The House Where It Happened

by Devlin, Martina

  “What’s the rest of her name, Mary? Is it Mistress Anne Haltridge?” demanded my master.

  Mary Dunbar paid him no heed. “Get the sword off her before she slices me up!”

  “Where is she? I can’t see her.”

  “She’s made herself invisible. But she’s in front of me. Surely you can see the sword, at least?” She fell backwards, banging her skull against a corner of the sideboard. She cried out and seemed stunned for a moment. “She nearly took my head off there! Mistress Anne, I told you I’d never denounce you. You must believe me. The Constable pesters me about you, but I haven’t said a word.” Tears poured down her cheeks, mingling with snatters and spittle.

  My master turned to the mistress. “Has a physician seen her?”

  “I never sent for one, James. When this started up, I didn’t know what to do for the best. So I sent for the minister. I asked Mister Sinclair about having her bled. But he said cooling her blood would bring no benefit – she was gone beyond such cures.”

  “She should have been examined by a physician.”

  “What difference can it make now? The trial is going ahead at the Spring Assizes. Though God knows if Mary is able for the ordeal. Look at her now.”

  Mary had crawled under a chair, maybes because she thought Mistress Anne could not swing the sword in such a tight spot.

  “It can’t be my mother she sees – or imagines she sees. Mother couldn’t lift a dragoon’s sword, let alone swing it. This Mistress Anne must be somebody else, Isabel.”

  “Of course it’s not her. The idea is preposterous.”

  “Besides which, my mother is lying peacefully in St John’s graveyard. I saw her go into the earth myself.”

  “Look, James, Mary’s visitor seems to have left her.”

  Mary had come out from under the chair and was sitting on the floor, dazed but calm.

  “I hope she took her sword with her,” said my master. “I don’t like weapons being waved about in my parlour.” He bent down and lifted her to her feet, setting her on the seat. Studying her face, which was blank, he asked, “What do we do with the girl after one of these fits? Put her to bed?”

  “I’d leave her be – it’s a mercy to have her peaceable after that racket. Dear heart, you look exhausted – you’re the one should be in bed.”

  A secret look snaked between them, such as married couples give one another. I’d be better off working for Sammy and Fanny Orr, I thought. At least I wouldn’t have to watch this. Kneeling down, I started picking up the sewing box contents spilled by Mary Dunbar.

  “Isabel, we must think about bringing the children home from Belfast.”

  “Can’t we leave them where they are until after the trial, James? Naturally I miss them, but I hate exposing them to this. We tried to protect them, but you can see how it is.”

  “No, they must come home. They belong here.”

  I couldn’t bear to think of our wee pigeons brought back so soon, even with my master to protect them from harm. “Master,” I put in, hoping to sidetrack him, “maybes you’d care for a glass of Madeira. There’s a bottle warmin’ on the dinin’ room hearth – I set it there the whiles you were bathin’.”

  “Ellen, you read my mind and know what I want before I know it myself. I’ll have it in my study – there are some papers I need to look over. You’re a treasure. I knew as long as you were here, there’d be common sense applied to any problem. Was I right, Isabel?”

  The mistress waited a wee touch longer than I liked before replying. “She’s a willing girl. But don’t go giving her a swollen head – maids are ten a penny.”

  I banged the door on my way out.

  * * *

  The mistress followed my master into his study, instead of seeing about her cousin. I suppose she could not bear to part with him so soon after his return – and that I could understand. When I fetched in a second glass for her, she was perched on a footstool by his desk, leaning her arms on his lap and discussing what to do about Mary Dunbar.

  “I need a day’s rest,” he said. “But the day after tomorrow, I’m delivering her home to Armagh. From there, I’ll go to Belfast and collect Jamesey and Sarah. And Peggy, of course.”

  “We can’t turn Mary out. There’s scarlet fever in Armagh. A servant in my aunt’s household has died of it.”

  “I see. Still, I’m inclined to think she should be sent away. There must be somewhere else she can go. Why should we have all the worry of her? She’s her parents’ responsibility, not ours. Did your aunt ever mention a tendency towards hysterics?”

  “Not that I ever heard tell. But she was certainly eager for the visit to take place. Don’t you remember? I showed you the letter. I’ll look it out and see how she put it again. I recall thinking Mary must have been feeling poorly over the winter. Aunt Dunbar was more than willing to part with her, and I’m sure she mentioned something about her health. I presumed she meant her bodily health, but . . .”

  “You must let your aunt know about the trial before she hears it from another quarter. It’s a wonder you left it so long to tell me what’s been going on. I know you mentioned there were difficulties with your cousin in earlier letters, but I had no idea how serious her condition was.”

  “Oh James, I didn’t like to worry you. Besides, I scarcely knew what to say. It all sounds so scandalous when you try to put it into words. And I was a little ashamed, too, that it should happen while Mary was in my care. I’ll write to Aunt Dunbar at once, now that you’re back.”

  She grew moist-eyed, and my master dropped a kiss on top of her head. “Sweetheart, you’ve been a tower of strength.”

  The mistress noticed me at the fireplace, sweeping up some soot on the hearth, and her voice turned spiky. “Don’t hang about like a useless head of cabbage – see to my cousin.”

  “Whether Mary Dunbar stays or goes – and my preference is for her to leave – I’m determined to collect the children,” said my master.

  “James, I wish you’d reconsider. For their sake, I mean. The atmosphere here has been far from healthy. There’s been too much clamour and upset.”

  “Now you know right well you’re a worrier by nature, sweetheart. I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as all that. Things pass over a child’s head.”

  “It’s been perfectly dreadful, James, and the children weren’t in ignorance of it.” She caught sight of me, taking my time about quitting the room. “Are you still here?”

  “Isabel, let the girl be. The children are coming home – my mind is made up. I’ll brook no further argument.”

  The young lady wasn’t in the parlour, or the dining room. Her bedchamber was empty, too. Just as I was becoming alarmed, the greyhounds began barking. I looked out, and saw some of the Constable’s men watering their horses. But there was no sign of their master. I made for the kitchen but, as I went to the door, I heard voices fornenst it. Brice Blan was conversing with Mary Dunbar. Strain though I might, I could not make out what they said to one another, so I hastened to throw open the door – at which they stopped talking. I flicked my eyes from her to him. Thick as thieves, they were.

  “I gather Mister Haltridge is back from Dublin, Ellen.”

  “Just this day, sir.”

  “I hope he doesn’t go getting any ideas about sending Mistress Dunbar away, now that he’s home.” He pointed his riding crop at the young lady. “She’s needed here for the court case. She must stay till the law takes its course.”

  Mary Dunbar refused to meet my eye. Ach, she came across all sugar and spice, but she wasn’t as soft as she let on.

  “I’ll take you to the master, Constable,” I said.

  He marched ahead of me, caking in mud as usual.

  I lagged behind and hissed a few words in Mary Dunbar’s ear. Just to let her know I was wise to her. “Eavesdroppers rarely hear anythin’ good about themselves.”

  She opened her eyes wide. “I have no need to eavesdrop. The house tells me what it wants me to know.”

&n
bsp; Chapter 13

  I did something that night I shouldn’t have done: something I would have had to confess if I was of the Romish persuasion, which thankfully I’m not, being among the elect thanks to the Good Lord’s mercy. I found the letter from Mary Dunbar’s mother to the mistress lying on my master’s desk, when I went to bank down the fire before turning in. She must have carried it in to show him. Curiosity overcame me. I remembered the gist of it, from hearing the mistress read it out to my master, but there was one part I wanted to check. My eyes skipped over the page. Prey to her thoughts . . . sensitive . . . fancies seem apt to take shape more readily, I read. And then a word I paused at. Aunt Dunbar called the mistress’s invitation a godsend, underlining the word. Was there relief behind it? Or something more powerful again?

  * * *

  The following day, the sun wasn’t yet high in the sky when Mister Sinclair clattered up on Sobriety. He looked as if he could use a week’s worth of sleep, and his poor mare wasn’t faring much better. He had been riding the country on her, and no mistake. The roan was stiff in her legs and in sore need of a rubdown. He heaved himself out of the saddle, and hobbled towards where I was mixing pigswill. My master had given orders to fatten up the old saddleback sow for the butcher’s knife.

  “Is Mister Haltridge at home?”

  “He’s walking the land with Noah Spears, sir. I’ll fetch him for you.”

  At each field I passed, the animals came to the gate to stare. It was odd to think how dull life must be for them on the island, when it was too lively for comfort among the men and women here. Especially the women. I found my master in the top field, talking to Noah about the hen house. He was woken by a fox barking in the night, and wanted to be sure the coop was secure when the birds were shut in after dark. It was the rooster he was particularly anxious about. My master was loath to lose his prized bird.

  “Master, Mister Sinclair is in the house and anxious for to pay his respects.”

  “He might have left it till the afternoon.” My master was irritable at having the inspection of his fields interrupted. He liked to check everything was shipshape following an absence.

  “I daresay he has matters to discuss with you.”

  “Aye, well, I daresay he does.”

  We were in no hurry as we walked back to the house together. He matched his pace to mine, his shoulder bumping alongside, so closely did he stay by my side. I wondered what it would be like to have the right to put my hand in the crook of his arm, the way the mistress did. Maybes he was wondering things about me, because I saw him go to speak once or twice, but think better of it. Just before we rounded the corner where the house would come into sight, he stretched out his hand and pushed a loose strand of hair under my cap. It was always escaping its bounds.

  “There was a lass in Dublin with hair your colour. She worked at the coffee house I favoured.”

  “I hope she attended to your needs, master.”

  “Not so sweetly as you.’

  And then we were in the yard, and that was that. Before making for the door, he gave me a look that was just for me, a look such as I called up over and over again that night in bed, aye, and nights afterwards. Over his shoulder, he called out loud, for anyone watching to hear, “Don’t forget my orders. I’m sure the minister would welcome a beaker of Parsley’s milk after his ride, and I’ll have some ale.” He stopped and turned, pushing his old tricorn hat off his forehead. “Is Parsley still giving plenty of milk?”

  “The creamiest on the island. There’s nothing to match milk from a Galloway cow.”

  “But wouldn’t all this witchcraft affect the milk? They say cows refuse to give a drop round them.”

  “We’ve had trouble churning the butter, master. But it comes through in the end. There’s been no trouble with the milk. The hens bain’t layin’ well, mind you.”

  He let out a whistle. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  We parted again, my master to go through the front door and me to use the kitchen door.

  Bringing in the drinks, I was just in time to hear Mister Sinclair let fly with his thunderbolt.

  “The reason for my visit is not just to welcome you home, Haltridge, glad though I am to see you back on Islandmagee. I’d best tell you straight out – there’s no way to sweeten this pill. The Constable means to dig up your mother’s body.”

  Colour flooded my master’s face. “But why would he do such a thing? It’s uncivilized!”

  “Believe me, I share your distaste. It gives me no pleasure to be the bearer of such tidings. But ’tis signed, sealed and settled: your mother’s remains are to be brought out of the grave.”

  “What on earth are they expecting to find?”

  “Anything abnormal. An empty coffin, say, or one in which the body is preserved unnaturally. If she’s playing a part in this witching, the proof will be there in her coffin.”

  “Foolish blether! Of course she has nothing to do with what’s going on here. She’s sleeping the sleep of the just. It’s sacrilege to disturb her grave – I refuse to permit it.”

  “The Mayor has ordered it, Haltridge.”

  “The Mayor must be bewitched himself, to stand over such a desecration.”

  “Hold your peace, man. Walls have ears.”

  “I don’t care if they have tongues – aye, and eyes. This is unthinkable. The order must be revoked.”

  “Listen, Haltridge, we’ve had an atrocious time since you left. Surely your wife has told you? Mistress Dunbar has been sorely tested. She talks repeatedly about one Mistress Anne, the serpent’s head directing this coven. We must track her down. Until she’s caught, this vile sect will never be stamped out. I must confess, I’m full of fear for our community with witchcraft set loose among us.”

  “But even the Queen is called Anne. How can they dig up a Christian woman, a decent, upright soul who read the Bible every day of her life, simply because she shares a name with someone? Ach, man, it’s barbarous!”

  The minister took off his wig and held it against his chest, sighing heavily. “Haltridge, I’m not in favour of this. I said prayers over that godly soul’s coffin as her remains were committed to the ground. I cannot believe she is anywhere except where we buried her: waiting to be gathered into rapture at the Lord’s side. However, it’s the Mayor’s decision. The Church is in no position to go against the civil authorities on this. Distasteful though it is, it must be endured.”

  “I’m warning you. If my mother’s body is dug up, there’ll be repercussions.”

  “Haltridge, Haltridge, dinna fash yourself so. I mean to do my best by my predecessor’s widow. I’ll see to it there’s as little disrespect as possible. I’ll be on hand to pray over the remains again.”

  “Aye, and have a good gawp, too.”

  And in a whirl of fury, my master quit the house.

  * * *

  My master’s outrage, justified though it was, carried no weight against the Lord Mayor’s command. The next day, Constable Blan and his men turned up at St John’s graveyard with spades and ropes. They had a physician sent out from Carrickfergus with them: the Mayor’s own sawbones, it was said. Word soon spread, and a crowd gathered. Frazer Bell rode over to Knowehead with the news. When he saw my master’s face, he begged him not to do anything hasty, but he might just as well have put his hands in his pockets and whistled a tune. My master was gone before the words left Frazer’s mouth. Hell for leather he rode out of the yard, scattering greyhounds and chickens in front of him.

  Mercy Hunter told me what happened in the churchyard. She followed her master, who was part of the whole sorry business, however keen he was to wash his hands of it. Three ministers arrived to see the body dug up, each with a Bible tucked into his armpit. Some of the Constable’s men looked queasy about the job in hand. Mercy said one of them had a jar he passed among his companions, before they made a start, and the Constable turned his back while they drank from it.

  As the coffin was lifted out by rope,
my master chased up. He let fly with a great oath when he saw them, and – may the good Lord forgive him – galloped over graves, setting clods of earth flying, to reach the Haltridge plot. He looked like a madman, according to Mercy: his handsome face was entirely transformed. It’s a wonder they didn’t drop the coffin back in when he bore down on them, hooves flying, howling like a banshee. “Grave robbers!” he shrieked. “Vultures!” He had his whip in his hand and lashed out at the gravediggers, right and left, until a couple of the Constable’s deputies managed to wrestle him off his mount. Amid the scuffle, he fell into the mound of soil dug up to reach his mother’s coffin – earth got into his clothes, his hair, even his mouth. Two men knelt on him to restrain him, and a third held his head down. It’s a wonder they didn’t suffocate him. Brice Blan was jigging up and down in a passion at his orders being interfered with, and told his deputies to tie my master’s hands with rope. He was on the point of having him muzzled, like a cur, until Mister Sinclair pleaded for him.