The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits Volume 3 (The Mammoth Book Series)

by Mike Ashley

  The dead man was Annie Beeston’s cousin, William Stubbings. A formidable and God-fearing man, he was a notoriously hot-tempered fellow. William owned an extensive tract of farmland in Clough and had quarrelled with the old woman over the precise location of the boundaries between his property and hers. Later, a mare belonging to him had died. His younger brother George stated that William accused Annie and her granddaughter of sorcery. George had, as he asseverated, a strong belief in family obligation, and he and William were the Beestons’ closest living relatives. Even though the Beestons had always kept themselves to themselves, George maintained his refusal to accept there was any truth in William’s charge that the animal was bewitched. Moreover, the Beestons’ smallholding was poor in yield compared to William’s acres, and George had for the past twelvemonth assisted the women with heavy work in the fields, insisting that he would accept no reward for his pains. Although he had little property of his own, he had a passion for agriculture and had become something of a herbalist. Before the court, however, he testified in halting terms that he would take his regrets to the grave. Scepticism, coupled with a natural fondness for the Beeston women, had caused him to do nothing to save his brother from the witch’s fearsome vengeance. His kindnesses betrayed, he could not now help but nurse a natural hatred for them. Yet he did not neglect his duty, as he saw it, toward Mungo Beeston, and arranged for the old man to be cared for by a local woman from the village while his wife and granddaughter languished in gaol.

  The grim task of describing his brother’s death to the judge and jury brought tears to his eyes.

  “One evening William and I were together and he clutched his chest. ‘My heart is bursting!’ he cried. Within a few moments he was dead in my arms.”

  William had always been a fit and healthy man, George confirmed. Voice trembling, he recalled the dreadful night of his brother’s sudden death. It was a shocking blow, yet George did not at once associate William’s demise with a spell cast by Annie and Martha. Not until a week later, after discussion with an acquaintance by the name of Joshua Carrington and his neighbour Hugo Frandley, was he driven to the opinion that William had fallen victim to foul play.

  Carrington was well known in Chester. Richard himself had encountered the fellow more than once. Elderly and eccentric with a mass of wild grey hair, he was a man of remarkable knowledge, the grandson of an alderman who had devoted his inheritance to the study of antiquities. Dwelling in a black and white house within a stone’s throw of Eastgate, he possessed a noted collection of artefacts from the old legionary fortress. Over the years, he had published a number of learned papers and spoken about his researches at meetings that Richard, himself an enthusiast for uncovering traces of the past, had been eager to attend in rare moments of escape from legal duties. Importantly, he lacked both Frandley’s wounded pride and George’s grief-stricken rage and accordingly the story that he had to tell carried even more weight than theirs.

  While in George’s company, Carrington had met and befriended the Beestons. He had talked at length with Annie and even purchased an old beaker from her. He found the old woman amiable if foolish, while her daughter was a comely lass for whom he conceived a strong affection, albeit entirely paternal in character. She was headstrong yet intelligent, whereas her grandmother was ill-educated and lacked a disciplined mind. He was startled, therefore, to call at the Beestons’ home seven days after William’s sudden death and overhear both women finishing a prayer in Latin as he stood on the threshold. He caught only a few words, but they seemed to be giving thanks for a blessing. When he knocked loudly, silence fell in the little cottage.

  “Martha opened the door. She seemed ill-at-ease, which I found unaccountable, since we were on cordial terms. The price I had paid for the beaker was handsome, for it was an interesting item although of little historic consequence. I believe she recognised that, although I am very far from being a rich man, I nourished a considerable sympathy for her, of an entirely platonic nature. Her parents and older brother had died when she was still young and there was little money. In the days following William’s tragic passing, therefore, I urged George to offer them some assistance by purchasing Mungo Beeston’s plot of land and amalgamating it with his and William’s. I reasoned that this would allow the women to remain in their home without needing to cope with the burdens of tillage. William would not have entertained such a notion, but George is a kind-hearted man and was easily persuaded that this was a proper means of discharging the obligation he considered that the blood-tie imposed upon him. He shared my wish for Marie to have enough to live on, even if her grandparents died soon, until – if she was wise enough to reconsider – she accepted Frandley’s proposal or in time found herself another husband. All in all, this seemed to me to be a most equitable way of proceeding, and George responded with characteristic goodwill, telling me that to assist his cousin he would be willing to offer a little more than the land was truly worth, to overcome any reservations that the women might have. Gratified, I went to the cottage to ascertain whether the suggestion met with their favour.”

  It did not. Annie was incoherent, but Martha would not countenance the idea and denounced Frandley in particular. He made her flesh creep, she said, and she would sooner die than be his bride. Determined not to accept charity, however kindly the proposal was meant, she said she would never be beholden to any man. This was Beeston land, she said, and so it would remain. Shocked by her vehemence, Carrington pointed out that, since George had inherited his brother’s farm, he would be a busy man and unlikely to have the time to continue to help the women as he had done in the past. As for his own motives, they were entirely disinterested and honourable. Martha remained adamant and chided her visitor for daring to hint that she was incapable of looking after her grandmother and their own property.

  “There was nothing more that I could do. The girl has the stubbornness of her sex and I could see nothing to be gained by pressing upon her the obvious advantages of the arrangement. The effect would only have been to increase her intransigence.”

  After he took his farewell, however, a disturbing incident occurred. As he walked along the lane towards where George Stubbings lived, he heard a commotion coming from the Beestons’ cottage.

  “It was not quite like anything I had heard before. I can only liken it to the yowling of a multitude of cats. This bewildered me, for to my knowledge, neither Annie nor Martha had ever kept even a kitten.”

  Increasing his pace, he soon reached the Stubbings farmhouse. George was saddened that the girl had spurned his offer, but her lack of gratitude was of little consequence to a man who had so recently lost his brother. He confirmed that the Beestons kept no cats. While they talked, another visitor arrived, whom he recognised as Frandley. The farmer was in a state of great agitation. He said he had been talking to Joseph Losh, Dorothy’s father, and he had recounted Dorothy’s claim that Martha had surrendered her soul to the Devil. Shocked, Carrington protested that the girl would never do such a thing. The old woman’s mind was fuddled and Martha had a fierce temper, but that did not mean that they put spells upon their enemies.

  Carrington explained to the court that over the years, he had learned much about witches and their heinous deeds. He had studied Malleus Maleficarum, a text composed by two Dominican friars, which provided guidance on the denunciation and arraignment of suspected sorcerers. Nor was this merely a matter of intellectual fascination. As a loyal subject of His Majesty, he believed that the King’s fiercest opponent was the Devil. All respectable men knew that it was through the work of witches that the Evil One sought to establish his supremacy on Earth. This Carrington readily acknowledged, and yet he insisted that Martha was an unlikely witch. In the end, however, he had perforce to concede that she and her grandmother had a case to answer. Frandley insisted that he should report the matter to John Hankelow. The following day he told George Stubbings that he had spoken personally with Dorothy Losh. Her tale was indeed damning of the Beeston women.<
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  A slight, lone figure beset by a roaring tide of hideous allegations, Martha was to the witnesses a creature of the darkness. To John Hankelow, she was stripped of humanity and even her name. In the depositions she was referred to merely as “the examinate”. To Richard, listening to her in court, she cried out with the frantic insistence of one who is unjustly accused.

  “My grandmother was a sick woman long before she died, afflicted in mind as well as in body. When the Magistrate questioned her, she did not know what she was saying. For years I strove to protect her, since she was incapable of taking care of herself. In all that time I have been very busy, but never have I cast a single spell, far less bartered my soul with the Devil!”

  Even when fighting for her life, she could not keep a sardonic edge out of her replies to Baron Elbourne, but spirit served her ill. She insisted that Dorothy Losh and Hugo Frandley were jealous of her and had conspired to perjure themselves, yet was constrained to acknowledge that George Stubbings and Joshua Carrington had treated her kindly. When asked why they should lie, she had no answer.

  “They – they must be in error.”

  “Both are sensible men, are they not?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Mr Carrington, in particular, gave his evidence even-handedly, and with every appearance of regret?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Why then should the jury conclude that he and Mr Stubbings were mistaken?”

  Silence.

  “Do you have an answer?”

  “I cannot say, my Lord.”

  Overcome by anguish and frustration, Richard smacked his fist down on the wooden table. Added to Annie’s confession, the evidence from each of Dorothy, Hugo Frandley, George Stubbings and the troubled Carrington was powerful. Taken together, it was overwhelming. The case against Martha was watertight. Yet it could not be sound.

  Impossible to rid his mind of the picture he had conjured up in his mind, the picture of what would happen to Martha within a few short hours. For this would not be an ordinary death, not a quiet death in the presence of a grieving family, such as any man or woman might anticipate at the ending of their days.

  Women prisoners were burned, not drawn and quartered. It was a small mercy, a distinction made out of consideration for their sex. It would be indelicate to subject a female to the fate of men, who were half-strangled and had their privy members cut off and their bowels extracted while they were still alive, before being decapitated and having their bodies quartered. Richard’s gorge rose when he remembered the last burning he had seen, up at Lancaster. A foul-mouthed termagant, convicted of petty treason, had her clothes, limbs and bonnet smeared thickly with tar. He could still hear the crowd’s jeers as she was dragged, barefoot, on a hurdle to the site of execution. The chaplain said prayers and then she was manhandled on to a barrel of tar beside the stake. Chains were used to tie her and her neck placed in a noose at the end of a rope which ran through a pulley attached to the stake. As the wood was lighted, the executioner tried to pull the rope, but the flames roared up and scorched his hands and he had to retreat. The woman struggled in vain and men threw faggots on the fire to hasten her end. Her face turned black and her tongue swelled and as the flames consumed her nether parts, she ceased to move.

  No! He could not watch Martha suffer such indignities, even in his imagination. Breathing hard and noisily, he cursed her out loud. Certainly, the woman had bewitched him too. It was the simplest explanation for his tormented bewilderment that a woman convicted on clear evidence, probed in the most painstaking manner, could yet persuade him that she had never given herself to the Devil or sworn to carry out his wicked work.

  Tomorrow she dies.

  The clock was inexorable, ticking away the minutes of her life. As he listened, a thought struck him. An anomaly so obvious that it shamed him not to have noticed it before.

  A moment later, candle in hand, he was clattering down the wooden stairs, on his way to the library. The Judges’ Lodging was well-stocked with dusty tomes and learned papers. In idle moments he often leafed through them. From memory, he thought that he might find what he was looking for.

  He spent the next hour poring over the texts he had sought and when he was confident that he had unravelled the conundrum, he made his way to Baron Elbourne’s chamber. Tonight the judge’s snoring was louder than ever. Tomorrow the woman he had sentenced would die, but that consideration would not interrupt his slumber. Even Richard hesitated to do so. Yet he had no choice, if Martha was to be saved.

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  Baron Elbourne’s face was ruddy with anger at the disturbance. Clad in his nightshirt, he yet conveyed the majesty of the law through narrowed eyes and lips. Richard knew well that if he failed to persuade the judge of the merit of his speculations, not only Martha’s life but also his own reputation and standing would be set at naught. But this was no time to hesitate, and he did not. He spoke rapidly and with a passion that might have been envied by an advocate of distinction. The judge was strict and unforgiving of error, but Richard knew that his mind was acute. There were prima facie grounds for an objective mind to conclude that Martha was not a culprit, but rather a victim. If only Baron Elbourne were willing to consider the matter afresh!

  At first, the judge scorned what Richard had to say. Yet as he listened, his brow began to furrow in thought. When Richard thrust the pamphlet into his hand, he studied it in silence for several minutes.

  The author of the pamphlet was Joshua Carrington. He recorded therein divers researches he had conducted into the activities of the Roman cavalry in Cheshire, and in particular, those of the First Pannonian Regiment. The paper outlined his theory that senior officers who had received their discharge on conclusion of their active service had settled in the county to farm or produce salt. They would, he reasoned, be men much wealthier than the native inhabitants and thus any settlement that they might have established was likely to reflect their riches, if only it could be found. Richard had attended a lecture some years ago at which Carrington had described his speculations. It was pleasing to think that the retired Roman officers might have lived cheek by jowl with the local populace, but Carrington lacked proof to substantiate the notion. All he had been able to do was to chart the site of the principal Roman forts and the line of the arteries linking them. They included Watling Street, which ran from London to Wroxeter, where it met the military road running between Chester and Caerleon. In turn that road connected with a route which, on entering Cheshire, passed through Malpas and Tilston as it skirted the marshes of the Dee estuary on its way towards the city. This last road, as Richard pointed out to the judge, also ran close to Clough.

  “Suppose Carrington encouraged his friend George Stubbings to dig in the environs of the hamlet in search of evidence of Roman occupation. Suppose George did more than that. Suppose he uncovered evidence of treasure that the Romans had buried underground.”

  “Supposition is not evidence!” the judge muttered. “In a Clerk of Assize, that is not necessarily a quality to be desired. In this case, so overwhelming was the weight of . . .”

  “Hear me out, my Lord!” Richard could hardly believe that he dared to interrupt Baron Elbourne and the judge’s face suggested that he could not believe it either. “Did we not see a different kind of evidence before our very eyes? What of Frandley’s jewelled ring or, to my mind more significant, Dorothy Losh’s bracelet? I swear that it was made of silver. How could a young peasant girl come by such a thing honestly? And there is more. What of the beaker that Carrington bought from Annie Beeston? Might it not have been a trophy implying a Roman presence on the Beeston land? No wonder George Stubbings was willing to assist with their ploughing. He was Carrington’s envoy, scouring the land for Roman remnants.”

  “Mr Norley, have a care. You are suggesting that persons of repute have embarked upon a wicked conspiracy. Carrington and Stubbings are . . .”

  “Do not forget Frandley!” Richard crie
d. “I believe they plotted together. How it must have hurt those men, that the stretch of land where the valuables were to be found belonged to a sick man married to a mad old crone. The first strategem was for Frandley to marry the girl and take possession of her property. When Martha spurned his overtures, they became desperate. Mungo Beeston was sick and likely to die soon. If his wife and grand-daughter predeceased him, his property would pass to his cousin. But what if Martha lived and were to marry a young, healthy fellow who discovered the hoard beneath their fields? This consideration, I am sure, drove Carrington and his friends to hatch their plan. But Annie and Martha Beeston were not their only victims. William Stubbings, who owned the land adjoining the Beestons’ property, had to die. Harsh and devout he might have been, but he would not have been a party to a fraudulent attempt to convict his cousin and her granddaughter of witchcraft for financial gain.”

  Richard thrust into the judge’s hand another yellowing document that he had found in the library. “Consider this treatise upon poisons, my Lord, and remember that George was a herbalist. The foxglove is a pretty plant, growing in profusion in the county, but he would be familiar with the fact that there is a substance capable of being extracted from its leaves that, ingested, stops the heart from beating. To outward appearances, the death in such a case is natural. In actuality, it is feloniously contrived.”

  The judge stared at him. For the first time in Richard’s recollection, his voice carried a note of uncertainty.

  “Your inferences have a certain superficial plausibility, Mr Norley . . .”

  “There is more,” Richard said eagerly. Sensing that he had won an advantage, he must not to let it slip. “Can it really be credited that the foolish old woman would have mastered the Latin in which she supposedly thanked Satan for enabling her to kill William? Can we . . .”