by Syd Moore
The father’s good standing in the community and his Christian devotion awarded the family with some appearance of respectability. Though there were regular visits from friends and kinsmen in search of things misplaced or desiring of these miracle cures, it seemed the Suttons were largely shunned by those not in want. Mrs Sutton, in her latter years, and against the warnings of her husband, had made more of her ‘gifts’ than the townsfolk were comfortable with.
The steady trepidation and fear that this disease spreads has wearied men of the most robust mental condition but I was in thrall to Sarah’s words. I lost track of time as she wandered about the landscape of her mind. I was called back into the room on hearing her name the Lady of the Manor. Mrs Grey’s face was rapt, her eyes bright and her coarsened voice lighter. She was reciting an account of her ‘great disappointment’ and as I focused on the narration the most extraordinary story unfolded.
Sarah first encountered her love whilst strolling about the fields of Hadleigh, in particular the ruined castle where she would collect herbs for her various brews. The man, it seemed, was a handsome fellow, with eyes green like hers, and dark skin ‘the colour of wet sand’, which Sarah found beautiful but which also forced an exclusion of sorts by the society of Leigh people who considered him a ‘furrinner’ and therefore to be treated with suspicion. They are not cosmopolitan and indeed those that hail from neighbouring towns such as Rochford, in the very same hundred, are also considered ‘furriners’. This chap, it appeared, lived under the protection of the Lady of the Manor as some high-ranking servant of sorts. ‘He gave me this,’ she hung the locket over her chest. ‘’Tis beautiful. I know he saved long and hard for it. Now it is all I have of him.’
Now, I cannot attest to the validity of my next statement yet Sarah swears by our Lord it is true. Her love, Tobias Fitch, she said, was the son of Brigadier General Robert Bernard Sparrow, Lady Olivia Sparrow’s late husband: the issue of time spent in Barbados, an unfortunate coupling with a favoured slave. I cannot comprehend this behaviour in a noble man of such stature as the Brigadier, yet Sarah insisted that Fitch’s mother, expiring in childbirth, convinced Lord Sparrow to provide for her son. That he agreed or didn’t agree we will never know. For the Brigadier died on board ship from a fatal fever as he journeyed back home. The boy, it seems, was sent to Lady Olivia by members of the crew who did not wish to be saddled with another mouth to feed. Presented with the child it appeared that instead of sending Fitch away to the orphans’ asylum ‘the Lady of the Manor did throw her arms around him and weep’. That is how Sarah described the scene. My dealings with the Lady have not revealed such tenderness, and yet, part of me can believe it. Whatever the truth, the boy was installed in the household and shown special favours by his genial benefactor. The latter of course resulted in jealousies which effected the alienation of Tobias from the other domestic servants.
The Lady of the Manor enjoyed the hunt and Fitch often joined her on trips as a fetching-boy or steward. It was on one of these visits to her grounds in Leigh that Fitch met Mrs Grey, Miss Sutton as she was then. Accustomed to the mistrustful slurs of other servants Tobias sought the refuge of solitude in fields and woods. One late summer’s day Sarah recalled falling over in one of the ploughed fields. Fitch hurried to her aid. And that is when their friendship took root. Both were treated with caution by the communities in which they lived. They developed an immediate affinity, which over the course of the coming months, became coloured by more passionate thoughts.
It seems that the sin of which Sarah spoke was that which is common amongst women of a lower class. When she found herself with child, Fitch hastened to seek permission from Lady Olivia to make good Sarah.
Lady Olivia did not conceal her disdain. Sarah was not of the rank she desired for the wife of her protégé. Nor was the reputation of her family palatable to the Lady of the Manor. Lady Olivia foresaw a contamination of such great malevolence she not only refused Fitch’s request but forbade him to see Sarah again.
Such rebuttals, of course, do little to dampen the ardour of youth. With help from a friend, unknown to Sarah, Fitch arranged an elopement. Sarah was to meet him at a local spot, Adam’s Elm, a grand tree hollowed from within which, it is said, can conceal as many as thirteen men. Deferred by some trivial chore, when Sarah arrived a scene of uproar spread before her: Tobias was in the grips of a press gang. The man fought bravely, knocking one man to the floor and throwing off another. Sarah ran immediately to his help but was thrown aside, hitting the elm with such force she lost sensibility.
When she came round Doctor Hunter had been summoned to help. He had bitter news: one of the mob had been killed by Tobias and in revenge they had taken his life.
Sarah paused now, reliving the moment her heart was broken. ‘The doctor said his body had been returned to lie with his mother. I had nothing. No place to mourn him. I thought I would never know such inward sorrow, such deep loss. To come from the blissful joy of impending marriage to that. I knew at that moment I would never love truly again. And it has been so.’
She slumped into a reverie and fearing that she may swoon, I brought her back with a question about the child. ‘Doctor Hunter conveyed my situation to his Lady. They found a man who would take me for a wife, with the promise of fifteen pounds and a sack full of ale. I wouldn’t have him. I …’ she faltered here. ‘I did not want to live. I went to the Drowning Pool. But it would not take me. So they pulled me out and called me witch. They had been waiting to do that. A Sutton, witch girl like my mother and uncle. We have never been so. But,’ she sighed, ‘they got their way.
‘Robert Billing raised his fee to twenty pounds (which he spent over time in the King’s Head, and they wed me to him. My son was born shortly after. Folk knew he wasn’t Robert’s. He had his father’s eyes and his sandy skin. But he was such a beautiful child even my husband could not but love him too. Nine short years I spent with him. Each was a wonder. My sin has haunted me through my life, claiming all those I love.’
I uttered some well-chosen words of reassurance and reminded her that the Lord would not countenance self-murder. I duly expected that she would repent for her sins and was dismayed when Sarah revealed she cared not to. ‘My love with Tobias, that wasn’t a wrong. ’Twas a blessing from above. No, my sin was that I killed Tobias. If I hadn’t delayed at the house we would have been away before the gang got there. My actions brought about the death of the most noble, righteous man the world could ever know.’
I was stunned by her profanity and urged her to repent the sin of carnality. After discussion that threatened to linger into the morning, Sarah agreed and together we sat down and prayed to our Lord above.
When we had finished I took my leave and went to the door. Sarah handed me my coat and hat. As I stepped onto the wharf, she said this. ‘They slaughtered Tobias that night, sir, but they took no other Leigh man. Don’t you think that strange for a press gang, Reverend?’
I replied, ‘Such men take flight as soon as danger looks their way.’
‘But why were they there at all, Reverend? At the Elm? It’s far from the town.’ She reached out to touch my arm, as if to stay me. I shook her off with some words of comfort and made my way back to the rectory.
That night in my study I would think about her words until the curate called. Another soul required my ministrations and blessing before they made their journey towards God.
It was very late now but I was wide-awake. Sarah was right. Adam’s Elm was a way away, up by the Elms pub. I checked a map that I had bought in the Heritage Centre. Yep, nothing up there but Elm Farm and the highway.
It was ludicrous that a press gang would just happen to pass by at exactly the same time Tobias had arranged to meet Sarah. They must have had a tip-off. Perhaps from Tobias’ ‘unknown friend’? Could I find out who that was? Or was there actually any point? Was the sad case of Sarah’s murdered love just that? A tragic accident. I contemplated that it could have nothing to do with her death but I j
otted down ‘The Friend’ in my own notes anyway.
The clock chimed the half hour. Half-past twelve exactly. I pulled out the final journal and turned to Andrew’s Post-its. The first was noted with a number one. The second further back read ‘And finally …’
I flicked to the first. In the margin Andrew had drawn a line in a fluorescent marker indicating the section I was to read – December 1867. The entry began with a detailing of Eden’s routines. By now he had become the Primus of Scotland and it seemed he was indeed a very busy man. There were rants about people who had written to him, a great passage that covered the demise of Olivia Sparrow and pages and pages of religious guff I didn’t understand. Andrew obviously expected me to have more of an interest in Eden’s regular ecclesiastical life than I actually did. Finally I came to page twenty-seven of his neatly written notes. At the foot of it was the note of interest, highlighted in the margin with a pink fluorescent line.
‘I have also received a letter from my old parish of Leigh. The hand was almost illegible but with some great effort I was able to decipher some words. Dated the 4th of December it implored me to come there at once. “A great injustice has been committed, sir,” it read. “I ask you to come to Leigh at once so that you may understand the grievance that must be redressed.”’
A line after this was unreadable, the hand too wild and sprawling, but underneath this a signature, much like that of a young infant’s, read SARAH GREY. Andrew must have copied it from the original letter.
‘It is an unusual request but I am very busy at present. Though Emma has been saying a trip away might be a welcome tonic to the great cold here. The Leigh air was always so good for her. I shall mention it and if she is willing shall plan a trip for the New Year.’
He then returned to musings on his next sermon. There was nothing else of interest for a good few pages till I reached the last Post-it Andrew had left for me.
The previous instalment of the journal bore the date 10th of March. The section Andrew indicated had been written on the 25th. It was three in the morning. I was tired and my eyes ached but I was too wired to sleep. I needed to know what had happened.
I peeled off the last Post-it and began to read.
It is a delight to return to Cliff Hall. Our lodgings have been restored to a glory that preceded Lady Olivia’s time spent here. The previous tenant has divided up the great hall into more useful rooms befitting a residence the main service of which is to house as many short-term visitors as is comfortable in a condition of luxury as befits the exterior architecture. As such our rooms have been gaily painted in vivid colours, the likes of which no doubt would have bewildered the Lady of the Manor were she still alive. Though there were disagreements between us I am sure Leigh will miss the favours of its generous benefactor. Lady Olivia’s lands have been disentailed and sold off to diverse parties. There is no longer a Lady of the Manor. I believe the manorial rights to have been purchased by some merchant type.
I was glad to see that our drawing room still housed the mantel of Spanish oak. As Emma and I sat by the fire on our first night of occupation my dear wife suggested the sounds of revelry could still be heard faintly through the corridors.
The following day Emma renewed acquaintance with her good friend, Mrs Hilton. I made a round of visits to my former parishioners. Inevitably the number has depleted yet there were still many whom it was good to see. We supped with the Hiltons and agreed to visit Southend with them the following afternoon. It wasn’t until Friday that we were able to visit our former home, now the rectory of Walker King and his large family.
The day was changeable and though the morning had brought with it a clarity of sunshine one can only find on these southern shores, by the time we approached the rectory a frightful wind was whistling through the great oaks and cedars of the gardens, the gulls shrieking against it. The sound quite unsettled Emma (she is sensitive to these things, I have found). I, however, experienced no presentiment of what was to come.
Our host, Walker King, was a cordial man of middling years. The parishioners I had encountered of late spoke of him with great respect. His manner was humble and easy, his smile appearing often. I could see at once Reverend King was a likeable gentleman.
After dinner the reverend and I retired to the study. He had moved the furniture in a way which I did not wholly approve: a great chest of drawers was now removed to the window and prevented one from taking in the magnificent view of the gardens.
We conversed a little about parish affairs: the ivy on the north of the church tower, the dwindling offertory, the opportunist nature of some fishing folk. The troubles that irked me some fifteen years previously continued to vex Reverend King. I commented on this and we shared some mirth. Then I spoke of the matter that had brought me here.
King was economic in his words: Sarah Grey was dead and buried.
I have to admit to being somewhat shocked by this. A coil of unease snaked round the pit of my stomach. Dead. I had come too late, then.
Much alarmed I enquired as to the cause. The reverend became circumspect. He spoke of the dignified family wake, the supportive community. The death of an elder was not so unusual and yet I was taken much aback by King’s description: when I left the small town, Sarah Grey was attributed a witch, after another abominable cholera outbreak. Yet King referred to the widow as ‘the Good Mother Grey’ almost as if the people of Leigh had made their peace with her.
‘Tell me,’ I pressed, thinking of the note she had sent. ‘What were the circumstances of the widow’s demise?’
The reverend grew agitated and took to his feet. ‘It appears she had been ill and frail for some time. Doctor Hunter confided that the family had been concerned over the wanderings of her mind. But she was an aged woman and that is at times not uncommon in those approaching the night of life.’
‘Ah, I see. Yes, lamentably, I have seen this many times. Grey had, I believe, an older daughter and several other children. I trust they nursed her as she had nursed them?’
The reverend had begun pacing. ‘She was overtaken by an illness whilst on a walk.’
‘Regrettable. With the family at least?’
The reverend stopped and watched me as he said, ‘Her remains were found alongside Doom Pond.’
This caused me to take a sharp intake of breath. Could it be so? Doom Pond – the ancient place where, in unenlightened times, those accused of witchcraft were once so barbarically treated?
I paused for air. The reverend was watching my face as if forewarned of the effect his words might have on me. ‘Can I ask,’ he said at last, ‘the reason for your personal involvement in this matter?’
I told him of the letter.
My words startled him. Alarm flashed from his eyes. ‘She should have come to me. I had no idea that she might have been aware that she was in danger. I assumed it to be a quarrel or …’ He put his hand to his beard and stroked it. ‘When was this?’
I told him of the date mark, December the 5th, but that I had received it on the 9th. As justification of my delay I outlined the duties that prevented me from responding. Though, I must say, the kernel of trepidation was growing within and a shudder went through me.
The reverend promptly ministered to my ill ease. ‘There was little you could have done. On the 9th of December we buried Sarah Grey.’
This was of some comfort. Yet I could see there was more he was not telling me: the news of the letter had brought about such a great change in his character.
‘Reverend,’ I dictated in a tone that commanded him to reply as honestly as he could. ‘I must ask you to apprise me of the circumstances of her death.’
At this the reverend let out a long, pitiful sigh. The night had come in and King moved himself to shut the curtains. He rang for a servant and ordered two brandies before falling silent. Once we cradled the glasses in our hands he secured the study door with a key.
The man was by now in a state of high anxiety. Once more he checked the doors and win
dows. Only when he had ascertained our discussion would be completely private did he at last answer my question.
‘What I tell you now must go no further. I am breaking a vow of secrecy but you, good sir, are my brethren. I must ask you never to speak of this again. You are a bishop. I need not hear an oath but I must have your word, sir.’
I acceded to his request, though found it bordering on obsessive.
‘You must understand,’ he told me, his eyes fretful and grave. ‘Leigh is a place caught in a delicacy of balance. We are too big for a village and too small for a town. There is poverty and death and as a consequence the best that can be done to keep prosperity within is to ensure a situation of balance for all who live here. The church’s role is often to maintain this subtle equilibrium. Sometimes we must serve the Lord in protecting this for the greater good of the people, notwithstanding the tragedy of the few.’
I said that I understood. My incumbency had seen plans and conflicts that preceded the coming of the railway. I recalled hearing of one great battle between the fishermen and the navvies. The men of Leigh had won that night. It wasn’t always so.
Assured of an affinity he continued. ‘Many ships stop here on their way from the port of London to the continent and beyond, to stock up on food and linen. Many make a fair living in trading with these vessels and it is important that their crew continue to be welcomed in Leigh.’
I nodded. It was clear enough. The same practice had occurred in my time.
The reverend took a sip of his liqueur. ‘It is also of note that there is no group of men and women as fearful and superstitious as fishing folk.’
This too, I knew to be true.
‘I noted your surprise when I spoke of Sarah Grey as “Good Mother”. It was a tempering of the truth. I do not wish to speak badly of her but Mother Grey was not well liked. She was feared in these parts. I see you knew of this too.’
