Mist Over Pendle

by Robert Neill

  Watchful they were, and to no effect. The week-end passed quietly, and then they were in Easter Week. Frank came back from Lancaster with word that all was well and that Tom Covell would attempt the Demdike when she had had a few days’ quiet. But in all Pendle was peace. Even Richard Baldwin was at peace now, and had no more than a low grumble that Elizabeth Device should be still at large. The mild Spring weather held, and Good Friday was a day so brilliant that it seemed a Feast Day rather than a Fast. There were two more days of peace; and then, in the sunlit afternoon of Easter Sunday, Alice Nutter came again to Read.

  For once Margery was excluded from the talk; for Alice Nutter, speaking very simply and soberly, formally asked for speech with the Justice; and since neither Margery nor Frank could pretend to any cause for intruding on that, they had to stay outside. Alice was with Roger for a full half-hour, and when she left he went courteously to the gravel to see her mounted. When he returned to his parlour, Margery and Frank were sitting waiting for him, and he did not keep them in suspense.

  “I do not see where that woman drives,” he said. “She comes here in the middle of Sunday afternoon--Easter Sunday, if you please!--and she chooses in that time to lay an information.” Roger propped his shoulders in his favoured way, and then stared gloomily at his listeners. “She lays information that there’s been a grand meeting of the witch-coven on Friday last----”

  “Good Friday!” Margery sounded shocked. “And the-witches? But why? And where?”

  “She has it all pat and ready set down for me.” He took a paper from the ingle-shelf. “It’s all here. At the Malkin Tower on Good Friday. Meeting began at noon. Dinner of beef, bacon and roasted mutton---which mutton was of a wether of Christopher Swyer’s of Barley, stolen and killed by James Device.”

  “James?”

  “The moon-kissed Jemmy. It’s all here, even to the names. The Devices, the Bulcocks, the Howgates, one Hewitt called Mouldheels, and a half-score more. Cause for the meeting, to plot the death of Tom Covell and the escape of Old Demdike.”

  “Are they mad?” asked Frank, as Roger tossed the paper on the table.

  “Very like. But Alice isn’t.”

  Margery shook her wits and tried to grapple with this. “How,” she asked, “does Alice Nutter pretend to know so much?”

  “She says she went a-riding and chanced to pass that way. She sees folk and a horse or two by the Malkin Tower, so she must needs ride close to see what’s doing. Thus she stumbles on it all, and being of a dutiful disposition she very properly lays it before the next Justice---”

  “Two days late?”

  “It took her so long to have the truth of it from the Devices. She has an answer to everything.” Margery stared blankly at him. “Is it true?” she asked slowly.

  “I’m quite sure it’s true. The woman’s not a fool, and she knows I’ll ask the others. It will turn out to be exactly as she says it is.”

  “Then why? Why does she say it?”

  “I’d hoped your wits could tell me.”

  He began to shred tobacco while she considered that, and she could see that his thoughts were busy.

  “Could it be,” she asked slowly, “that Alice was herself, for some purpose, at this meeting, and that she now seeks the sunny side of law by informing?”

  “It could well be that. Or it could be that she thinks these women would be better for a hanging. Rope has a way with tongues, and they may know too much.”

  “Yes.” Margery nodded agreement. “It could be that.”

  “It could even be both things,” said Frank suddenly.

  “But what now, sir? Do you commit these women?”

  “On the face of it I must. But not at once.”

  “Why not, if you please?”

  “If Alice schemes that I should, it’s no doubt wiser that I shouldn’t. Also, if I wait there’s hope Tom Covell will have an answer from the Demdike. Meantime----” He turned to Margery. “You may make it your concern to fall in with the Device child---”

  “Jennet?” Margery nodded as she understood. “She may know more than a little of this. I’ll indeed seek little Jennet.”

  “Not in her home if you please.” He was sharp on that. “But you may ride at large tomorrow and hope to fall in with her.” Then he turned swiftly to Frank. “Will you be pleased to ride to Altham for me tomorrow?”

  “Surely, sir. But why?”

  “To bear word of this to Nick Banister. He has a shrewd head, and I’d gladly learn what he says to it. We do not hear presentments at Easter, so he’ll not be coming here. Nor do I think it well to leave at this moment, or I’d go myself. So you may ride in my stead, and bring me back what words he speaks.”

  There was no argument about that, and Frank rode early in the glow of a sunlit morning. An hour later, Margery took the Forest road, and she roamed at large all day, showing herself where she could; it gave her a pleasant day of sun and wind, but of Jennet she saw nothing. Instead, she had a meeting which she had not sought. She chose to return by way of Barley, on the chance that Jennet might be on that tree-lined road; and as she came to Barley and turned away to take the steep hill to the Newchurch, she saw Miles Nutter cantering briskly down the village street. He had obviously come from Wheathead, and Margery drew rein and waited for him. Together they let their horses plod up the long steep hill, and Margery considered him thoughtfully; then she took him by surprise.

  “Miles,” she said suddenly. “Why are you and your father lodged in Goldshaw?”

  “Why---” He was plainly in difficulties. “Why, as to that, it’s my uncle Tony. You know he’s been sick---”

  “I do.” It was short and significant, and plainly it was not lost on Miles.

  “Aye,” he said quickly. “And I think we owe you some thanks over that.”

  She disposed of that with a nod. Then she waited in an unhelpful silence. Miles struggled at it again.

  “We do what we can for him now he mends. He---”

  “I’m not a fool, Miles.”

  She looked him fairly in the eye, and there was a long silence. Then, as they came to the crest of the hill he suddenly put evasions aside.

  “If you must know,” he said, “there were some matters that had a reek--and we liked them not, my father and I.”

  “Matters?” A lifted eyebrow pointed the question.

  “Say a syllabub, if you wish.”

  He said it almost defiantly, and at once Margery took pity on him.

  “I’m sorry, Miles. Perhaps I should not have asked. But---”

  “You’ve done no hurt by asking. To put it truly, you knew it all before.”

  “Perhaps I did.” She was trying to turn the topic now. “But do you stay there long?”

  “Like as not--for myself, that is. For my father, he’s out of Pendle. He rode this morning.”

  “Miles! But whither?” She was genuinely surprised this time.

  “I know not whither, and neither does he. He said only that he’d be happier clear of Pendle till the reek had died.”

  “But--but has he left you to face it yourself then?”

  “Not so.” Miles was quick on that. “He’d have had me ride with him. But I stay by Grace.”

  “Oh! You mean---”

  “I stay by Grace.” He said it slowly, and his eyes were steady; and for once Margery dropped hers. “You--you do well, Miles.”

  She said it softly, and then she was sunk in silence till they were at the bottom of the hill. Their ways parted here, but as he turned to ride down the Sabden brook, he spoke another word.

  “One last thing my father did before he rode--he gave me formal leave for betrothal to Grace, whenever it can be contrived.”

  Miles stayed for no answer to that. His beaver was already waving, and before Margery had found a word he had cantered off down the brook towards Goldshaw.

  Margery was home at sundown, and she sought Roger with no delay; and while they were yet talking, she still in her riding-clothes, Fr
ank came riding in, and at his side was Nick Banister. Margery went running out, and he gave her his own friendly smile as he said he meant to be at Roger’s side till this had cleared.

  “Another head may help,” he told her, “even though it’s old and rusty.”

  “None so old, sir,” she retorted, “and very far from rusty, if you please.”

  “Ravaged by time,” he insisted. “And addled by Roger’s ale.”

  ‘That’s enough of squabbling,” said Roger from behind her. “Nick, I’m more than glad to see you, and you shall help us pour libations to Milady Fortune. Our cares shall stand till morning.”

  But Roger spoke too soon. For in the last smoking blue of the dusk, at Daylight Gate as Pendle called it, a weary rider urged a wearier horse over the gravel; and being brought to Roger he presented a letter which he had borne from Lancaster, he said, by command of Master Thomas Covell.

  Roger dismissed the fellow to the kitchen, broke the seal, and scanned the single sheet.

  “Of Demdike,” he announced briefly. He gave himself to the sprawling script until Margery could sit still no longer. Has--has she answered?”

  “Perhaps.” Roger looked up soberly. “But not to Tom Covell. She’s dead.”

  Chapter 36: CHARITY AND SILENCE

  Roger rode for Lancaster the next morning, with Margery at his side. Tom Covell’s letter had done no more than announce the fact of Demdike’s death, and Roger wanted to know more of it than that; he had, he said, an itching feel on this, and Margery, whose curiosity was certainly not less than his, went with him willingly. Nick Banister stayed at Read with all things under his hand and Frank Hilliard as his lieutenant; they seemed on good terms with each other, and Roger had peace of mind as he and Margery rode away.

  They took the whole day over the thirty miles, and before they were through the Trough of Bowland Margery knew why. The steep and stony track, in places so narrow that she had to drop behind Roger, called for a watchful care, even though the sky was blue and the bright sun drew colours from the grass and the streams and the smooth grey rock. But Margery, riding here on this April morning, saw the slant of the straggling windbent trees, and asked herself what this place would be like in the wind and rain of a Winter’s night. But they gained the top at last, and then they were dropping down to a river which Roger called the Wyre; and then up again, and down once more to a lesser stream; and up from this to a stretch of moorland from which they could at last see the river Lune, and grey old Lancaster lying snug against its banks. And here, up on this windy moorland, the road ran past a great triangle of timber--three uprights, and three crossbars from which ropes could hang.

  “It’s new,” said Roger grimly. “And Tom Covell’s mighty proud of it. Takes six at a time.”

  Margery looked at the thing and had a quick, unhappy thought of Alizon. Then she looked away, and she said no more till they were safely into Lancaster.

  The George made them welcome, and Edmund Covell, portly, rubicund, and with a professional suavity which his brother lacked, came in person to inquire their needs and see to their comforts. Edmund, said Roger in his most sardonic tone, knew to a nicety the rent-roll of every gentleman in the County, and saw to it that each had a welcome that exactly matched his worth. So they supped amply and in comfort; and then, fortified by that, they went out together into the darkening streets and sought the great stone cross that stood before Tom Covell’s house by the church.

  He greeted them noisily, and he plied them with wine by his warm fireside. Himself, he stood by his hearth with his feet planted apart and his gown swaying--just as his rain-splashed cloak had done at Marton, so long ago on a Christmas Eve. His face was as red and his laugh as rich as he looked down now at his seated guests.

  “Aye,” he said jovially, “the beldame’s gone. That was on Sunday afternoon, and none thought to tell me of it till Monday morning.” He grinned happily at them. “I hope you could read what I sent you. I couldn’t. It’s ill work cutting quills on a Monday morning, with the sabbath ale still swilling in your guts.”

  Margery spluttered, and her wine splashed on her kirtle. Roger laughed openly.

  “Aye,” he said. “I read it--in the end. But what took this Demdike? Your fever?”

  “My fever?” There was mock indignation in the jovial voice.

  “Say the gaol fever if you wish.”

  “What a plague has you? You chatter as though there was naught but fever that empties gaols.”

  “Your pardon, Master Gaoler.” Roger’s bantering tone fairly matched his. “How is it then in yours?”

  “Indifferent well. We’ve changed our ways these last years. Now, with clean straw every quarter, and thyme and rosemary fresh each year, a gaol’s not what it was. These days there’s scarce one in three dies of the fever.”

  “Then what do the rest die of?”

  “Rope, mostly. Did you mark our new timberwork?”

  “We did. But touching this Demdike--what took her?”

  “Who’s to say? It was not the fever. From what I’m told, she--she wilted, and was gone.”

  “Wilted?”

  “Like a salted slug. Shrivelled within herself, and with that was gone. And so she looked when they showed her to me.”

  “Did she so?” Roger was growing thoughtful. “Had you seen any before that looked so?”

  “None that I call to mind. Those others you sent here say the Devil whistled her soul.”

  “Very like.” Roger looked across at Margery, and she saw that his thought was matching hers. Then he turned back to Tom Covell. “Can I see her tomorrow?”

  “You’ll need a spade.”

  “So soon?”

  The big man grinned happily.

  “It was that or salting. Not a keeping carcase, that one. And it’s April.”

  “Aye. But---”

  “I’ve asked the questions for you.”

  Margery sat up sharply, for Tom Covell’s voice had wholly changed. It was quiet, and it had lost every trace of banter; and Margery, looking with surprise, saw that the whole man had changed. He was looking steadily at Roger with eyes that were suddenly very bright and shrewd; and his voice was grave when he spoke again.

  “In the common run I’d have plagued none with questions on this,” he said. “All being said, your Demdike had some four score years, and such as she don’t last long in any gaol. But I had your message. And if it was of moment to you that she should talk, it must be of moment to some other that she should not.”

  “Exactly so. And I could guess a name. But you’ve learnt something?”

  “It might be so. Though what it means---” The big shoulders shrugged. “But on Sunday afternoon she was visited---”

  “Visited? When it’s witchcraft and murder?”

  “All men must live. And an honest turnkey’s not yet born---”

  “Bribes, do you mean? Your turnkeys---”

  “Are like others. They have itching palms. And a silver crown will loose most locks on a Sunday.”

  “Why on a Sunday?”

  “They know I’m with my wife. And so it was this Sunday. But Monday, when I’d heard of it, I first sent word to you-, and then I called for certain of my rabble. They did not bluster long---“

  There was nothing jovial in the Tom Covell who said that, and Roger was smiling grimly.

  “And they told you?”

  “In short, this: there was a woman came out of Pendle, and desired to see your Demdike. Who she was, you may perhaps guess. My rogues, who’ve wits like addled eggs, say she’d the evil eye--a black-visaged slut with a rolling squint and a screech like a moonlit cat.”

  “Squinting Lizzie,” said Roger promptly, and Margery nodded agreement. It could be no other.

  “And who might she be?” asked Tom Covell.

  “Demdike’s daughter.”

  “Very like. That’s what my beauties thought. And she brought, it seems, some comforts for her mother. Small things--but there was an apple ta
rt.”

  “What?”

  Margery had interrupted quickly, and both men turned to her in surprise; she saw that she must give some explanation.

  “It’s a family weakness,” she said. “Young Jennet dotes on apple tart, and she once told me her grandmother had a greed for it too.”

  “That’s justly said, by what I’m told,” said Covell. “For it seems the old dame guzzled the whole tart in a couple of minutes. And in another hour she was dead.”

  “In an hour, was it?” Roger spoke thoughtfully. “And how did Lizzie take that?”

  “Lizzie wasn’t there. She stayed but a few minutes, it seems, and then she was at horse while the Demdike still picked her teeth.”

  “Horse? I did not know our Lizzie had a horse.”

  “She had one on Sunday--a likely foal, they tell me.”

  “I’ll remember that. Meantime, I’m in your debt once more. You’re supposing there was some poison in this tart?”

  Tom Covell shrugged his great shoulders again.

  “As to that, who’s to say? You may guess as shrewdly as I. Yet it’s sure that she’ll keep her secrets now. And sure also that I’d seen none before who wilted in just that manner.”

  “I believe you. There was none of this tart left? None that could be tried on a dog?”

  “Not a crumb. As I’ve told you, she guzzled. If there was venom used, the thing was shrewdly done.”

  “It would be.” Roger rose to his feet. “There’s no more to be done then. But you’ve been my friend in this. Count me yours at need.”

  “I’ll remember that when next you’re Sheriff.” The rich laugh rolled out again as Tom Covell shed his earnest mood. “How’s young Hilliard? He’s delivered no more papists, I hope?”

  “You think he did deliver one?”

  “At the least he’d a softness for the rogue. You should have seen milord’s anger. Like a studding bull.” The laugh came again as Tom Covell pulled the bell-cord. “I’ll give over furnishing milord with gentlemen. Tell him it’s time he was wed. Then another may have care for him.”