Mist Over Pendle

by Robert Neill

  He saw them jovially from the house, and Roger had no more to say on it till he and Margery were back in the snug comfort of the George. Then he showed that he had missed nothing.

  “Touching that apple tart,” he said. “You questioned it sharply. Is there more to it than you then chose to say?”

  “Something. Jennet said that her grandmother had this greed for apple tart. But she said also that such things are not to be baked at the Malkin Tower. There’s no oven there.”

  Roger stared at her.

  “Meaning that this Lizzie brought a tart that could not have been of her own?” He nodded. “It fits neatly.”

  “More neatly than that. From the way Demdike guzzled, we may suppose that this apple tart was a good one.”

  “What of it?”

  “Only that Alice Nutter is known for the rare excellence of her apple tarts. Myself I’ll bear witness to it.” Roger’s low whistle was eloquent.

  “Then we need not doubt further how Demdike died. Nor whose secrets had to be preserved. But what a breed these Demdikes are! This Lizzie must have known what it was that she came to do.”

  “Or was sent to do.”

  “It’s all one. Though sent is no doubt the just word. We may even guess what took Alice to the Malkin Tower on Good Friday. If Lizzie had guests there, she could not well go to the Rough Lee. But she must have her orders--and on Saturday she must have started for Lancaster.” He was smiling grimly. “So Demdike’s dead, and Alice prospers still.”

  “But could not--could not this be brought home to her?”

  “How? There’s no tart left. Its excellence made sure of that, so we cannot show that it was hurtful. And even if we could, we could not show that Lizzie knew it to be so. It was not of her baking, remember.”

  “Precisely. So if it could be shown that Alice baked it?”

  “She’ll have foreseen that. As I’ve said before, she’s no fool. It would turn out that others had handled it, and we’d end by hanging some kitchen wench--and Alice would have compliments from the judge on her charity to the aged poor.” Roger shook his head decisively. “All that remains is to get us back to Pendle with what speed we can.”

  “For a word with Lizzie, let us hope.”

  “If she’s there. I’ve doubts of all things now.”

  His doubts were justified the next night, and as soon as they were back in Pendle. They came to Read at Daylight Gate, and Margery was tired enough to be drooping in her saddle; but Frank was out on the gravel to meet her, and behind him, in the arch of the door, she saw Nick Banister framed against the candle-light within. Roger waved in greeting, and he called his question before he was out of the saddle.

  “Where’s Squinting Lizzie?”

  “Run.”

  Nick’s one word was enough, and Roger stared grimly. Then he held his peace till supper was done; and even then he waited till he had told of the doings in Lancaster and the way of the Demdike’s death. Nick Banister listened in silence, but he exchanged an understanding glance with Frank. Then he came to it crisply.

  “A haunt of peace, this Pendle,” he said, “until yesterday, a little before noon. And then, of a sudden, there was a most woe-begone child flitting in your shrubbery yonder---”

  “Child?” Roger was quick on that, and Nick Banister had his slow smile.

  “As you’ve guessed, Roger. A child of this Lizzie’s--a little maid called Jennet. She played games with your servants when they would have chased her away, and then Frank here went to her alone. At which the child let herself be taken, and it soon came out that she was in search of Margery.” He laughed softly at the memory of it. “Woebegone, did I say? When she had last eaten, I do not know. And for dirt--I’ve cleaner beasts in sties. But soon, when she had bitten something, she had a word to say. She has keen wits for her age---”

  “So we’ve noted. But her tale?”

  “The child, it seemed, had been near starving these three days, her mother being from home and she being left with a brother she plainly thinks a lack-wit.”

  “From home three days?”

  “Just so, Roger. It fits, and there’s the mark of truth in the child’s tale. For her mother, she said, came home Monday night. And the next day--being yesterday--the child was pulled from her bed at dawn and bidden walk to Whalley to beg a loan of butter from some woman there.”

  “Butter! From Whalley?” Roger was incredulous, and Nick was smiling at him.

  “Again just so. The child did not believe it either. I’ve said she’s sharp-witted. She did not go to Whalley. She made some pretence of so doing, and then she lay hid. And soon she saw mother and brother come forth with shawls and bundles, as if on a journey. They made down towards the river, she said, and after that Mistress Jennet waited for no more. She put aside all thought of Whalley and came marching sturdily here.”

  “But now, sir?” Margery spoke urgently. “Where is she now, if you please?”

  “In bed I hope--at her age.” The smile was on Nick’s face again. “I gave her in charge to your own woman, with some round orders for cleansing as well as feeding.”

  “But then?” Roger spoke steadily.

  “Then I sent for the Constable, and with no needful delay we were all at the Malkin Tower. And I took it upon me to bid him force the door.”

  “It’s well that you were here, Nick. And within?”

  “Silence--as the child had said. All deserted. The hearth cold. No food and no fuel. But Roger---” Nick paused, and then his tone became grave. “It’s a mud floor there, and in a corner it had been dug. So we thought well to dig there also. And what we found was human teeth--a bagful.”

  “God’s Grace! That’s a foulness to keep beneath one’s floor.”

  “Hidden in haste by the look of things. And also some small images of folk, wrought in clay and crudely done. You may guess what they were for.”

  “I can. But what was done with these things?”

  “Hargreaves took them to Baldwin. As a Warden he may take order for their burial decent.”

  “Of the teeth, that is?”

  “The clay as well, Roger. Is not a body clay, when all is said? A prayer said over these may quiet some soul’s rest.”

  “Ye-es.” Roger nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll not gainsay you in that, Nick. So now?”

  “So now the hunt is up. I had indeed no great matter to bring against these Devices, but that, I thought, might well be left. So I drew a Warrant and sent word to all parts. Did I well?”

  “Excellent well, Nick. Is there more?”

  “Not from me. But Margery looks concerned?”

  She almost flushed as she found his shrewd eyes on her. Then she came to her feet.

  “I’m concerned for Jennet, sir. I’ve a softness for the child. Will you give me leave?”

  She was away for a quarter-hour, and when she came back to the room Nick Banister eyed her with amusement.

  “How’s your Jennet?” he asked. “Is she clean?”

  “Clean! She’s scrubbed and shining, and she’ll not forget it readily.” Then Margery grew serious. “She was asleep, sir, but she roused for me and she’s wide awake now. And it’s her wish, I think, to talk.”

  “Talk? Of affairs, you mean?” Roger was speaking gravely.

  “Yes. The fact is--I’m sorry for it, but the child’s bitter. You may guess what treatment she has ever had from that mother.”

  “I can. Is she then coming here--tonight?”

  “Yes. I’ve told her she may come down--for just ten minutes. It may be worth it.”

  It was, though Jennet took a full twenty minutes before she had done. She spoke in the main of the doings at the Malkin Tower on Good Friday, and her tale bore out all that Alice Nutter had told to Roger; but Jennet chattered on, and soon she came to a detail that Alice had not told to Roger. Jennet named all she had known of her mother’s guests that day, and the names were those that Alice had given--with one more added. There was a woman, said Jennet, who had
come out of Craven, a woman who had been to the Malkin Tower before, and whose name was Jennet Preston.

  “Was it so?” Frank leaned forward suddenly, and there was a gleam in his eyes; but he recovered, and then he sat back, silent and interested, while Jennet went on with her tale. Jennet needed little prompting, and soon she was telling of this woman coming from Craven and bawling threats against Master Lister of Westby and Master Heber of Marton--until, to the general consternation, Alice Nutter had arrived. The company had then been at dinner, but Alice had peremptorily called two of them out--this Jennet Preston and little Jennet’s own mother. They had stayed out in the sunlight for a full quarter-hour in talk with Alice Nutter; then they had come in again, tight-lipped and silent, and Alice had been heard riding quickly away.

  That seemed to be all that Jennet knew, and Anne Sowerbutts was called to give her hot milk and put her to bed again. Then Margery had a word for Frank.

  “Jennet Preston,” she said quietly. “Who swills Tom Lister’s dairy and gives some hand in his house. Is not that the woman?”

  “It is.” Frank spoke quickly in answer. “A woman who was in Pendle at Christmas, and rode back to Tom Lister with a hurtful tale of you. But two weeks back, when they were swimming your witch here in Pendle, I was at Westby, as you well know. And that Sunday Tom Lister told me some more of this woman---”

  “Did he? You never told me of it.”

  “When I was back here, I listened--to you. And then I forgot this tale---”

  “What was this tale?”

  Roger had intervened firmly, and Frank responded at once; he turned to Roger and spoke soberly.

  “This Preston,” he said, “a little after Christmas, fell foul of one Dodgson, being a yeoman hard by Westby. There was some quarrel about I know not what, and Dodgson forbade the woman his land. And in no long time after that, a child of this Dodgson took sick and died--something suddenly, as it was thought. Whereat Dodgson made all haste to the next J.P. and swore witchcraft against this woman.”

  “The next J.P.? Meaning whom?”

  “Your son-in-law, sir--Tom Heber. Who committed her to Assize at York. From whence she’s newly returned--acquitted of this charge, and mighty hot against the Justice who committed her and against Tom Lister, who, she says, urged him to it.”

  “So?” Nick Banister nodded thoughtfully. “That tells us why the woman was bawling against Lister and Heber. But does it help us find this Lizzie?”

  “It does not,” said Roger firmly. “And that’s the core of it. We cannot commit Alice Nutter on the word of a child of nine. We must have this Lizzie and her moon-kissed son. And whither did they go?”

  “Just so.” Nick nodded again. “The child said towards the river---”

  “Which might mean Colne. But does it?”

  “By your leave, sir, it does not.” Frank was speaking urgently again. “By your leave, I do think that this Preston woman, like your Lizzie here, had her orders from Alice Nutter.”

  “Very like. And what were those orders?”

  “To make all ready to receive and comfort Squinting Lizzie. And no doubt her son as well.’’

  “God’s Grace!” Roger sat stiffly as he thought of it. “Nick, what say you to that?”

  “Shrewd, Roger--uncommon shrewd. And it may well -be true.”

  “Aye. It could be. At Gisburn, hey?”

  “A fitting hide, Roger. It’s out of the County, where your Warrant does not run--nor mine.”

  “Tom Heber’s does.” Roger spoke grimly as he rounded on Frank. “This is your hare, and you shall have the coursing of it. You may ride at dawn.”

  “To command, sir.”

  “We’ll warn Hargreaves tonight, and he may ride with you.

  Arrests, when all is said, are for the Constable. Then to Tom Heber, and persuade him along with you--telling what tale you please. Lister will guide you to where the woman is, and you may see if she has the Devices in hide. Is there more?”

  He glanced inquiringly at Nick Banister, and in a moment Nick nodded.

  “If the Devices are there,” he said, “you may tell Tom Heber he may draw a Mittimus on his own account--for the Preston woman. This will hang more than Squinting Lizzie.”

  Chapter 37: MOON-KISSED

  Margery did not hear Frank ride in the dawn. She was too deeply sunk in sleep to hear anything at that hour; but when she did wake the sun was gleaming through her curtains, and it tempted her to pull them back. The hour was young and the sun was yet low, and Margery lay back contentedly; and then, while she still lingered, she heard a horse come clopping on the gravel. Curiosity strove with languor, and won. She slipped out of bed and pushed her window open, and at once, as she remembered the proprieties, she hastily withdrew her head; for the rider of that horse was Richard Baldwin.

  Languor dropped from her. Richard would not be here at this hour without cause, and Margery wanted to know what it was. She sought clothes and hurriedly got herself to some sort of decency, and then she took the stair at a half-run. For once she was ahead of Roger, and when he appeared, half dressed and wrapped in his furred gown, she had already got Richard into the parlour and was hospitably pouring his ale.

  “Pour for me also,” said Roger. “What news, Richard?”

  “James Device,” said Richard briefly.

  “The moon-kissed?”

  “That one.” Richard drained his ale and looked at them exultantly. “The lord ordereth a good man’s going and maketh his way acceptable to himself. Yesterday I rode to Colne to have speech with my brother there. And as the sun grew low and I came from my brother’s house, there was a bellowing in the street like a cow that seeks her calf. Whereat, knowing that voice, I turned aside and laid hands on him---”

  “Jemmy?”

  “None other. Shaking the peace of the afternoon with his moon-calf bawlings.”

  “Most happily met.” Roger caught Margery’s eye. “It may be Milady Fortune’s smile.”

  “Speak not of the heathen.” Richard was stern and exultant. “The Lord is known to execute judgment; the ungodly is trapped in the work of his own hands.”

  “To be sure, Richard.” Roger spoke soothingly, and Margery was in haste to refill Richard’s mug. She thought it might distract him, and she had no taste for Psalms at this hour of the morning.

  “And what followed?” asked Roger.

  “He journeyed home with me.”

  “Willingly?”

  “He journeyed. And I’ve two lads now walking him here.”

  “It’s very well. You’ll breakfast with us, Richard?”

  “I have eaten---”

  “Then you’ll eat again.”

  They brought Jemmy Device into the Justice Room and stood him before the table. Behind the table Roger and Nick Banister sat in dignity. Margery sat at its end, thoughtfully cutting a quill. Richard sat aside, a watchful spectator.

  Roger made no prelude.

  “What did you do in Colne?” he asked frostily. Jemmy’s eyes went blinking, and his head rolled on his long neck.

  “Hadn’t no meat,” he croaked.

  It seemed to be his way of saying that he had been begging, and Roger accepted it. His shrewd eyes considered the fellow coldly.

  “Where is your mother?”

  The idiot face twitched violently and a sullen malice flickered in it. For a moment he stood with his tongue protruding; then he burst into speech, quick, indignant, and all but incoherent. Roger sat patiently, and slowly he pieced it together. On Tuesday morning, Elizabeth Device had first sent Jennet to Whalley, and had then told Jemmy he was to go on a journey with her. They had started as soon as Jennet was out of sight, and had tramped to Colne. Then, as they had no food, they had parted; each was to beg for an hour, and then they were to meet in the market place. Jemmy had done his part, and had duly sought his mother in the market place; but he had not seen her there; he had, in fact, not seen her anywhere, either then or later, and he had been roaming at large ever since
, eating what scraps he could beg, and sleeping in what alleys he could find. He had been into every quarter of Colne, but there had been neither sign nor trace of Squinting Lizzie; and the hungry Jemmy was both dazed and bewildered.

  Roger accepted the tale without much difficulty. This feeble creature had hardly wit enough to have invented it, and it was, moreover, all of a piece with what was known of Squinting Lizzie; she had certainly abandoned Jennet without scruple, and if she was in flight she must have had at least as great a motive for getting rid of Jemmy. Roger nodded thoughtfully, and turned to another topic.

  “Why did you leave your home?” he asked.

  Again the gaunt head rolled, and suddenly the idiot laugh came pealing out. It quenched abruptly as Tom Peyton’s fist jabbed his ribs, and for a moment Jemmy gasped.

  “Cats,” he said suddenly, and Margery sat up in surprise.

  “What cats?” Roger’s voice was expressionless.

  “Daylight Gate.” Jemmy leaned forward, blinking. “Came home a month back at Daylight Gate, and there were hundreds of ‘em, all yelling foul---”

  “Where?”

  “By home it was, and children shrieking too---”

  “And what of it?”

  “I was feared. And one come in, and lay on me an hour.”

  “And you were feared of it?”

  “I was an’ all.”

  “It comes of images in clay. Did you know that?”

  “Im . . . im. . . .” The fellow gawked, and Richard Baldwin leaned forward in his chair.

  “Pictures,” he said to Jemmy, and the twitching face cleared as though that was a word he knew.

  “Pictures,” he repeated stupidly. “Aye, pictures.”

  “Pictures in clay,” said Roger softly. “Pictures of men and women--wrought in clay. You have some in your house, have you not?”

  “No. . . . No. . . .” Jemmy was shouting, and Margery watched him keenly. The question had pricked too close for him to bear it. His excitement made that plain, but he stuck to his denial, and Roger turned abruptly to the other thing.