.

  Mother Lee nodded.

  “And she found a teat?”

  “She said she did.” Mother Lee would give us no more than she had to.

  “I was with Lucy Pierce when she was in travail,” I said. “I delivered her of a stillborn child.”

  “You’re a midwife then?” the old woman asked. “Makes sense. I saw you come and go.”

  “The neighbors say you bewitched the baby.”

  “Not the baby, the mother.” Mother Lee spoke with barely controlled fury. “She deserved everything that happened to her, and worse. I cursed her for her want of kindness, and it killed the child. So be it.”

  “You murdered the child?” Martha asked, amazed by such casual cruelty.

  Mother Lee smiled at the memory, and it made my skin crawl. She was a foul woman indeed.

  “She invited all the neighbors except me to her travail,” Mother Lee said. Poison dripped from every word. “All save me. She offered them food, drink, and a well-fired hearth, while I watched from the cold. How would you have me repay such unkindness? I threw a few stones, cracked a window, and said a few words. I had my revenge.”

  I was seized by the desire to escape Mother Lee’s malefic presence as quickly as I could. “Besides Mrs. Hooke, who has come to see you?” I asked.

  Mother Lee shrugged. What did it matter to her?

  “If you won’t talk to us, we won’t be able to help you,” Martha said.

  Mother Lee laughed high and cruel.

  “You’ll help me?” she cried. “You’ll help me? Even if I believed you’d want to do such a thing, how would you do that? Would you go before the jury and tell them I’m a good neighbor? Tell them that the Searcher didn’t find the Witch’s Mark on me? Even if you promised me that, it wouldn’t make a difference, for I said those killing words. Beside that, you’ve seen what it’s like in my cell. I’ll need the devil’s own luck to live long enough to see my own trial and execution. So I’ll tell you the same thing I told the others: Go to hell.”

  “What others?” I asked again.

  She glared at me before answering. “There were two men from the city who came. Told me if I exposed other witches they’d set me free.”

  “And you refused them?” Martha asked.

  “They were liars, weren’t they,” Mother Lee replied. “I could see it in their faces. They’d take the names and hang me all the same. I sent them away empty handed.” She laughed to herself. “At least the one who still had both his hands.” She held up a hand with the last two fingers folded down and grasped at the air with her thumb and forefinger.

  “One of them had a ruined hand,” I said. “He’d lost his fingers?”

  Mother Lee nodded.

  “It must have been Mark Preston and Mr. Hodgson,” Martha said.

  At that moment the door to the tower burst open and three of the Castle guards entered the room. “We’re here for the body,” one announced, and I pointed him up the stairs.

  Without another word to us, Mother Lee followed the guards back to her cell. It seemed she had answered enough of our questions. Martha and I slipped into the Castle yard.

  “She’s right about dying before she’s tried,” Martha said as we crossed toward the gate. “Gaol-fever will carry many of them away before the hangman can begin his work. We have to do something to stop all this.”

  “I know,” I replied, but I had few good ideas as to the best course to take.

  “Where to now?” Martha asked.

  “Let us go to Mr. Breary’s,” I suggested. “Perhaps Will has found something of use in his papers.” We made our way to the Castle gate, and back into the city. Mercifully the wind had abated, though the cold still pierced my skin and made my bones feel brittle. I could not help feeling a measure of pity for the women confined in the Castle. Their cells would have been cold and uncomfortable even in the warmest of winters, but a season such as this would make their suffering unbearable.

  Will answered our knock as soon as we arrived. The moment he opened the door, I knew that something was wrong.

  “Someone’s broken into Mr. Breary’s study,” Will said. “And they burned his papers.”

  Chapter 12

  “What? How can this be?” I cried.

  Will shrugged helplessly and gestured for us to enter. We went straight to George’s study. Even though I knew what we’d find, I gasped when I saw the thoroughness with which the intruder had worked. Cabinet doors stood wide open, as did every drawer of his desk, yet there was hardly a scrap of paper to be found. The hearth itself completed the story of what had happened, for it was choked with ashes and a bucket sat nearby, full to overflowing. Only a few scraps had survived the conflagration, but nothing of any use—our incendiary was nothing if not complete. Curiously, George’s bound books had not been burned, but had been taken down from the shelves and stacked neatly next to the hearth.

  “What happened with these?” I wondered. I picked up a volume—a quarto of psalms—and fanned the pages.

  “Mr. Breary would sometimes put loose paper between the pages,” Will responded despondently. “Whoever did this looked through every book to make sure that everything written in Mr. Breary’s own hand had been burned.”

  “Why?” Martha asked. “It must have taken hours. Who would gain from doing this?”

  Will shrugged. “That’s all I’ve been thinking about since I arrived. It is not a short list.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well, there’s Agnes Greenbury. All evidence of her affair with Mr. Breary is now gone. And I know that Mr. Breary had loans out to men throughout the city—those records are burned, so his debtors are now free. His correspondence books are gone, account books gone, cargo books … his will … all are gone.”

  “His will is burned?” Martha asked.

  Will nodded. “There might be an older one somewhere, but he wrote a new one in November and I know he kept it close to hand.” He gestured at the open and entirely empty drawers of George’s desk.

  “Did you see it?” I asked. With George’s death, a great deal of money soon would change hands; more than enough for some men to kill.

  “No,” Will replied. “I summoned a scribe to write it and then witnessed his signature.”

  “You did see it,” Martha exclaimed.

  “I saw it, but he said he dared not let me read it,” Will said. Despair was etched into his face. “He told me that I would be very pleased, but I should merely sign at the bottom next to his footman. Now there is nothing.”

  I could find no words to comfort Will, for I knew he was right. No matter how close the two men had become, Will was in nowise George’s kin, and could expect nothing out of his estate. Unless the will had somehow survived burning, some distant cousin of George’s would soon receive a very pleasant surprise.

  The three of us searched the room for clues that clearly were not present.

  “Where were his servants?” Martha asked suddenly. “How did someone get into the study and then have the leisure to burn so much paper?”

  “I thought of that as well,” Will replied. “His serving-men have fled the house and taken all they owned. They may not even be in the city. The only servant left was his maid, and she said she knows nothing. Poor thing is terrified.”

  “And for a guess she sleeps in the garret,” I said.

  Will nodded. “Three stories up. If the incendiary came in the night, she wouldn’t have heard a thing.”

  I sighed heavily and took one last look around the room. “Let’s go home,” I said. “There is nothing more here.”

  As we walked back to my house, Martha and I told Will what we’d learned at the Castle.

  “Mark Preston is questioning witches?” Will said. “So we know that Joseph is indeed taking an interes
t in the interrogations. That’s something.”

  I shrugged. It didn’t tell us much, but after the disappointment of finding George’s papers burned, it seemed like a revelation. As we approached my house, the wind rose up, and I welcomed the thought of an afternoon next to the fire reading with Elizabeth. But as soon as we stepped through the front door, I knew it was not to be. My midwife’s valise and birthing stool waited in the entry hall, a sure sign that in our absence I’d been summoned to a labor. Hannah bustled in from the kitchen, Elizabeth close behind.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “A singlewoman from Goodramgate,” Hannah replied. “One of the matrons just was here. She said she’d wait for you at Goodramgate church and take you there.”

  Martha picked up the stool and handed me the valise.

  “We’ll see you in a few hours,” I said to Will as I embraced him.

  Will started to reply when a pounding on my front door nearly frighted us from our skins.

  Will swore and threw the door open to reveal a half-dozen members of the Town Watch.

  I had not even opened my mouth to berate them for their impertinence when they rushed in and tried to seize Will by his arms and legs. The uproar that followed will remain with me for the rest of my days.

  Will greeted the first solider through the door with the handle of his cane, and he fell to the ground, bright blood pouring from his nose. Will gave the second a terrible clout to the head, and he joined his comrade on the floor. The third and fourth threw themselves over their fallen mates, knocking Will to the ground. By now Martha had dropped my birthing stool and joined the fray, clapper-clawing one of the remaining soldiers so soundly he retreated into the street. With a roar, Hannah flew in from the kitchen wielding her rolling pin like a cudgel. She began to beat the soldiers who had tackled Will.

  The sergeant in charge of the squad decided—wisely, I think—to fight the rest of the battle from afar. He stood outside and began to shout that he had a writ for Will Hodgson’s arrest.

  “Stop!” I bellowed, and to my surprise all the combatants did. The two soldiers who had tackled Will looked at me, and Martha halted her attack on the last soldier who remained on his feet. Hannah gave the soldiers one last stroke and then lowered her weapon. I heard a sobbing behind me, and I found Elizabeth at the top of the stairs gazing down at the tumult, scared out of her senses.

  “Stop,” I said again, more softly this time. “I’ll not have this in my home.” I climbed the stairs, sat next to Elizabeth, and took her in my arms. She buried her face in my chest and continued to cry.

  “Sergeant,” I called out. “You say have a warrant?”

  He poked his head through the front door and cast a worried eye toward Martha and Hannah. “Yes, my lady, signed by the Lord Mayor.” He held up a sheet of paper that I took to be the writ in question.

  “And what is the reason for taking him?”

  “For murder,” the sergeant replied. Martha, Will, and I looked at each other trying to make sense of the accusation.

  “Murder?” I asked. “Certainly not of George Breary.” It could only be that, of course, but I still could not fathom it.

  “Yes, my lady,” said the Sergeant. “Mr. Breary.”

  “Then he will go with you,” I said. “There is no need to use violence or to invade my home.”

  Will and Martha started to object, but I held up my hand to silence them.

  “Will, I will take care of this, but you must go.” I turned to the sergeant. “Are you taking him to the Castle?”

  The sergeant shook his head. “With the Castle so overtaken with witches, I am to carry him to Peter’s Prison.”

  I was surprised and not a little pleased by this news. For as long as anyone could remember, the Minster had maintained its own gaol for those who ran afoul of the law within the cathedral’s grounds. Peter’s Prison was much smaller than the Castle, of course, and much closer to my house. With luck—and liberal payments to his jailors—I could reasonably hope that Will would not suffer too much during his confinement.

  After the soldiers led Will away, Martha turned to me, her eyes alive with fury. “How could you let them take him?” she demanded.

  “We had no choice,” I replied. “They had a warrant, so all was in order. Should we have tried to overpower the guards and send Will out of the city?”

  “But he was with us when Mr. Breary died! Joseph is behind this.”

  “Or the Lord Mayor,” I replied. “He signed the warrant. Whatever the case, we will see him released as soon as we can.”

  Martha stared at me in sullen silence.

  Elizabeth had stopped crying and looked up at me. “What has happened to Will?” she asked.

  “The watch has taken him,” I replied. “But do not worry. He will not be far, and we will see him home soon.” Elizabeth nodded. “Now go with Hannah, she’ll need your help with dinner.”

  Elizabeth descended the stairs, and Hannah took her hand. “Don’t forget the woman in travail,” Hannah said. “She’s waiting.”

  I nodded my thanks. I nearly had forgotten. I turned to retrieve my tools and my eyes lit upon Will’s cane. He had dropped it during his fight with the watch. I said a prayer of thanks that he’d not drawn the sword hidden inside and spilled even more blood. I picked it up and leaned it in the corner. It would wait there until he returned.

  Martha and I gathered my valise and the birthing stool, and stepped into the cold. She maintained her silence, angry that I’d allowed Will to be taken but unable to explain what we should have done differently.

  “If he is in Peter’s Prison we shall be able to care for him,” I said at last. “Things could be much worse.”

  “He is in gaol in winter,” she replied. “Things will be terrible enough.”

  “I will do my best,” I said. “And it will be enough.” I hoped it was true.

  “If Joseph is behind this, what does he mean to do?” Martha asked. By now we’d reached the top of Stonegate and turned east toward the Holy Trinity Church in Goodramgate.

  “If he murdered George, this could have been his plan all along,” I said. “He rids himself of a rival on the Council and sees his brother in gaol for the crime. Of course, the same could be true of the Lord Mayor if he ordered Will to be taken. His wife’s lover is dead, and another man accused of the deed.”

  “Will cannot be convicted,” Martha said. “We were with him when we heard Mr. Breary cry out.”

  “Conviction may be beside the point. Joseph may just want Will imprisoned for the time being.”

  “Or he may hope Will dies in gaol,” Martha said.

  “Or that,” I admitted.

  We walked in silence, each doing our best to fight back the sorrow and fear that threatened to overwhelm us. I reached out and took Martha’s hand.

  “We will save him,” I said. “We have accomplished more difficult tasks, haven’t we?”

  Martha squeezed my hand. “Aye, we have.”

  By now we’d reached the church. The heavy, square bell tower loomed above us, gray and threatening against the clouded sky. A lone figure stood before the church door peering in our direction. She was wrapped in layers upon layers, and she stomped her feet in hope of keeping warm. I took her to be the woman who had come to my house, for who else would be foolish enough to stand about in such cold?

  “You summoned a midwife,” I called out.

  “Thank God you’re here, my lady,” a voice answered from beneath a scarf. “I feared the cold might keep you at home, and I’d have to go in search of another midwife. I am Grace Fisher. Please come this way.” She turned and led us into the warren of streets behind the church. After a few twists and turns we arrived at our destination. The woman opened a low door and led us up a set of wooden stairs.

  “The mother’s name is Sarah Bates,” Grace said as we climbed. “She is our maidservant.” I could hear the anger in her voice, and I knew without asking that her husband had fathered the child. Grac
e led us to a small room occupied by a bed and a chest of drawers. A young woman sat on the bed. She’d drawn her knees to her chest and was breathing hard. We’d arrived in the midst of a labor pain.

  “Sarah, I am Lady Hodgson,” I announced. “I will be your midwife.”

  The girl nodded but said nothing.

  “I should examine you and see how you are faring,” I said. Again the girl nodded.

  “Is she mute?” Martha asked Grace.

  “I’m not,” Sarah said. “I just didn’t have anything to say.”

  “Good,” I said, suppressing a smile. At least the girl had some spirit to her. “Now let me see where we are.”

  Sarah moved to the edge of the bed, and I knelt between her legs. Martha handed me a vial of oil, and I anointed my hand. To my surprise I found that the child was ready to be born.

  “The child will be born soon,” I announced. “But before I offer you any help, you must tell me the name of the father.”

  Sarah’s eyes flicked over my shoulder to her mistress, and a look of uncertainty crossed her face. If I’d needed any more proof that her master had gotten her with child, I had it.

  Martha stepped forward and took Sarah’s hand. “We know it was your master. We just need you to say it aloud.” I was pleased, though not surprised, that Martha had come to the same conclusion as I. She would need several more years as my deputy to learn the mysteries of childbirth, but she could already tell the truth from lies as readily as any woman I knew.

  “Tell them the truth,” a man’s voice said from behind us. I whirled around, shocked both by the presence of a man in the delivery room and by the words he’d said. A man who could only be Mr. Fisher stood in the doorway behind Grace. He was handsome, appearing neither rich nor poor, and his face gave no sign of the sinful courses into which he’d fallen.

  “I got her with child,” he said to me. I saw Martha’s brow furrow as she absorbed the words.