“Should be useful,” said Lawrence opening the envelope. He scanned the clippings. “Short and to the point,” he said.
“You may also want to talk to Hannah Roper,” Michael continued. “She is the unofficial village historian and was, more importantly, one of Mary Corbyn's few friends.”
“Mary Corbyn, the alleged witch?”
“Yes. Mary was not well regarded in the village – not even within her family. Her own husband declared her a witch and Corbyn’s daughter, Sarah Hammond, detested her.”
“Were you acquainted with Mrs Corbyn?”
“Only a little. I called upon the Hammonds once or twice when little Edith was first born. Mary Corbyn was present on one occasion.”
“And what did you think of her?”
Michael thought for a moment. “She was an odd woman. The family were discourteous to her. They called her a witch in her presence and she did nothing whatever to discourage it. Indeed, I formed the impression that she coveted it.”
“How so.”
“By behaving like one. She carried a large carpet bag with all manner of potions. Benjamin Hammond complained of a sore head and she produced a filthy jar containing some sort of noxious substance. She moved towards him and tried to rub it on his temple and Sarah Hammond raised her hand as if to dash it away. She told Mary Corbyn that if she touched him with her poison, there would be hell to pay.”
“Charming,” said Lawrence. “How did it end?”
“Not violently, I am relieved to say,” Michael replied. “Mary simply smiled and sat down beside her husband appearing entirely unperturbed. But his daughter Sarah was angry and asked him to leave and take the ‘Witch’ with him. Mary smiled again and said that Sarah should be careful not to offend her in case something bad happened to her.”
“Did they leave?”
“Yes, they left immediately. Sarah apologised to me for being witness to the incident. I had forgotten all about it until now.”
“Thank you,” said Lawrence snapping his notebook shut. He had been writing throughout the conversation. “I should be able to make some headway now. I will leave the Vicarage shortly and head for the village.”
“Good luck,” said Michael. “Let me know how you get on.”
Lawrence collected his hat from the stand in the hallway and ventured outside. The old woman had gone and her companion was picking up a book from a blanket on the front lawn. She carried a wicker basket over her arm.
“Hello again,” said Lawrence. “Thank you for helping me earlier.”
“You are welcome,” said Violet. “Are you leaving us already?”
Lawrence smiled. “No, I am likely to be here for at least a week or two. I am going into the village.”
“I too,” said Violet. “Mrs Harris has a fancy for an iced bun so I will walk to the Bake Office while she sleeps.”
“That is my destination too. May I walk with you?”
Violet nodded and they set off towards the churchyard in companionable silence.
Chapter 5
Laxfield - Extract from the Parish Register
She arrived at my church in despair, rejected by her own parish, lonely, fearful and friendless. She was intelligent, perceptive and had known for some time that darker days were near, though her life was already immeasurably hard. She dreaded the future and was all too aware of her vulnerability as a woman alone in a county of violence and uncertainty. Men were fighting, dying, seizing land and plundering the great houses. Mobs ruled whether Protestant or Papist. A whole landscape had been defined by the war between King and Parliament, no county more embroiled than Suffolk.
Small wonder that her daughter grew up, consumed with animosity.
As property was destroyed, and prominent families were driven from the county, so the fear grew. Troops marched onward, determined to carry out the will of Parliament. And the will of Parliament meant destruction and desecration.
She was there when they arrived at the church; bore witness to the savagery. She had been praying; her new-found poverty never enough to diminish her faith. And it cost nothing to talk to God. And it was consolation while the world turned to mayhem about her.
There were rumours they would march on the churches soon, but nobody knew when, so she continued to worship.
She was alone when the doors burst open. Soldiers stormed in and set about their dreadful task. They swarmed into our church, pulling every picture from the walls. They hurled them to the floor with careless abandon. Later she found them beside the graveyard, trampled and burned, as if they never mattered at all. Sacrilege. She watched in horror as they tore a crucifix from the pulpit. They did not cast so much as a glance in her direction. She stood, trembling, at the back of the church watching the articles of faith she held so dear, torn apart by brutish men. Then, when she thought it was over, a soldier unsheathed his sword and strode towards her. She gasped. Her breath caught in her throat, heart pounding. His strides clumped across the stone floor. She lowered her head, braced herself. But the soldier turned his sword at an angle and scraped at the wall beside her. The inscription so familiar to her, so beloved, disappeared from the wooden panel, replaced by ugly gouges. She could still see it in her mind’s eye. “Ora pro nobis.” Yes, indeed pray for us. Pray for our very souls. Pray for salvation from these ungodly men.
And when she thought that all the destruction that could be wrought upon the tiny church, had been administered, more followed. The building shook and groaned as if under siege from Satanic forces. She rushed outside, fearing for her soul, to find soldiers manhandling the stone cross above the porch. Two men were atop the roof with heavy ropes which they had fixed around the cross and thrown to the ground. Below, soldiers grasped the ropes while those above pushed with all their might, grunting and red-faced with exertion. The stone cross rocked backwards and forwards as they pulled, then it split away and debris rained from above. The cross fell to the ground and broke in two with a noise like a whip crack.
Their mission accomplished, the soldiers left and she surveyed the wreck of the church she loved, her only succour. All hope vanished. When I arrived, she was kneeling on the ground, silently praying, as if in a trance. I too fell to my knees at the sight of the devastation before me. My shock and distress rendered me motionless for a while. I watched her cry silent tears, then found the strength to grasp her hands and hold them firm. We prayed together and she left without a word, both of us desperate to conquer our pain alone.
I heard that she returned to her dwelling in Fressingfield, broken and anguished. She never came to Laxfield again. It was said that she prayed through the night until her daughter forcibly removed the bible from her hand.
“What God would allow this?” her daughter said. And the hatred was born.
Chapter 6
Witness
The walk to the bakers was short and scenic. Lawrence and Violet crossed the road and strolled through the churchyard towards the heart of the village. They were both content to walk in silence. As they neared the Fox and Goose Inn, Violet finally spoke.
“Do you think your investigation will take long?” she asked.
“You know why I am here?” he replied, surprised.
“I do,” she said. “Do not look so worried. Reverend Raven speaks openly in front of me. Even if he did not, I would know soon enough. Mrs Harris likes to share her concerns.”
“You must have been with her a long time if she holds you in such high regard?”
“Almost ten years,” replied Violet. “Ever since she lived in Norfolk before she became too unwell to walk. Her deterioration in health coincided with the Reverend’s move to this lovely big Vicarage, so he offered her a home with his family.”
“He is a good man,” said Lawrence. “That was generous.”
“Yes, and typical of his kindly nature,” said Violet. “He has welcomed me into his home and, as I have no family left, it has been a godsend.”
“May I ask if you have heard any talk o
f witchcraft?” asked Lawrence.
“Very little,” replied Violet, pushing back a tendril of dark hair.
Lawrence watched her pin the unruly tresses with bitten, unpolished fingernails. Faint slivers of grey streaked her temples. ‘Definitely nearer forty than thirty,’ he decided.
“I have heard little talk because I do not know many people,” she continued. “I did not grow up in the village and have no children, nor am I ever likely to. My life is quite solitary. I spend most of my time with Mrs Harris or running errands and rarely exchange pleasantries with the villagers. I know some of the store keepers, but they do not gossip much, at least not to me. As for the occupants of the Vicarage, it is only Michael that I confide in. He has kept his counsel over these rumours and barely mentions them. I do not think he realises that the Reverend had already expressed his concerns to me.”
“That is for the best,” said Lawrence, smiling. “At least it means I will not have to interview you during my investigation.”
Violet smiled. “Naturally, I would have been entirely cooperative,” she said.
“Naturally,” Lawrence agreed. Though not at all attractive, Violet was good-humoured and easy to converse with. He decided that he liked her.
“We have arrived,” she said pointing to the Bake Office. A sign to that effect was set into a cream lime-rendered cottage where the door stood open in a welcoming manner. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted from the front room which served as both kitchen and shop. A youngish man with long, light brown sideburns arranged loaves of bread onto a table top by the door. He wore a navy apron which was liberally coated with flour.
“Good morning, Miss Smith,” he said cheerily. “What can I do for you?”
They conducted their business and Violet said goodbye. She waved to Lawrence as she departed.
“Good day, sir,” said the baker. “A nice fresh cob, is it? Or would you like some buns?”
“Neither,” said Lawrence. “But I would appreciate a few words, if you have the time, assuming you are Mr William Edwards.”
“I am,” said the baker watching Lawrence suspiciously. “What do you want with me?”
“I understand that you were with Jonathan Carter when he died,” said Lawrence.
“Not exactly,” replied William, “but what of it?”
“I would like you to tell me about it, if you will?”
“I would rather not,” said William Edwards, narrowing his eyes. “I spent long enough discussing it at the inquest. It is all a matter of public record. Read the newspapers, if you want information. Anyway, who are you? Why do you want to know?”
“I am a friend of Michael Farrow,” said Lawrence. “He has concerns about the welfare of some of his parishioners. He thinks it would help their peace of mind if there was a little more clarity surrounding certain events.”
“I am not entirely sure what you mean,” replied the baker. “But I can tell you straight off that there was not much clarity, as you call it on the day that Jonathan died.” His smile had vanished and his brow was furrowed. He turned away from Lawrence and stood stroking his chin as he stared out of the window, deep in thought.
Lawrence waited, wondering whether he ought to leave. Finally, the baker turned to face him. “I will tell you,” he said, “but not here.”
He removed his apron and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Mary,” he yelled.
A heavily pregnant woman appeared from the back parlour. “Yes, William?” she whispered.
“I have to go out. Will you mind the shop?”
She nodded and heaved herself onto a stool located next to the trestle table.
“Come with me,” said William. Lawrence followed him out of the bakery, retracing his steps from earlier.
It was only a small distance up Church Street. “Where are we going?” asked Lawrence.
“To the churchyard,” said William brusquely. “Where he died.”
They walked in silence. William opened the gate and ushered Lawrence through. He stopped in line with the front of the church. “There,” he pointed.
A moss-covered cross stood to the right of the church doorway. “He fell across the pathway with his head a little shy of the foot of this cross,” said William.
“Did you see him fall?” asked Lawrence.
“No,” William replied. “Mrs King saw him fall as she walked towards the church. She tried to help but soon realised that he was too far gone. I was on my rounds at the time, delivering bread to the big house. I met her as she rushed up Church Street, out of breath and flustered.” He paused as if struggling to remember.
“Go on,” said Lawrence.
“She begged me to help so I ran over. He was still alive when I got there,” said William, “his breathing was heavy and laboured. He lay prone, with his cheek against the grass. His eyes were fixed open and staring; his mouth agape, lips trembling. He appeared mortally afraid.”
William knelt at the foot of the cross and patted the grass. “His head was here,” he said. “And on the pathway, about six inches from his face was a dead crow with a stick impaled in its breast.”
“So, the Reverend said,” observed Lawrence. “Though I understand it was not reported by the press.”
“No, it was not,” said William, “and I will tell you another thing that was not reported. In the centre of the pathway, a couple of feet from the church gate was a mess of rotting crows. A grotesque pile of dead birds crawling with maggots. I do not doubt that Carter saw it. I did not sleep well for many nights after.”
“Why was this not mentioned to the authorities?”
“It was,” said William, bitterly. “I spoke of it freely, to begin with, and tried to be truthful at the inquest. My testimony was challenged and I was told I must be mistaken. The clerk was ordered to strike it from the records.”
“Perhaps they had a point,” said Lawrence, “are dead and decaying creatures not part and parcel of rural life?”
“Do you seriously believe that a bunch of birds simultaneously expired on the pathway?” asked William. He raised an eyebrow and glared towards Lawrence.
“Surely that is the only explanation.”
“They were placed there,” said William. “Either by mortal hand or something more sinister.”
“Unlikely,” exclaimed Lawrence. “There are no supernatural forces at play.”
William scowled. “Believe what you want to believe,” he said, “but I tell you straight - Jonathan Carter was frightened to death. If you cannot bring yourself to believe in the crows, then consider this. There was one other piece of information struck from the inquest report. It was my description of Jonathan’s last moments before he expired. As I knelt before him, he spoke only once. In his dying breath, he uttered a single word – “bewitched.”
Chapter 7
Honor – Ill-fortune
How soon my mother’s fortunes changed. She descended from prosperous linen merchant’s wife to destitute widow in five short years. The cottage where we now dwell is inferior in every way to our smart timbered house in Lavenham. The Fressingfield cottage is small and dark. It is impossible to keep clean. The Lavenham house, with its pretty windows and spacious rooms, was handsome. Mother lead a respectable life there. She employed a servant girl called Elizabeth and enjoyed the luxury of watching another set the fire and clean the house. It allowed her to raise her children and help my father, Thomas, with his record keeping.
My father was considerate and kind. He taught my mother to read and write. It gave her an advantage over almost every other woman of her acquaintance. In turn, she educated us, apart from Patience, of course. Even now, she helps us trace our letters and read the bible, though there is no money for parchment and precious little for food.
My poor father. He was physically strong but ultimately weak in spirit. Unable to cope with failure, it transpired; ashamed, impotent, lacking moral fibre. Even now, I am not sure whether Mother loved him or hated him. The day before he died, I would h
ave said she loved him, that she always had and that she always would. But when he abandoned this life without a thought for her, leaving her unable to feed and care for us, then I thought not. Did he think of us as he tied the knot? Did he consider our future as he put his head through the noose?
All the bad things in our lives happened within a few years of each other. A sign of the times and the perilous economy, perhaps. Once, my father made a good living as a clothing merchant. If not prosperous, he was, at least, comfortable. Mother dressed us in fine clothes and we had plenty of food. Then our fortunes went into decline, starting when Thomas died.
Thomas was my elder brother, and first-born child. I remember him as a tall, handsome boy, both clever and kind. Too kind. He drowned in Ipswich docks where he was apprenticed. He was trying to save the life of a child who had fallen into the freezing water. I always wondered why the child was alone and unsupervised. What stroke of bad luck took the lives of two boys. If only the boy had fallen a day before, or an hour later, or if Thomas had been too ill to get out of bed that day. If these things had come to pass it could all have been so different. But it was not, and Thomas died, heralding the rest of our family’s ill-fortune.
I remember as if it were yesterday, sitting near my mother by the fire. I held skeins of wool in my hands while she wound them into thick balls. We had been singing together. Even Patience joined in, humming her version of our tune. Then our laughter was interrupted by a knock at the door. Elizabeth answered and escorted a young boy into the house. His voice shook as he delivered his dreadful message. His master was on the way to our house with my brother’s body. The boy had been sent ahead to give us warning before the cart arrived. Mother gasped and held her head in her hands. She looked up, eyes brimming with unshed tears. Then without another word, she rose and ushered us from the room. Elizabeth sent the boy to fetch my father. As soon as he returned, my parents closed the window shutters and sat in the dark with the body of their boy for two whole days before he was taken for burial.
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