Newes from the Dead

by Mary Hooper

  “And what sort of a woman is she, sir?” asked Dr. Gray.

  “The very lowest kind,” said Sir Thomas. “I was shocked and revolted to find that one of my own maidservants had been acting so lewdly, for I believed that I kept a Christian household.”

  “Quite, sir,” said Dr. Gray.

  “But since that . . . that woman was arrested, I’ve heard that she’d been making herself available to any man who came a-calling, whether he be barber, blacksmith, or baker. She’s brought shame upon my house and my good name with her loose and vulgar ways.”

  “I have not been loose!” I cried out. “Or only with one. And before I lay with him, I was unblemished.”

  “So you say, madam,” said Sir Thomas dismissively.

  “You may ask my fellow servants,” I said to the judge. “Ask them of my character.”

  The judge made a gesture toward the open court, as much as to say Did anyone there want to speak for me, but there was naught but silence. I was sad at this, but with Sir Thomas standing in front so puffed up and haughty, which of them was going to speak and say well of me and be cast onto the streets for their pains? Besides, so solemn and daunting was the air of the court that a mere servant would hardly have dared get to his feet, let alone have spoken.

  “Have you anything to say in mitigation?” Dr. Gray asked me next, and I did not understand what this meant and must have looked a buffoon, for he added, “Is there anything you want to say which might lessen your culpability? For instance, perhaps you overlaid the child, or stopped its breathing for just a moment because it was crying, and so by mistake it died.”

  “I did not!” I answered indignantly.

  He bowed to the judge. “I therefore conclude the case.”

  The judge spoke to the jury, telling them that they should now decide whether I spoke the truth or not, and they all got up and went into a huddle on the back bench, speaking together for ten minutes or so. And all this time I stood in the box hanging my head—for I could not look out upon those gathered there, and was scarce able to draw breath for the terror of my situation.

  When at last the twelve men regained their seats, the nearest of their number stood up. I looked toward him, and as I did so there came a harsh cough from Sir Thomas, and I swear that the juryman’s eyes flickered toward his. The apprehension came to me then that all was not going to go well for me.

  The juryman said, “We have reached our verdict, my lord.”

  “And is it the verdict of you all?” said the judge.

  “It is.”

  The judge asked, “How do you find the defendant, Anne Green: guilty or not guilty of murder?”

  “Guilty, my lord.”

  There was a gasp in the room, and I let the words settle into my brain. I recall screaming, then, “’Tis not true! May God be my witness I did not kill my child!” and I saw my mother on her feet, also crying out.

  “Silence!” Dr. Gray said.

  “I will now pass sentence,” said the judge when all was quiet again, and there was a pause before a tiny sound crossed the room: no more than a soft intake of breath from all assembled there.

  Bewildered to know what could have caused this, for he had not yet said what the sentence was, I looked to the judge and saw that he had placed a square of black silk foursquare upon his long white wig.

  “Anne Green,” he said solemnly, “you have been found guilty of infanticide—that is, the murder of your child—and I therefore sentence you to be taken to the castle yard and there hanged by the neck until dead.”

  I stared ahead, uncomprehending.

  “You should spend the rest of your time on this Earth praying for forgiveness for the monstrous sin you have committed, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.”

  The sergeant at arms beside me stepped forward and asked, “When should the sentence be carried out, my lord?”

  “Tomorrow morning at seven thirty,” the judge answered.

  I looked at him blankly, for I could scarce understand what had been ordered.

  “You are dismissed,” he said to me, and called for the next case to be brought in.

  As the sergeant at arms pushed me toward the stairs, I was aware of one more thing happening: of a smart gentleman (wearing the tasselled cap of a learned man and a long red silk waistcoat over a black cloak) standing and making a plea that my corpse, after hanging, should be granted to the university’s medical department so that it might be dissected for the furtherance of medical knowledge.

  And I heard my mother’s screams at this before I was pushed downstairs and re-shackled.

  Chapter ~ 20

  By one o’clock there were twenty-five people in the dissection room, and by one thirty, thirty-one. All were male but for Anne Green, and the room was no longer cold, but stuffy, and smelled of moist wool cloaks, stale tobacco, and damp hair. Everyone being hungry, a flagon of ale was sent for, and Martha, who had only anticipated a dozen for dinner, appeared with woefully inadequate portions of bread, cheese, and sliced meats and placed them on a folding butler’s table in the corridor just outside the room. The doctors hoped that some of the onlookers might, on seeing the paucity of the food, go and take their dinner in the nearby Rainbow, but no one seemed inclined to do so.

  Throughout this time, Robert continued with his note-taking.

  12.45 p.m.—The patient was bled again, and four ounces of blood flowed freely into the metal bowl.

  12.55 p.m.—Her legs were bound with linen strips to try and encourage the flow of blood to them.

  1.00 p.m.—The sore and bruised place on her neck (where rubbed by the hangman’s noose) was oiled in order to soothe it.

  1.15 p.m.—Her hands were chafed to warm and stimulate them.

  1.25 p.m.—Hot stones were placed beneath her feet.

  1.40 p.m.—A plaister of sheep dung and pitch was mixed and applied to her breast to endeavor to warm her heart.

  Anne Green’s response to all these attentions was to flutter her eyelids tremulously, but so quickly did this happen that those who were paying attention to another part of her body missed it. A pulse, however, had been detected by Dr. Petty, who was said to have sensitive fingers, but not by Dr. Willis. Dr. Bathurst was undecided as to whether or not he could feel anything.

  Robert recorded the ministrations carefully, willing her to live with every fiber of his being. He vowed to himself that she was not—could not be—guilty of murder.

  A notice had been received from the offices of the prison granting the woman named Anne Green a temporary reprieve, and this had been nailed to the wall behind where they worked, in case Sir Thomas should try to remove her.

  “If we can revive her, you know what this will do for Oxford, don’t you?” Dr. Willis said to Dr. Petty. He spoke in a low voice, but Robert, standing close by, was privy to their words.

  “We will obtain more fresh corpses, perhaps,” came the answer. “That will be an excellent good thing.”

  Dr. Willis nodded. “But as well as that . . .”

  Dr. Petty didn’t reply, for he was wondering whether to apply another plaister above Anne’s heart and what materials he should use to make it.

  “Why, people will flock here!” Dr. Willis went on. “Oxford will become a holy city. They’ll make a shrine of the place!”

  “They may.” Dr. Petty nodded.

  “They will! The people of England have passed through the abyss that was the Civil War and are looking for proof of God. This housemaid may be regarded as a messenger from him, to prove his existence.”

  With Dr. Petty looking unmoved, he went on earnestly, “William, this woman called on God to prove her innocence to the world. If she lives, then he has heard and saved her.”

  Dr. Petty smiled. “Perhaps.”

  “It can only be a most excellent thing for us!”

  “Yes, this could make our reputations. If she survives, then word will spread across the world of our success.”

  “Our success through Christ,”
Dr. Willis reminded him piously. “What we’ve done through his good graces.”

  “But what,” Dr. Bathurst interceded, “if the girl persists in this present state; this condition where she seems neither fully dead nor completely alive?”

  The medical men exchanged glances.

  “For I have heard,” Dr. Bathurst continued, “of someone who slept for a hundred years and didn’t speak or move in all that time.”

  The other two smiled. “That’s but a fairy tale!” said Dr. Petty.

  “Well, perhaps not a hundred years, but a very great number,” Dr. Bathurst assured them. “He was in a trance or a sleep and couldn’t be waked from it. About sixty years, I believe it was, before he finally died.”

  “Well, if Anne Green decides to play Sleeping Beauty with us,” said Dr. Willis, “they will still flock to Oxford!” He paused. “What if, though, she has no soul when she recovers? What if she is merely some form of wraith?”

  The others exchanged concerned looks but did not reply.

  Robert, after being privy to these conversations and prompted by further calls from the crowd outside, prepared himself to speak by breathing in deeply several times. Rehearsing in his head what he was to say, and pointing first outside and then at Anne in order to illustrate his speech, he asked, “M . . . m . . . m . . . mother?”

  “She is not a mother,” Dr. Petty said, glancing at him. “For that was the charge against her. That she had—”

  Robert shook his head, pointed to Anne again, and then outside. “Her . . . her . . . her . . . m . . . m . . .”

  “I think he means her mother is waiting outside in this foul weather,” Dr. Bathurst said.

  “That’s something we should think on,” said Dr. Petty. “Should we fetch the woman here? Should her family be witness to this miracle? This near-miracle,” he amended.

  Robert nodded vehemently, concerned about Anne’s family, but just as concerned about her opening her eyes and finding herself on a dissection table surrounded by doctors wearing bloodied aprons and wielding instruments, with ne’er a familiar face nearby.

  “I say they shouldn’t come in yet,” Dr. Willis declared, after thinking a moment. “Suppose she doesn’t survive? It would be cruel to raise hopes that might well prove unfounded.”

  Dr. Bathurst lowered his voice slightly. “And suppose she lives, but runs mad? What then?”

  “Indeed.” Dr. Petty sighed as he considered this. “We must remember that her family will only be simple folk, and this may be more than they can comprehend.”

  Dr. Willis nodded. “They’ve seen her hanged and pronounced dead . . . and then to find that she is suddenly not dead . . .”

  “They will think her an angel!” said Dr. Bathurst.

  “’Tis enough to make even a wise man consider his sanity,” said Dr. Petty. He turned to Robert. “Perhaps we should keep things within this room for now, and then tomorrow morning, if she still lives . . .”

  “They’ll continue waiting outside,” Dr. Bathurst said. “They’ll wait there until they receive what remains of her.”

  Robert felt a stab of disappointment. He’d wanted to—not, alas, tell the family himself—but to witness them being told. He’d wanted to share their joy.

  “Tomorrow,” Dr. Willis said to Robert, and he nodded.

  A man wearing black entered the room. He was elaborately dressed, however, and his tall hat was decorated with braid, loops of ribbon, and a gold buckle, so it was immediately apparent that he had no truck with the Puritans.

  “Is it true?” he was heard to say excitedly as he squeezed through the crowd. “Is it really true? They’re talking about it all over.”

  “’Tis true—but get to the back,” someone called to him.

  “And there’s no room to wear that hat in here!”

  The doctors looked at each other. “And as for the news staying within the room . . .” remarked Dr. Petty with some irony.

  At eight o’clock that evening the doctors finally packed up their instruments. The mob waiting in the street had dwindled, so they’d been told, to a core of about eight, and these few had obtained a covered cart from somewhere and settled themselves in it for the night, prepared to wait as long as they had to to obtain Anne’s remains and give them a Christian burial.

  Anne Green had been put through every medical procedure known to man, and had neither fully come around nor declined further. Her heart was beating more strongly, certainly; each doctor had now felt a pulse at her wrist and throat. Various cordials had been poured into her mouth, her face was now pinker and appeared more swollen, her throat had turned blue and purple with bruising, and traces of sweat had appeared under her arms. As a crowning proof, the doctors had obtained a small mirror, and Anne’s breath had clouded it as evidence of air within her. In total, forty-six people had passed through the dissection room. Now all except the doctors, Christopher Wren, and Robert had gone home.

  As he folded up his notebook Robert looked out of the window at the cart, its canvas covering showing the soft glow of candlelight within, and wondered if any news of Anne had reached her family. Assuming that she still lived, he intended to be there the next morning when they were told.

  But first they had to get her through the night.

  “She ought to be moved to a proper bed,” Dr. Petty said. “How can she get a good night’s sleep on a dissection table?”

  “She should certainly be kept as warm as possible overnight,” Dr. Willis said. “If she’s allowed to get cold again it may undo all the good we’ve done.”

  At that moment Martha came in collecting beakers and bowls. She was yawning broadly, for her day had started at five that morning and she wanted to go to her bed. Dr. Petty’s eyes fell on her, and he addressed Mr. Clarke.

  “Your maid—does she live on the premises?” he asked.

  Mr. Clarke nodded. “She has a small room at the end of the corridor.”

  “With her own bed?”

  “Indeed,” came the startled reply.

  “Would she mind . . . ?” began Dr. Petty, then whispered the rest of the sentence in the apothecary’s ear. Mr. Clarke shrugged; he appeared doubtful.

  Nevertheless, a gently appeasing expression spread over Dr. Petty’s face. “Martha,” he began tentatively, “we have it in mind to give you a bedfellow.”

  Martha’s jaw dropped. She’d been propositioned several times by scholars, but never by one of the doctors. And never in so open a fashion.

  “Well, sir . . .” she began, blushing.

  “No, fear not, not that!” said Dr. Petty hastily. “We are anxious for our patient here, and want to make sure she stays warm overnight. We wondered if we could prevail upon you to—”

  Martha gave a short scream. “Never! What—lie with a dead corpse?”

  “She’s not dead,” Wren said gently. “Merely . . . sleeping.”

  “You can be of great help to us,” said Dr. Petty. “It may make all the difference to whether she lives or dies.”

  “When this case is being written of in the annals of medical history, then your name will be mentioned as being of particular significance,” said Dr. Willis.

  “And we will see to it that you receive the sum of five shillings,” added Dr. Petty.

  Robert looked at Martha’s face and saw her expression falter and waver, going from fear and near-tearfulness to a kind of reluctant eagerness. “What would I have to do?” she asked.

  “Keep her warm, that’s all.”

  “Perhaps sleep with an arm about her.”

  “If you could manage to rub her limbs a little . . .”

  Martha gulped and nodded. “I’ll try, sirs,” she said. “I’ll try.”

  Chapter ~ 21

  As I go over these remembrances in my head, I seem to hear the low murmur of voices. Is it a conversation, or one person on his own? Certainly I can hear a man’s voice. Am I then nearing the gates of heaven? Perhaps St. Peter is approaching, offering blessings—or perhaps ‘tis
the devil, come to seek his own. But I am innocent! The devil will surely know this and dare not take me.

  The low murmuring ceases, and I immediately lose the sense of when I heard it. A moment ago? Ten years past? Did I imagine or dream it?

  But my life is almost told, and I bring myself back to my last day on Earth, where, early in the morning, I sat on a stool in the condemned cell, my hands reaching toward a few sticks burning in the grate. The flames that rose from these glittered as merry and bright as flames always do, for they didn’t know that they were burning in the room of one whose last moments were approaching, one who would shortly be hanged by the neck until dead.

  I’d dismissed the cleric who wanted to save my soul, for he and I had fallen to disagreement over my refusal to confess I was guilty of murder, or to ask God’s forgiveness for such a thing. He’d insisted that judge and jury had found me guilty, and I’d insisted that, nevertheless, I had not committed any such crime. In the end, frustrated almost to the point of tears at my stubbornness, he had left, saying he’d return the next morning to accompany me to the prison yard, for the sight of the scaffold led many an obstinate person to confess their wickedness and, at the last, throw themselves on God’s mercy.

  I had asked for a fire to be built in my cell, which was granted to me as my last wish, and sat before it going over my life, as I do now in this black and eerie netherworld in which I find myself. And I wondered then—and wonder still—on the strangeness of life, and how the circumstances had occurred that led to my downfall, and if they might have been avoided by my having had a natal chart cast (as I’ve heard that the gentry do) showing what harsh planets were overhead. I might then have anticipated my coming disgrace and perhaps prevented such a thing.

  During that long night I hadn’t felt so much affrighted as weary and disbelieving, for it seemed that I must have some part in a mummers’ play or be acting out a ballad. Surely ’twas not possible that I was in jail and condemned to hang on the morrow? Where had my life fled? How had it happened so?