Mist Over Pendle

by Robert Neill

  “Count me your friend at need,” he said simply.

  Miles looked from the one to the other in mute gratitude; and then, surprisingly, Richard Baldwin spoke softly.

  “Get you back to Wheathead, lad. There’s matter here to hurt Grace as well as you. Go comfort her.”

  Roger, brooding by the window, turned quickly.

  “Aye,” he said firmly. “Do that--just that.”

  Miles needed no more persuading. He hurried out, and Frank went with him to see him to his horse. Then, in the silence, Roger spoke icily.

  “This woman gets past bearing. And I think we must not be too nice in our ways. Come Nick--let’s to horse.”

  “Whither?”

  “To the Rough Lee.”

  Chapter 38: THE STEWARD’S ROOM

  The Rough Lee was bleakly inhospitable.

  For the third time Harry Hargreaves set the knocker thundering, and still the oaken door stayed shut. Margery, sitting her horse among the others, had a side glance at Roger, and saw his nostrils begin to dilate. Roger was not used to being kept waiting.

  Then, as Richard Baldwin, with tight lips and lowering brow, slipped from his horse to join the Constable, there was a grind of bolts from within, and slowly and without haste the door was swung open. It disclosed a fellow in the sky-blue that was proper for servants, and Margery disliked him at sight; she thought him a sallow-faced rogue with an insolent lip, and nothing in his manner made her like him better.

  “What’s here?” he demanded with a grin.

  “Here’s some gentlemen and a lady,” said Hargreaves curtly. “For speech with your mistress, and at once.”

  The fellow stared impudently.

  “I’ll go tell her,” he said. He made as though to shut the door in their faces. Then he changed his mind on that, grinned again, and led them in. They trooped after him in silence as he swung another door.

  “You can wait in there,” he said.

  A black-browed Roger spoke dangerously.

  “You’ll curb your insolence and stir yourself. And tell your mistress she’s required, not requested--and by the King’s Justices.”

  Richard Baldwin’s whip slapped his boot. The fellow looked, saw Richard’s face, and quailed; then he took one white-faced glance at Roger, and suddenly his mouth shut. Whatever he had intended was left unsaid, and without a word he went off.

  “What’s in here?” said Roger.

  He strode into the room the lackey had opened, and Nick Banister followed him. Richard Baldwin went after them, and on the threshold he halted, cold anger showing plainly in his face.

  “What’s this?” he asked. “Esquires put to the Steward’s room?”

  It was as he had said. Margery following, him, recognized the room at a glance. Once before, on her first day in Pendle, she had been in this room. Half smiling, she looked at Richard.

  “In here I first set eyes on you,” she told him.

  “Aye--so it was.” His eyes swept round the room as he remembered. “A day of September, with Harry Mitton stretched on the table there. And I sat here reading.”

  “Reading a Psalter.”

  “Was it so? Your eyes were keen.”

  “They needed to be. I’d to watch my going--that day.”

  His stern face relaxed, and for a moment he smiled.

  “Aye,” he said softly; and she guessed that he had remembered his first hostility to her orange-tawny.

  “Set chairs to the table,” said Roger suddenly. “We sit as before.”

  They went about it quickly. Roger and Nick Banister, still in their hats, had chairs behind the table. Margery, as usual, sat at its end. There was a single chair left, but as none would take it from his fellows, the men all stood, ranging themselves against the wall. Then, as if on impulse, Richard left them and walked across to the hearth; he brought out flint and tinder and set light to the firing that was stacked there ready for the flame.

  “If these folk give no courtesies, we must make them for ourselves,” he said truculently.

  He stepped back, and while he watched the dry wood flare and crackle, the door-latch clicked, and Alice Nutter swept into the room. She halted, decorous in black and silver, bright of eye and erect of head, and she was the embodiment of cool dignity as her dark eyes played upon them.

  “What’s this?” she demanded icily. “I had almost thought beggars were come to town.”

  As the noisiness of beggars was a by-word, this was a plain insult. Roger parried it neatly.

  “Not beggars, ma’am, but the King’s Justices.”

  His voice came calmly. It asserted his authority, and it told nothing of his feelings; and Margery, watching keenly, saw the dark eyes narrow. Alice Nutter was far too wary to take Roger lightly.

  “Indeed, sir? You do me honour. May I know why?”

  She was still icy, but she was not insolent. It was as if she had recognized that this was too serious for such antics.

  “We’ve some questions to ask.” Roger spoke as calmly as before. “You’ll first be sworn.”

  She made no demur, but when it was done she moved quickly to the empty chair and coolly seated herself. Roger ignored that and spoke precisely.

  “Lately,” he said, “you were pleased to lay information before me touching certain persons of ill repute who on Good Friday met at the Malkin Tower and there dined. You did not think fit to mention one Jennet Preston as being among that company--although it seems you had close speech with her.”

  “I had speech with her for perhaps a quarter-hour.”

  The answer came calmly and at once, and Margery was almost startled at this woman’s composure. Then she understood. Alice Nutter was far too astute to deny what could be proved; and while Margery still considered that, Alice spoke again without waiting for another question.

  “You’ve been listening to gossip, sir, and since I don’t doubt you’ve had half a tale, you may fittingly have the other half. This Jennet Preston---”

  She paused, and her eyes had become very shrewd and searching as though she were appraising the perceptions of the impassive man before her. Then she had almost a smile as she spoke again.

  “Jennet Preston and I were girls together in. Trawden, and for the sake of that I show her what small kindnesses I can---”

  “Treasure in Heaven, no doubt.”

  The old sardonic note was in Roger’s voice, and for a moment Alice seemed disconcerted. Then she recovered.

  “I do not jest,” she retorted with dignity. “This woman came out of Craven and sought my counsel. She was in deep distress---”

  “Had been,” said Roger, and Alice checked at the interruption.

  “Had been?” She was almost querulous. “She’d been acquitted, had she not--of child-murder?”

  “Precisely so.” If Alice had again been disconcerted, she had recovered quickly. “Such a charge would distress any woman.”

  “I rejoice in that assurance, ma’am.”

  The dark eyes blinked, and for a moment her temper showed.

  “Will you hear me, sir? Or, if not, will you take your leave?”

  There was spirit in that, but before Roger could answer it, Richard Baldwin spoke unbidden.

  “There’s children dead in Pendle too. One of them was mine. And others that were not children.”

  She swung round on him, her face pale and vicious. But she did not speak. Whatever was on her tongue stayed unsaid, and her mouth shut tightly. Slowly she turned back to Roger, and once again she was speaking smoothly.

  “The woman had harmed no child. And being rightly acquitted at York she came here to Pendle, where she had some small acquaintance with several. Which is how it chanced that when I stumbled across those women, at the Malkin Tower that day, Jennet Preston was among them. Yet she was not of their company or counsels. She had come only to ask that one of them should bring her to me. Which is why I chose to speak with her apart. I could not refuse so small a thing.”

  “You were most ac
commodating, ma’am. And being with her there, you talked of--what?”

  “Her distress--and nothing more.”

  “Spiritual counsel, as it were? That’s odd matter at a feast of witches, and on Good Friday.” Roger’s voice was hardening. “What manner of gull do you take me for?”

  Alice Nutter smoothed an imagined crease from her kirtle. She paused again to flick imagined dust from its decent black. Then she looked up, half smiling.

  “Should you not beware, sir, lest that be asked of you? I’m not a Demdike.”

  Her voice was smooth and bland, and there was a hint of mockery in it that made Margery look sharply at her. Again Alice Nutter flicked, as though she saw dust on the cream satin of her stomacher and on the silver lace that laid the black taffeta. And at once Margery found her meaning plain. Satin and taffeta and silver lace! Assuredly this woman was not a Demdike, and no jury would suppose that she was. That was what she was telling Roger.

  Suspicion would run off this decorous lady. Sworn testimony would be needed here, and of that there was little or none; and it was hardly to be doubted that she knew that as well as they did.

  “For the moment we’ll let that pass.” Roger’s voice was as steady as before, but the watchful Margery thought him none too hopeful. “There’s another matter, and Richard here has put his finger on it.”

  “His child who died?” Alice was almost airy now. “I thought he’d sworn that against the Demdike.”

  “There are some others, as Richard has said. One of them was your own brother-in-law, lately distempered.”

  “Poor Tony, you mean? And what of it? He was distempered, as you say. But he’s mended and there’s no hurt done. Is there need to probe further?”

  “There is great need.”

  Roger’s tone was cold, but it did not disconcert her.

  “At your insistence,” she said. “But I’d hoped to spare some scandal. Is it not enough that my husband’s fled?”

  “Your husband is not in question, ma’am.”

  “He will be, if you probe further.”

  The smooth voice had an edge in it now, and the sly threat was plain; but Roger would not be put off. “You insist on accusing him?”

  “That’s a harsh word.” The dark eyes were unwavering. “I’ll guess that my son has been to you.”

  “He has.”

  “Then at least you know the set of things. It may be---though I blush to say it--that my husband did put venom in a syllabub and let my son carry it to Goldshaw.”

  “I rejoice that you can blush, ma’am.” Roger’s tone had the ice of winter in it. “And since you pretend so much, may we know why your husband should so conduct himself?”

  “Inheritance of land, sir. So also, as I do fear, with his elder brother, who died these twenty years---”

  “Robert? Do you seek to fasten that also upon your husband? ‘

  “I seek to fasten these on none. I’ve told you, I’ll gladly spare this scandal. It’s you that delve and probe, not I.”

  “It is indeed.” For the first time Roger’s anger was plain in his voice. “And it’s you, madam, whom I accuse. Not your husband but you.”

  “Do you so?” Her effrontery was unshaken, and she was returning his hard stare with eyes as steady as his own. “And what shall follow from that?”

  “Your committal to Lancaster--if you can find no better tale than this.”

  “I’ll need no better tale than this.” The dark eyes were pinpoints now. “I’ll tell it at Assize to judge and jury. And I’ll remind you, sir, that I’m not a Demdike and they’ll not suppose me one. It’s my husband who inherits from his brothers, not I. It’s my husband who’s fled, not I. It’s my husband who’ll quake and stammer, not I.”

  She rose to her feet, erect and steady.

  “Commit me, sir, if you’ve a mind to--and it may be that you will work my ruin. But it’s a deal more likely that you’ll hang my husband, and for what you say he has not done.”

  She paused, and in the icy silence Margery felt a cold shiver in her back. She glanced at Roger and saw his knuckles white as he grasped the table. And Alice Nutter laughed; a cold tinkle of a laugh that had a leer in it.

  “I’ll retire, sir, to my parlour. You’ll wish to ponder this at leisure.”

  Her taffeta rustled. Her head was erect and her shoulders square as she glided to the door, and then, with the door open, she turned for a last insolence; correctly, precisely, deliberately, she curtseyed; and as Roger sent his chair scraping back, she was gone and the door had clicked behind her.

  “Grace of God!” said Roger Nowell.

  “A woman of parts,” said Nick Banister calmly. “And I much fear that she’s right about the ways of juries. She’s a murderess, no doubt, but---”

  “She’s a damned witch,” said Richard Baldwin savagely, “and should have been so committed.”

  “Witch, do you say?” Nick was as calm as before. “You’re very likely right, Master Baldwin, but I doubt our getting proof of it.”

  “She was at the Malkin Tower on Good---”

  “God’s Grace!”

  They turned on Roger, all of them, as his words cut through their talk; and at the sight of his brooding face they stayed silent and expectant. Slowly he seated himself again.

  “Richard,” he said softly, “do you mind the last day we were in this room together?”

  “With Harry Mitton on the table here?”

  “Just so. How say you that Mitton died?”

  Richard stared in surprise.

  “I told you--witchcraft,” he said slowly. “And you’d have none of it.”

  “Would I not? Yet who bewitched the man?”

  “Demdike and Device.”

  “None other?”

  Again the chill shivered in Margery’s back, and this time it was Roger who had set it there; and at the soft menace in his tone, Richard stood dumb, and Nick Banister leaned forward.

  “Roger,” he whispered. “What’s this?”

  Roger turned slowly.

  “You’ve put it squarely, Nick. We dare not commit on poison lest we hang an innocent. But witchcraft--that’s different. We can at least prove her at the Malkin Tower.” He paused, and then he spoke briskly. “Who’ll be Judges of Assize this August?”

  “Altham and Bromley, from what I’ve heard.”

  “A pretty pair! Either would hang any witch for twopence.”

  “Roger! Roger!” Nick was expostulating mildly. “Even Bromley needs a pair of witnesses.”

  “He shall have them. I’ve said we must not be too nice in our ways. Where’s that woman?”

  “Alice Nutter, sir?” Hargreaves was alert at once.

  “No. The Device.”

  “Waits outside, sir.”

  “Bring her in--her and her precious son.”

  Hargreaves went out, and Wilsey with him. Their footfalls rang across the boards; and then silence gripped the room while Roger sat stiffly, his face set and his eyes smouldering.

  The footfalls came again, and Elizabeth Device was pushed into the room; the unhappy Jemmy followed, and Roger stared coldly at them.

  “How did Harry Mitton die?” he asked suddenly.

  They gaped at him, taken aback by the unexpectedness of it; and then Jemmy went off into his idiot peal.

  “She did it,” he crowed. “She did an’ all.”

  “Who did?”

  “He means his grandmother.” Lizzie had intervened quickly, alert to save herself.

  “Demdike was it? And how?” Again Jemmy whooped.

  “He denied her a penny. And her spirit sat on him. Sat on him it did. And all for a penny.”

  Roger nodded. “And your spirit also?”

  He spoke to the woman, and when she shook her head in quick denial he leaned forward across the table to her.

  “You’re committed for a confessed murder,” he told her, “and that will do your business sufficiently. One more shall scarcely signify. Your spirit and your mot
her’s, both of them, sat on Harry Mitton. But there was another woman whose spirit sat also. Who was that?”

  She stared blankly at him, and he leaned forward farther.

  “Yesterday you were taken at Westby, where you thought yourself secure. Who was it, think you, that knew where you were, and could tell us where to seek you?”

  Her lips moved uncertainly, as though she were on the brink of speech, and a sly smile came on Roger.

  “Who was it that came to me with word of your consortings on Good Friday?” Roger paused, and then his words fell slowly in the silence. “Who was it that would have you put to silence?”

  Her eyes widened; and suddenly she understood.

  “The goddam bitch!” she burst out. “The poxy lying trull! She said---”

  “Who said?”

  “That goddamned Alice. She said---”

  “Whose spirit sat with yours?”

  Elizabeth Device stood twitching while her eyes rolled madly. Then she steadied one of them on Roger, and Margery saw the hate that flamed in it.

  “Hers!” She seemed to spit the word.

  “Whose? Let’s have it plain.”

  “Alice Nutter’s.” Malice writhed across her face; and then for once and once only, Squinting Lizzie laughed. “And all for a penny,” she shouted. “All for a penny.”

  “A dear penny,” said Roger quietly. “You swear to this?”

  “Swear and be damned.”

  “Swear and be damned.” Jemmy whooped with glee. “That’s good, it is. Damned good.”

  “Do you swear it too?”

  “Me? Aye, I do an’ all. Swear and be damned.”

  Roger turned to Margery.

  “To their depositions, add that.”

  “Aye sir.” She dipped her pen and wrote hastily while Nick Banister looked cryptically at Roger. Roger saw it. “Say not that I do ill?”

  “I’ll not gainsay you, Roger.” Nick shook his head. “And truly I think you do well. This woman needs a hanging, and there’s no other way. When a woman has both riches and repute---”

  “Those don’t protect when it’s witchcraft.”

  “For that thank God,” said Richard Baldwin, and Roger nodded his assent.