“There may not be a reason, but talk of witchcraft began with the death of Jonathan Carter and has escalated with every subsequent death. I am not suggesting that they were killed, but I will sleep easier when I am certain they did not die unnaturally. I do not doubt the mischief-making with the crows contributed to Carter’s death. The poor man was beside himself with terror.”
“So, it is not only a matter of convincing the villagers. You want me to make a proper investigation?” asked Lawrence.
“I do,” said the Reverend, “but regardless, the outcome must be that all supernatural rumours are quashed. How you achieve this is up to you.”
“I will start making enquiries at once and report back to you daily.”
“That will not be necessary,” said the Reverend. He turned to Michael who had been silent throughout the discussion. “Please deliver your reports to Michael. He will be on hand to assist you with anything you need. I am busy at present and Michael’s presence at the Vicarage has been invaluable. Any more distractions and I will miss the deadline for my research paper. I promised The Suffolk Institute of Archaeology that it would be ready this month. On top of that, I need to write the final chapters of The Church Bells of Suffolk.” He waved at a large pile of papers forming a disorganised heap in the corner of the room. “Time is precious.”
“Then I will leave you in peace,” said Lawrence rising from his chair.
“I am grateful,” replied the Reverend. “Michael will show you to your quarters and introduce you to the rest of the household.”
Michael and Lawrence exited the room leaving the Reverend Raven pouring over his papers. As the door closed, the Reverend gazed uneasily across the garden. He walked towards the window and looked outside. The sun was peppered with grey clouds. Shadows from the rookery dappled the lawn, striped by a silhouette from the old gas lamp. The trees, crowned by bulging rooks’ nests, seemed almost too slender to bear their weight. A crow cawed angrily from above. The Reverend frowned. His hands tightened over his crucifix as he stared silently into the distance.
Chapter 3
Nemesis
The hatred churned and burned within me. It clutched at my heart, talons searing through my flesh. Once it lay dormant but never vanished altogether; never lost its power; always growing, festering, biding its time. It was my birth right, after all.
I was the guardian of the hatred. It was mine to stoke, to burn bright and when it flickered and fell away, it was my duty to remember what they did, remember her; and fulfil the promise of revenge.
It lay quietly for years, though it entered me in a burn of anguish when I came of age; when my mother told me what her mother told her; a tale passed down over ten generations. I allowed it into my heart and it nested there and made a home, and we lived peacefully together. I hardly remembered it was there.
It was silent, so quiet that I thought it had left me. Life was bearable. I was loved. I was content. There were no children, but it did not matter. Yet the burden of hatred remained. It would never expire.
For a while I contemplated abandoning it, closing my heart to its insidious call. I buried it deep and lived my life well and perhaps would have continued to ignore it, until fate intervened and tore me from contentment, tormenting me with loss. One day I was alive and hopeful; the next alone, unloved and with a festering wound where my heart used to beat. All compassion and hope were ripped from my chest as the hatred forced its way into the world, burning, wrathful and black as the wing of a crow.
In that moment, on that day, I vowed revenge on those who had harmed my family. I embraced the hatred and determined to punish those who had wronged my ancestors. Then I assigned it a new obligation; to punish those who had wronged me.
Chapter 4
The Vicarage
Lawrence followed Michael down the passageway and into the hall. “Unusual circumstances in which to become reacquainted,” he said. “What do you make of it?”
“Very concerning,” Michael replied. “Talk of witchcraft among my parishioners is rife. More of them believe the rumours than otherwise. Do not let the Reverend convince you that it is idle gossip. Fear is making them angry and who knows where that may lead.”
Lawrence shook his head. “It is hard to believe such a thing is possible in 1890. We are men of science now. I must hear these rumours myself. Tell me who I should speak to.”
“I will,” replied Michael, “but first let me introduce you to the others.”
He opened a solid oak door to a large, well-lit drawing room. A marble fireplace graced the side wall. Hanging above was a portrait of a stern-looking gentleman dressed in old-fashioned apparel. The remaining walls were clad with raised and fielded panels, and a large chandelier was suspended from the centre of the ceiling. As Lawrence entered, sunlight pierced through the clouds catching the crystals above. He glanced towards the furthest window. The shutters were closed and a woman of about fifty summers reclined on a day bed nearby. Beside her sat two young women playing a card game.
“Good morning, Mrs Raven. Forgive the intrusion, but Mr Harpham has arrived.”
“Come in Michael,” replied Mrs Raven. “Excuse me if I do not rise, but I have one of my headaches this morning and it will not shift. Pleased to meet you.” She extended a hand towards Lawrence.
“Do take a seat.”
Lawrence and Michael seated themselves by the unlit fire. “I am sorry to find you indisposed,” said Lawrence.
“It is nothing,” said Frances Raven. “Allow me to introduce you to my daughter, Emily and her friend Loveday.”
Lawrence smiled at the girls. One was dark-haired and slender to the point of appearing under-nourished. Sharp cheekbones dominated her face and her small mouth fell naturally into a frown. The other girl was her opposite. Slightly shorter and with blonde hair falling in ringlets, her blue eyes sparkled with merriment. Flashing a broad smile, she placed her cards on the table and rose to greet Lawrence.
“How lovely to meet you,” she said, brimming with self-confidence.
The dark-haired girl joined her. “I am Emily,” she murmured.
Lawrence stood to greet them. “I am sorry to intrude upon your game,” he said, with the ghost of a smile.
“We do not mind at all,” said Loveday. “Would you like us to show you around?”
“That will not be necessary,” said Mrs Raven. “I am sure Michael will do the necessary. Fetch my reading glasses, Emily, dear. They are in my bedroom.”
“Come with me, Loveday,” Emily commanded.
Mrs Raven waited for the door to close. “I am glad you have arrived,” she said. “I have not seen John quite so worried in a long time.”
“I hope I can be of some use to him,” replied Lawrence.
“Be discrete around the girls,” said Mrs Raven. “They have only recently returned from Cheltenham and we have not discussed these silly rumours with them. I have implied that you are here because you are Michael’s friend and our house guest. That is close enough to the truth and as much as they need to know.”
“Of course,” said Lawrence. “It is interesting to hear that they have returned from Cheltenham. I know the town well, though I have not visited in almost three years.” He picked absent-mindedly at the brown leather glove on his left hand.
“Emily finished her studies at Cheltenham Ladies College a few weeks ago,” said Frances Raven. “Her sister Margaret is due back next term. Loveday’s people are in India so she came back with Emily. She is here for a few weeks, then she sails to Calcutta.”
“They attend Miss Beale’s establishment,” said Lawrence nodding. “It is held in high esteem in Cheltenham.”
“As well it should be,” agreed Mrs Raven, “though some still believe that education is wasted on young women. The Reverend Raven and I cannot endorse such an opinion. We would not deprive our daughters of that which we give to our sons.”
“Commendable," said Lawrence. "I have not met your sons. Are they at home?”
Michael smiled, “I am pleased to say that each of the Reverend's sons is destined to serve the church."
“Indeed, they are,” said Mrs Raven proudly. "They are all away at their various learning establishments for the next few months. It is unlikely that you will meet them.”
“That is a pity," said Lawrence. "I would have been glad to make their acquaintance. May I ask who else resides here?”
“Of course,” replied Mrs Raven. “My youngest daughter Margaret is at home, although you have yet to meet her. She is fourteen years old. Emily is nineteen and her friend is around the same age, perhaps a little older. You may have noticed my Aunt Harris on the lawn. She is in poor health and has a companion and nursemaid who has lived with us these last two years. Her name is Violet. That is everybody except our two servants. The elder girl, Mary, cooks and cleans. The younger, Anna, has never been in service before. Mary is training her. Whether she proves useful remains to be seen. The only other person you will see on a regular basis is the gardener, but he lives in the village.”
“And myself,” said Michael raising an eyebrow.
“How silly of me," replied Mrs Raven. "Michael lives here too. I took it for granted that you knew that, Mr Harpham. It is comforting for the Reverend to have another man in the house and now, with your arrival, he has two. It stops him missing his sons quite so much.”
The door opened and Emily appeared holding a velvet pouch. “Thank you, my dear,” said Mrs Raven, placing the glasses on her nose. “Where is Loveday?” she continued.
“She has retired to her room,” said Emily.
Michael arose from the chair. “I should show you to yours,” he said. "Please excuse us."
Lawrence nodded and Frances Raven returned a smile. She picked up a book as the two men left the room.
They returned to the spacious hallway and passed the dark mahogany sideboard. Upon it was a large blue and white vase containing a vibrant display of spring flowers. Beyond the sideboard was a wooden staircase with well-crafted, turned balusters which rose to the floor above. Lawrence gazed at the woodwork, admiring the carpentry. He had always felt an affinity with wood. As a small boy, his favourite uncle had taught him how to whittle a piece of wood into a thing of beauty. That was a long time ago when he had a pair of fully-functioning hands. He loved the feel of wood, the smell of it and the diverse ways in which it could be manipulated. He still appreciated the skill and workmanship of a master carpenter. Even more, since his useless left hand rendered him incapable of ever carving again.
He had not known what to expect from the residence, but it was not this. If anything, he anticipated a smaller, more modest home. In fact, the building was stylish, almost grand. No expense had been spared on the fittings. The moulded architraves were refined, the panelled dado's fashioned in the best wood and the cornices elegant. His surroundings were agreeable in every way and far more pleasant than his dark, cold rooms in Bury Saint Edmunds.
“There are six rooms on this floor,” said Michael, as they climbed the stairs. “The guest bedroom is here.” He pointed to a door at the right of the staircase. “Your window overlooks the garden.”
“Thank you,” said Lawrence. “I will unpack my bags, if I may, then we can talk. It would help to know where to begin my investigation.”
“Of course,” said Michael. “I will leave you to it. You can find me in the study. I have a sermon to write,” he said ruefully. “And little idea what to say.”
Lawrence opened the door and went inside. His suitcase had been set beside a wooden bed with a dark wood-panelled headboard. Striped blue and white wallpaper met a white painted dado rail. Several portraits hung at varying heights around the room. A carved washstand with wooden doors stood to the right of the bed.
Lawrence filled a pink floral china bowl with water. He removed his jacket and pulled the glove from his left hand. He splashed water on his face with his good hand, while the scarred and withered left hand rested awkwardly in the water.
He opened his suitcase and removed neatly folded clothing which he placed in the deep drawers of a dressing table. Once done, he kicked his suitcase under the bed, avoiding the bed pan beneath. The dressing table mirror was set in a carved frame and occupied the most part of the wall it rested against. Lawrence leant towards it and combed his hair, examining his reflection.
He was almost forty summers but his hair was still thick and dark. Not a strand of grey appeared in his hairline or sideburns. He was cleanly shaven with shallow crow’s feet wrinkling the skin beside his dark blue eyes. His brow was furrowed. He tried to straighten it but the furrows barely moved. A small scar marred his left cheek bone - a remnant of that dreadful night in ‘87. It would be three years to the day soon. He was relieved to be away from Bury, in good company and with plenty to occupy his time.
Lawrence eased the glove back onto his maimed hand and was reaching for his comb when there was a knock at the door. He was about to respond when the handle turned and Loveday walked in.
“Have you unpacked yet?” she asked.
Lawrence spluttered. “I have unpacked but what are you doing in my room? What do you want?”
“That is not very friendly," she replied. "I thought I might say hello and make your better acquaintance."
“You cannot simply wander into a gentleman’s bedroom,” Lawrence said. “What would people think?”
“Why should I care,” she replied. “Besides, they are all downstairs. And if anybody came in, you would be obliged to invent a reason, if you think they would mind me being here. Do not look so shocked,” she laughed.
Lawrence shrugged into his jacket. He walked straight towards the door, ushering Loveday from the room. He stood facing her on the galleried landing.
“You did not learn manners like that at Cheltenham Ladies College,” he chided. “I am a guest here, Loveday. I do not know what my hosts would think of me if they saw me entertaining one of their daughters’ friends in my bedroom.”
“I thought you would be fun,” she said. “I am sorry if you are cross with me. I only wanted someone else to talk to. It is very boring here. Emily is nice and her family are kind, but they are so dull. When I am in India, there is a lot to see, balls to go to and people to meet. Time passes quickly there. But I have upset you. Please forgive me.”
She touched his left arm as she apologised. He flinched.
“You do not like me,” she said.
“I do not know you,” Lawrence replied. “You are young and I am an old man of nearly forty. It is inappropriate for you to be so familiar, especially in the house of a man of God.”
“Very well,” she sighed. “I will be good and behave properly when I am around you, but I would like to know you better. I am not as young as you think. I will be twenty next Birthday.”
Lawrence shook his head and sighed. He felt awkward and old. She had made him uncomfortable and he resented it. He considered how much time he had spent alone since Catherine's death. So much, evidently, that he had forgotten how to interact. "I must find Michael,” he said. “We have business to attend to.”
“And I must find Emily,” replied Loveday, “as you appear to have no time for me.”
Lawrence gestured towards the stairs, waving Loveday ahead. She descended first, then looked over her shoulder and smiled at him. He returned a fleeting smile of his own. “Quite appalling manners,” he thought, though there was something appealing about her confidence.
He located Michael in the study. The door was ajar and Michael was reading a newspaper. Lawrence tapped on the door and peered in. Michael started. He folded the newspaper and grinned. “Caught in the act,” he said.
“I am sure you can spare a few moments to catch up with the daily news,” said Lawrence.
Michael pushed a notebook towards him. Upon it were three lines of text. “The words will not come today,” he complained. “I am not in a sermon writing mood.”
“Are you in an information giving mood?” asked Lawrence.
Michael nodded. “It will be a welcome distraction,” he said. “What would you like to know?”
“Names of the witnesses would be best. I should prefer to hear directly from those who have had the most involvement.”
“Then you should seek out old George Corbyn and his daughter,” said Michael. “He will, no doubt, speak at length. He is convinced his wife was a witch, but go easy on him. He is still grieving for his dead granddaughter.”
“I will,” said Lawrence. “He has committed no crime, apart from wilful ignorance.”
“You might also wish to seek out William Edwards,” said Michael, “that is if you think it is worth bothering with the death of Jonathan Carter. There is no evidence the two things are connected. If it were not for all that talk about crows, his death would have gone unnoticed.”
“I am inclined to agree,” said Lawrence, “but for the sake of completeness, I would like to talk to him, if possible.”
“Jonathan's body was found by Harriet King, but she died earlier this year,” said Michael.
Lawrence raised an eyebrow. “I assume her passing does not warrant its own investigation?”
“No, it does not,” said Michael firmly. “We cannot scrutinise every death or the task will never be finished. Besides, she was an old widow in frail health. I visited her a few weeks before her death and she was already in rapid decline.”
“A pity,” said Lawrence. “It would have been useful to have a first-hand account.”
“You can still have one,” said Michael. William Edwards saw the body and gave evidence at the inquest.”
“Where can I find this man Edwards?”
“At the Bake Office in the village.”
“Good, that sounds like a sensible place to start. Anyone else who might be helpful?”
“You could speak with Elijah Scoggins. He resides not far from the Swan Inn. He is the Parish Clerk. He knows all about church matters and keeps records. Speaking of records, I have some clippings from the newspaper reports of the inquest.” He handed Lawrence a brown envelope.
The Fressingfield Witch Page 3
