“Go through her pockets,” said Mister Sinclair.
Randall Leaths dived into a pocket in her skirts, and held up a penknife with a bone handle. Most folk had one for cutting their meat.
The minister took it from him. “Is this the weapon?”
Mary Dunbar quaked. “It is. I could never forget it.”
“I’ve heard enough. We have a monster in our midst. She should be locked up,” said Mister Sinclair.
“Do you not want to pray over her first, in the hopes of reclaiming her soul from the Devil?” asked Frazer Bell.
“Public prayers are needed, to guard against the spread of this baleful visitation. As for this creature – witches are Beelzebub’s messengers, and must be shown no mercy.”
“Does Christ Jesus not preach mercy?” said Frazer.
“Witchcraft is the last desperate assault on mankind by the Lord of Villainy – it has been foretold. We must fight back, using every weapon at our disposal. Do not let pity blind you to its iniquities. ‘Regard not them that have familiar spirits, neither seek after wizards, to be defiled by them.’ Leviticus 19:31. I’ll visit this besom in gaol, and give her an opportunity to throw herself on God’s mercy. But first, she must confess her wrongs. Otherwise her sins will lead her to the scorching flames placed in hell by divine justice. Do you hear that, witch? Hellfire is waiting for you – an eternity of agony.”
“You are quick to condemn her, Mister Sinclair.” Frazer Bell locked eyes with the minister. “She denies the accusation. Where is your proof?”
Silence fell. Doubt showed on some of the elders’ faces, until Mary Dunbar spoke up in a timid voice. “I saw her make water on the Bible, while her sisters in Satan hooted and cheered.”
The minister’s head whipped round. “When did you see her do this?”
“Last night. I had another vision of their witches’ Sabbath, in their cave beneath the Gobbins. They defiled the Good Book to show their contempt for its teachings.”
Her words caused alarm among the company.
“We did’n search Lock’s Cave till this morning,” said Joseph Esler. “We must a just missed them vixens.”
“At least there’s men watchin’ it now,” said Randall Leaths. “If they come back they’ll be caught red-handed.”
“You see what you’re shielding, Bell?” said the minister. “Witches committing acts of desecration. The Lord sends these imps among us to punish our negligence, and to remind us of the true way we must live: in humility, industry and faith. Do you deny that?”
“I’d never deny the need for humility, industry and faith.”
“I’m heartily glad to hear it. But have a care whose part you take. Some might judge you for it. Beware the swelling of false pride, which makes you imagine you can rescue the damned from the Devil’s clutches. Leaths and Esler, remove this contemptible creature from my sight. She shall not sully a God-fearing household one minute longer.”
“Where should we bring her?”
“Directly to the Constable. He has the authority to hold her until the Mayor swears out a warrant for her arrest. After you hand her over, you must go to Carrickfergus to the Mayor, and lay the complaint before him. She will have to face charges of disturbing the peace by witchcraft. Tell him I said she was too dangerous to be left at large. Gaol is the place for this despicable sinner. Inform the Constable that I will write out a full account of her transgressions this night for Mayor Davies, and send it directly to him by my man, Thomas Kane.”
At that, Becky Carson fell to yammering about not having a soul in the world to speak for her, although Frazer Bell had gone to considerable trouble to stand up to the minister on her account, and Bob Holmes had defended her, forbye. It was risky for Frazer Bell to press Mister Sinclair so closely, but he was a gentleman always inclined to champion the underdog.
All at once, Becky Carson tried to throw herself at Mary Dunbar’s feet – to plead with her, I daresay. But the men thought she was making a run for it, and caught and held her, none too gently, because her cap was knocked off her head. Leaths tied her hands behind her back with some rope from his pocket, before helping Esler to drag her outside to his cart. I picked up Becky Carson’s cap, bogging though it was, and ran after them to put it on her head myself. She thanked me as if I had given her a fistful of guineas.
Back indoors, Mister Sinclair was full of business. “How many guards are posted at Lock’s Cave?”
“Four men,” said Hugh Donaldson.
“We must double the numbers. I’ll put out a call for volunteers. Another night of devilry on Islandmagee cannot be tolerated.”
“Mister Sinclair, if they cannot meet at Lock’s Cave, is their power at an end? Or can they cast their spells elsewhere?”
The minister wiped his forehead with a grubby handkerchief, and mopped under his wig. He seemed at a loss for an answer.
Mary Dunbar stood up. “I believe I might be able to pass through the door now.”
She arched an eyebrow at Frazer Bell, expectant – shades of her unwitched old self – and he offered his arm. She cut a dainty figure alongside his broad-shouldered frame. At the door, she lifted her skirts above the ankle with her free hand, tilted her chin, and stepped across the shambles of the ripped-up threshold.
“Praise be to God,” said everyone, relief raising our voices high.
All except Frazer Bell. He said nothing. He looked sorry when she let go of him, mind you me.
As soon as Mary Dunbar left the room, the mistress remembered the children.
“High time they were in bed. Peggy should have thought to send them,” she tutted. “Tell the pair of them I’ll be in to hear their prayers in five minutes. Unless you’d prefer to hear them, Mister Sinclair?”
He agreed that he would, and I felt sorry for the poor wee mites, who’d be landed with some sermonizing on top of their prayers.
Now the mistress recalled her obligations as a hostess and offered the party a bite to eat. Meal times were at sixes and sevens with all the to-ing and fro-ing, and stomachs could be heard rumbling. Without waiting for her say-so, I carried in extra candles to cheer the place up, and set about blowing life into the collapsed remains of the turf blocks. I fancy the minister was pleased with himself for laying the problem to rest: I could hear his voice booming downstairs, from the nursery, as I went between kitchen and dining room. Peggy was told to sit with Mary Dunbar, so I had it all to do myself.
I was lifting down the big tray when Fanny Orr came in the back door. She fairly gave me a start, creeping in like that. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t go to the front, since it was the mistress she’d be wanting. We saw little of Fanny, with her brood of bairns to look about. Ruth Graham used to deliver her messages, but she was without a maid since refusing to have Ruth back in the house. Sammy was being slow about a replacement, to spite her.
“Is your mistress at home?”
“She is, Mistress Orr. Mister Sinclair and some of the elders are here. I’ll bring you up to the parlour.”
“No, I’ll wait here. You run on up and tell her I’d like a word in her ear. But keep it quiet.”
It was plain she didn’t want to go next nor near the holy fellows. I suppose she’d had her fill of them, after Sammy was caught with Ruth. Even when they take your side, they can be hard to stomach.
I put some beakers of milk and a decanter of burgundy wine on the tray and carried them up. I knowed the kirk fellows wouldn’t be wanting spirits, leastways not with Sober Sides hard-by. But the mistress might be glad of a glass of wine-and-water, and Frazer Bell certainly deserved something after his set-to with Mister Sinclair. Forbye that, if no wine was poured, how could I drink the dregs?
The minister was back downstairs, after putting the fear of God in the childer, and trying to do likewise with Frazer Bell over his wine-drinking. This gave me a chance to whisper to the mistress. Off she went to investigate. When I followed her a wheen of minutes later, the kitchen was empty. Fanny Orr was gon
e. In and out like a jack-in-the-box. No sign of the mistress either. I bit my lip, curious about what private business Fanny Orr had with Mistress Haltridge. Aye, well, time would tell – these things usually came out in the wash.
I popped a couple of apples in my apron pocket, to bring up to Jamesey and Sarah. After the minister’s tender mercies, they might be glad of a bedtime treat. The mistress passed me on the stairs, as she came from the nursery.
“Surely you’re not retiring for the night, Ellen? We have guests.”
“No, mistress, I just wanted to find Peggy.”
“Peggy’s sitting with my cousin. Follow me, our guests need attending to.”
I passed round pewter plates of food. Frazer Bell had no appetite to speak of, but he took another bumper of burgundy right willingly. Mister Sinclair made a hearty meal of the pigeon pie, while the two elders left behind, Donaldson and Holmes, got tore in to the haggery duff as if they hadn’t clapped eyes on food since New Year’s Day. They were the sort you’d rather keep for a week than a fortnight. I smiled to see them eye the wine, but make do with milk on account of the minister.
The mistress was talking to Hugh Donaldson about the news from Dublin in the master’s last letter. “The oaf who carried it stored it so badly it was sopping wet, and I was hard-pressed to read it. He can’t have kept it in a pouch. The ink had run all over the pages. Still, I was able to make out the most of it. I’m hopeful another week or so will bring my husband’s business to a finish, and he can come home to us.”
“I take it you’ve written to him about what’s been happening in Knowehead in his absence?” asked Bob Holmes.
“Not yet. I’m trying to spare him worry. And, thanks to you gentlemen, all the unpleasantness has been taken care of, now.”
“Best keep him informed, all the same, Mistress Haltridge.”
Teeth gritted, she answered, “Yes, I must. Thank you for the reminder, Mister Holmes.”
Bob Holmes was right – my master did need to know. I hoped she would act on his advice. The mistress was mistaken in thinking we could manage. And over-hopeful in thinking we were out of the woods, maybes.
“Dublin’s not the far side of the world. Imagine if James Haltridge’s affairs took him over and back to the New World, you would’n clap eyes on him for months on end,” said Hugh Donaldson. “A cousin of mine trades with the colonials in New England, and he’s never done puttin’ to sea.”
The mistress shuddered. Whatever her faults, I’ll not deny she loved my master.
“A member of the congregation in my old parish, across the water, left a most devout legacy,” said the minister. “He paid for the Bible to be read aloud to the savages of Massachusetts.”
“Why Massachusetts? Were there no savages closer to home?” asked Frazer Bell.
“Your levity is excusable after the warfare waged this day, Mister Bell. Though I have observed your attendance at the meeting-house can be slack. The road to hell is paved with backsliders.”
Frazer’s eyes flashed. “I honour the Lord’s Day as God’s holy time.”
“Tell us about this Bible-reading in the colonies,” the mistress put in.
The minister was slow to answer, horns locked with Frazer Bell. But when she repeated herself, he turned to her. “The good wife who made the bequest greatly admired the writing of a certain Mistress Mary Rowlandson, a colonial woman who was wife to a minister.”
“I’ve never heard tell of her,” said Mistress Haltridge, gabbling in her anxiety to keep the peace. “Is it fitting for a woman to put pen to paper? Other than letters, I mean?”
“Not as a rule, but in this instance it was justified. She died recently, and I trust she has gone to her eternal reward. Her story has all the hallmarks of a parable, full of faith and forbearance. A true Christian, and not one in name only.” He let his glance rest on Frazer Bell.
“You were telling us her story, Mister Sinclair?” said Hugh Donaldson.
“Indeed. Mistress Rowlandson lived in a frontier village in Massachusetts, and was kidnapped by savages during a raid, along with several of her children. She underwent an abominable ordeal at the hands of those painted heathens, but her faith in God helped her survive it. Eventually, she managed to escape. Or was she ransomed? Come to think of it, I believe the ladies of Boston raised a public subscription for her.”
“How shocking – a white woman, dragged into the wilderness by whooping savages.” The mistress fanned herself with her hands. “What happened to the children?”
“We must presume they turned savage, if they survived. But the Lord never sends us heavier burdens than we can carry. Mistress Rowlandson’s unswerving faith enabled her to survive that trial. She accepted her suffering in a spirit of humility, and saw her Redeemer’s hand in her release. Just as we must see His hand in this affliction which has befallen your household. Now, happily, lifted.”
“My cousin says those Red Indians are instruments in the hands of Satan,” said Donaldson. “He says the land is fertile but the savages cannae be trusted – even them so-called praying Indians who repent their pagan ways. It would put you in mind of some of the Irish.”
“Satan has many instruments, as we witnessed here today. He is an old adversary of mankind’s, and a beaten one. He was cast down into hell and furnished with chains of darkness. In his envy of man, for fully six thousand years he has tried to ambush us. If they could, he and his fiends would overthrow heaven itself.” He shovelled a forkful of food into his mouth and kept talking. “God is mightier than a fallen angel, however. Any who keep His commandments have nothing to fear. So long as we trust to –”
Feet pounded on the stairs. Peggy, who could barely struggle between the kettle and the deal table, was fairly flying. “The lass is still witched. She says the other witches are vexed with her over Becky Carson. They’re takin’ their revenge: forcing her to dance, if you dinna mind. On’y I never seen dancin’ like it. And Lord help me, I’d rather not see it again. Whatever it be, it bain’t Christian.”
Chapter 7
Frazer Bell bolted for the stairs, me following close behind. Such a sight to behold in a house that used to be home to a minister of the Lord’s! Mary was dancing in her shift, with her cap off and her hair hanging loose – golden-fair curls streaming down to her waist. Even amid the commotion, I couldn’t help but notice them, and wish the Lord had been a bit more generous to me. My hair was straight as a plank, and putting rags in it made hardly a haet of difference.
The minister, the elders and Mistress Haltridge crowded into her bedchamber after us. Over by the casement, Mary swayed, barefoot, to music only she could hear. She rolled her head on its long neck, paying not a whit of attention to us. A sighing sound came from all sides: the men’s breath, quickened from watching her. A breeze from the open window lifted a strand of her hair, draping it over her eyes, and she pushed it aside. As she did, she noticed Frazer Bell. A change crossed her face. She put her hands on her waist and swivelled her hips, and a strap of her petticoat fell down, exposing the curve of a shoulder. Closer she rippled towards him, closer again, until cloth rubbed against cloth. Round in a circle she jiggled, hands high in the air now, and the pink tip of her tongue flicked across her lips.
A thought came to me then. Was it possible Mary Dunbar was the witch, and not the witched?
The men’s eyes were bulging. Salome must have performed such a dance to earn John the Baptist’s head. Even Mister Sinclair could not tear his gaze away – and I saw he was a man like any other.
It was Frazer Bell who broke the spell at last. “She’s feverish. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. See to her, Mistress Isabel. Cover her up.”
“Come to bed, Mary,” coaxed the mistress. She put her hand on her cousin’s arm, and whatever music the young lady was hearing came to a sudden halt.
Startled, she took in all the staring faces. “Why is everyone staring at me?”
Nobody spoke. A tree branch cracked against the casement, making u
s all jump.
“Sweet Jesus!” exclaimed the mistress.
“It’s only a tree,” said Bob Holmes, opening the window to show everybody.
Mary shook back her hair. “There’s a wind tonight, you can hear it sing through the house. I like to feel the wind on my face.” She turned to the casement and leaned out into the night air, closing her eyes and tilting her face to the darkness.
The barn owl that lived in the tree outside let rip with a bone-chilling screech, flapped his wings and flew straight towards the open window. Or rather, straight towards Mary Dunbar’s face at it. His call had barely died away before he was pecking at her in a furious attack. Mary screamed, brushing at him with her arms, but still his hooked beak bobbed in and out. Frazer Bell snatched up Mary’s wooden hairbrush and rushed forward. Feathers flew, the bird continuing to peck, dark eyes blazing, even as he was beaten, until Frazer caught him a thump on the head which drove him back. By now, Mary was in a craze, face and arms streaming blood. Frazer dropped the hairbrush and caught her in his arms, carrying her to the bed.
“Somebody shut that damned window!” he called, and Holmes fastened it up.
Mister Sinclair blethered about how the serpent could take many shapes, and we all needed to kneel and pray again.
The House Where It Happened Page 13
