He returned to the basement to finish tidying and set the lamp down so it lit the most part of the room. As he gathered the papers, he began to wonder who had been down here. What were they searching for? Or was it some mindless act of vandalism? Hairs prickled the back of his neck as he considered what might have happened.
The lamp flickered, plunging the cellar momentarily into darkness. Lawrence clutched his chest to still his rapid breathing. He did not want to spend a moment longer in the cold underground chamber. He would tidy and go. He grabbed a handful of papers and heaved the chest open with his good hand. The smell of death assailed his nostrils with a foul stench that had not been there yesterday. He leapt back, dropping the lid. A thud echoed around the room. His heart was pounding, pulse racing. He dropped the papers over his feet not caring where they fell. All he could hear was his own heavy breathing. He stood still, too afraid to move, riven with terror. Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath and slowly reached behind for the lantern. He held it aloft in his left hand, knelt upon the damp floor and pushed the lid of the chest open. Inside, lit by the flickering lamp, was a maggot infested, feathery mass. A sharpened stick protruded from the vile carcass with a note folded into the cleft.
Lawrence did not stop to read it. He dropped the lid, scrambled up the steps and without latching the door, he ran straight back to the Vicarage.
Chapter 20
The Curse Crow
“Lawrence, what is wrong. You are as white as a sheet.” Michael emerged from the study, disturbed by the running footsteps in the passage.
Lawrence was out of breath. The lamp, still lit, wobbled unsteadily in his shaking hands. He set it down, trying to steady his breathing.
“Come into the study, sit down,” said Michael, concerned.
“No,” said Lawrence. “No, I cannot. You must see come and see this thing in the store room, Michael. I need to know I am not losing my mind.”
“Calm down,” said Michael, “you are speaking in riddles. What is in the store room that has upset you so much.”
“Just come with me,” commanded Lawrence. “But for God’s sake man, bring another light.”
They returned to the basement room. Lawrence was still shaken, but less so now he was in company. Nothing had changed. The books were still in the same tidy pile that Lawrence had made but papers were strewn everywhere.
“Who did this?” asked Michael. “Not you Lawrence?”
“Of course not,” snapped Lawrence.
“Sorry,” said Michael, “This vandalism is upsetting. We will have to put a padlock on the room now. I cannot imagine why anybody would make such a mess.”
“There is worse,” said Lawrence, darkly. Fear welled in his chest again. “Open the box.”
He raised the lamp high while Michael lifted the lid. The smell of decay crept through the stagnant air.
Michael looked in the box then up at Lawrence. He shook his head. “This is unbelievable,” he said. “You cannot tell anyone.”
“I know,” said Lawrence. “There would be uproar.
“We must clean it up,” said Michael practically.
“There is a box upstairs,” said Lawrence. “I will fetch it.”
“Leave the light here,” said Michael.
Lawrence returned to table. The journals were still by the box where he had left them in his panic. He upturned the box littering the desk with candles and took it to the basement.
Michael reached for his pocket handkerchief. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he placed it over the writhing mess and set it in the box. The stick was thrust firmly in the remains of the bird and the cleaved top contained a note.
“You read it,” said Lawrence.
Michael opened the small square of parchment, then stared at Lawrence, bewildered.
“What does it say?” asked Lawrence.
Michael passed it over, wordlessly.
‘I curse you, Lawrence Harpham. Death stalks you.’
He turned the note over. On the reverse side, in the bottom corner, were inscribed the words, ‘for Honor Mills’...
Chapter 21
Nemesis
I forgot about the Clay girl. She was unfinished business that I had neither considered, nor factored into my calculations. And if I had, I would have dismissed it. Why would anybody consult her when there were so many better witnesses to Mary’s guilt? But she alone had seen through the ruse. The mask had slipped in front of her.
Perhaps she would not have remembered the incident, nor even mentioned it, but I could not take that chance. How could I risk it now? In the name of Faith, Honor, Charles and all the others, I could not be caught.
They visit me all the time now, ghosts of ancestor’s past, urging me on, taking my revenge as their own. If only I could settle their ills perhaps they would leave me be. But even I, clever as I am, cannot know what living persons are to blame for the unfairness of centuries before. There are too many to count.
When the baby died, all loose ends were tied and that should have been the end of it. One dead, one ruined and some satisfying unintentional damage along the way. It quietened the ancestors for a while, they visited less often. I thought their work was complete.
All was well until he came, poking and prying into our lives. I did not worry, to begin with. There was nothing to fear. Then, I heard that he was going to visit Eliza Clay, and I wondered whether she would remember that day. And when I thought it, the ancestors heard me, and their voices revisited, low at first, then in a crescendo. I was called to action.
I made it the old way, the way that wise women chose before medical men came. I reasoned that if they suspected poison, they would not know it was created by me. Whether they discovered it or not, I would be safe. Nothing could link back. I put it in a mug of beer and waited until the Clay woman left her cottage. I popped it through the rear window onto a handy ledge. Sure enough, she drank it without considering what might be inside or who had left it there.
It was too much to hope that she would die gracefully, serenely, without a clue to her demise. She did not. I hear her face was contorted and slaked with vomit. They took her away to cut her open and now they will know it was not a natural death, though they will not know my part in it. But, if he finds out, he will remain in our village and that will anger the ancestors. They brook no interference. He has gleaned too much already. Fortunately, he does not know who we are or why we seek vengeance. There is no reason to suppose he ever will. Even so, the ancestors demanded a Curse Crow. They thought it might make him leave. He ought to leave. Then they will settle, until next time.
He has been seen poking around the old parish chest. We do not know why, but we have sent him a gift. It was signed by Honor, the loudest of the ancestors. Already her voice grows quieter.
Chapter 22
Another Illness
Lawrence and Michael disposed of the bird at the top of the garden in a quiet corner, mainly occupied by soft fruit bushes. The gardener had conveniently left a spade in the ground by the cold frames, which they used to dig a small hole. They buried the box and its dreadful contents and returned to the house. Doctor Taylor was standing in the hallway, comforting a crying Emily Raven. Loveday was perched on the bottom stair, watching impassively.
“What is wrong?” asked Michael.
“I must go,” said the Doctor. “Emily will explain.”
Andrew Taylor opened the door and walked briskly away.
“He is fetching Mr Smart,” cried Emily. “Anna is very sick. He cannot find the reason for it and needs a second opinion.”
“I am sorry,” said Lawrence. “But I am sure they will be able to help her.”
“I hope so,” said Emily. “She is only fourteen. Her mother must be told.”
“Shall I go?” offered Michael.
“No,” said Emily. “It is my responsibility. I must do my duty with Mother and Father absent. Will you come with me, Loveday?”
“Must I darling?” asked Loveday. “Would
you not prefer Michael to join you?”
“It would be my pleasure,” said Michael.
Emily’s cheeks flushed red across her pale skin. “I would like you to come,” she said to Loveday in low, measured tones concealing a hint of anger.
“Very well,” sighed Loveday. She smiled at Lawrence. “I will see you later.”
“Perhaps,” he murmured, turning to Emily. “Is there anything I can do?”
Emily shook her head. “Mary Warne is sitting with Anna. She will not leave her side until my return. Dinner may be late tonight, but that is nothing. We must look after Anna.”
Lawrence nodded, watching as the girls left the house.
“Do you think I should send word to the Reverend?” asked Michael.
“Not yet,” said Lawrence. “Everything seems under control. It would be a shame to bring him home unnecessarily. We ought to find out what Mr Smart has to say before making a decision.”
“Agreed,” said Michael. “And we will not mention the other business until his return.”
“I will not tell anyone but the Reverend,” said Lawrence.
“Good,” said Michael. “I shall retire to the study and make myself useful until Mr Smart arrives. Do you feel better now?”
“Much better,” said Lawrence. “I do not know why I reacted so out of proportion to the event. It must have been the dark. My fears were magnified out of all reason.”
“I understand. I expect it is somebody’s idea of a bad joke and nothing to dwell upon."
“I will not give it any further thought,” said Lawrence. “And I have these journals to read through. They will keep me occupied."
Lawrence carried the journals to the morning room at the back of the house. It was a light, bright room overlooking the lawn and although he was alone, the room was near enough to the study to feel safe. He appreciated Michael’s proximity.
The Curse Crow had given him a shock. He was a rational man and it should not matter. It was not supernatural, nor was it evil, but the thought that someone disliked him enough to go to the trouble of concealing the corpse, was unsettling. And the disquiet brought a familiar dread. He had felt this way before. A feeling of anxiety brought on by something he could not quite discern. Then he remembered. The fire, Catherine, darling little Lily. An accident, so they said, but he was never quite certain. Something had always felt awry. Something he should have dealt with long ago, but in his grief, dismissed while he tried to heal.
He banished the thought and looked down at his hand which was throbbing in pain. He realised that he had been rubbing the glove into the scarred flesh beneath. It was sore, painful like the memories. Enough.
He shuffled through the notebooks blowing a film of dust into the air and wrinkled his nose. It could have been his imagination, but the journals smelled like decomposing crow. He wiped the cover of each book with a napkin from the table and turned the page of the first book. He was in luck. The first line began with an ellipse and the account he had been reading before continued...
Chapter 23
Honor The Witchfinder
I did not ask you to baptise him, Vicar, for I knew you would not, and I had abandoned the Church by then, even if Mother still believed in a God who had forsaken us. Charles was born a bastard and remained unbaptised. And we remained friendless and destitute.
Every trivial ill suffered by the village was placed at mother’s door. When Goodman Smith’s cow jumped a stile and broke her leg, Mother was blamed. Temperance Parker, the village wise woman, doubled her business overnight, cunning old crone that she was. Before the last of our acquaintances were frightened away, they told us her method of profiteering from our misfortune. It was a ruse she employed to stir up the first of the trouble with that wicked woman, Page.
They said that Martha Page consulted the wise woman when her child first took ill, pleading to know whether he would live or die. Parker, sensing an opportunity for money-making, told Martha that her boy was bewitched and would die if the witch could not be found. She asked Martha to name anyone who might have wished evil upon her. Martha could only think of one person who hated her enough and named my mother. The irony cut through me like wire through cheese. Martha - cruel, spiteful Martha whose ill-treatment of her servants was renowned, accusing my mother, the soul of kindness, of such a heinous act. But any name would have done as far as the wise woman was concerned. It was trickery. She seized upon Martha’s suggestion, scryed with her mirror and behold, Faith Mills became the perpetrator of the crime.
Temperance Parker prescribed witch bottles and Martha Page purchased them. They contained stinking urine, iron pins and hair. She took them home and buried them around the house. As if spending money on waste items and the wise woman’s piss would ward off real evil.
The lucrative business served Temperance Parker well, Vicar. Did you not think it wicked? You must have known what was afoot. Did you secretly approve? Casting out the devil and all his works is time-consuming. She saved the Church a job, did she not?
The accoutrements of witchcraft flourished in the village. Runic markings appeared over walls invoking the Virgin for her protection. Villagers flocked to the wise woman for defending charms. Her business, which had once scratched a living, became prosperous. She had money to spare while we starved. I heard it said that Lawrence Calver was so afraid of my mother, that he killed his cat. He bricked it into the chimney because the wise woman said it would spare him from the witch's wrath.
Did you censure her Vicar? Stop her taking money from them under false pretences? You did not. You were as bad as they. You did nothing and the atmosphere turned febrile, in a county already paralysed with uncertainty. If good men had stood firm, the horror could have been prevented. If you and your-like had intervened, Hopkins and Stearne would have been sent away.
They came in the spring of 1645. By then, they were household names having hung several witches in nearby Cambridgeshire. Word of their cruelty had long since reached the village and we knew they were dangerous men. They rode into town, unbidden, and made their way to Ufford Hall, where they sought out Francis Sancroft. He was a pious man, Vicar, pious and God-fearing. He should have turned them away, shown some compassion to his lowly parishioners. But he invited them in, gave them house room, told them of the troubles in Fressingfield. No doubt you approved.
He invited them to the village where they applied for and were granted funds for their services. Then they sent for their retinue who were lodged at the Inn. Lodged in the warm and fed good food.
I saw them in the village square by the well, dressed in all their finery. Hopkins and Stearne were clothed like lords and burning with zeal. They dismounted their sweating horses, which were led away by the Inn’s servants. I heard them talking, plotting their campaign. They did not see me, not that it would have mattered. They knew nothing of the villager’s or who would be accused and marked for trial.
They were both well-nourished and spoke like educated men. One was younger and better looking than the other. I listened as the taller, older man, deliberated about where they should go next.
They decided that the man called Stearne would head south and the younger man would conduct his business in Fressingfield. It was settled that both would lodge at the Inn, spending the day on their individual missions and returning each evening. When they had finished their conversation, they returned to the Inn. I did not follow.
I went home instead, Vicar, filled with trepidation. I knew why they were here. Everybody knew. As I walked past the Green, I was ignored by some and jeered by others. One unpleasant child spat in my face. Nothing I was not accustomed to. What else should the daughter of a witch expect?
I tried not to worry as I walked home, assessing the effect that this intrusion of witch hunters might have on my family. We lived quietly. Perhaps confrontation was avoidable. Alice and I still ventured into the village from time to time, neither of us prepared to accept our status as outcasts. Brave Alice. She was ten this year a
nd showed the spirit of an adult woman. Mother only left the house to scavenge in the woods and byways for what little she could put on the table. She had lost her purpose now she no longer worshipped in Laxfield Church. Walter was too small to go out alone and Patience, poor Patience. Perhaps it was better for her than for any of us. Her mind so enfeebled and impaired, each day was the same as the next. She was not troubled by the hostility as she could not comprehend it. But that was all to change.
Chapter 24
Honor - Torture
They arrived at daybreak the following day, Vicar. It cannot have taken long for the ignorant fools in the village to cast aspersions our way for ours was the first house they visited. Fervour shone full in their faces. Hopkins arrived at our cottage, young, almost handsome, but eyes narrow; cruel and cunning. He wore a moustache which covered his lips as if disguising some facet of his personality. When he spoke, it almost hid the sneering lips, almost but not quite. I saw it and detested him on sight.
The door was already ajar. I watched him stride up the pathway and opened it further to show there was nothing secretive about our home. He looked me up and down, then asked if the lady of the house was available as if he were visiting a friend. His voice was courteous, his tones even, almost languid. Slippery. I kept him waiting on the doorstep while my mother rose and made her way to the door. She bowed her head and her face was pallid as if all the blood had drained away.
Smiling, he told her he had some questions which she must answer. She could either speak to him here at her home, or she could elect to go to a room at the Inn. If she remained at home, then we must leave the premises, so she elected to go with them.
The Fressingfield Witch Page 13
