Violet smiled. “I thought you would never ask.”
Chapter 28
Nemesis
The ancestors are angry and I cannot find peace. Their voices whisper constantly; harsh, wounding words spiking my thoughts like malevolent wraiths.
They say I have failed them. They who have lain dormant these two centuries long, exposed to others when it was our family secret. They want me to atone and soon.
The fruit of the yew has long been my friend. I harvest it myself, then dry it and store it safely away; always wearing gloves. It is a powerful toxin. My mother taught me not to take risks.
The Clay girl died badly. If the others before her showed traces of their fate, they did not wear it as boldly as she. The doctors suspected an unnatural death and sought to prove it. They have found the evidence.
I should not have used it again on the man. Though he seeks the truth, he knows nothing of consequence. But the voices in my head drove me on. They directed the hatred towards him and when an easy opportunity arose, I took it. How was I to know the silly servant girl would drink it? A situation so unlikely, it ought to have been impossible. But drink it she did, and now lies between life and death.
I punished him with a crow as I did with the Carter man, the cause of my misfortune. He, who could not complete a simple task without a catastrophic lapse of concentration, deserved a Curse Crow. It scared the life from him. The perfect death, as I did not need to use the Yew. My masterpiece. The killing of a human by manipulation of his mind.
I do not know whether the Curse Crow will work again, but I will persevere. I cannot hope to replicate the satisfaction of that first death, but this is the route down which my ancestors guide me.
They grow fractious, increasingly restless. I cannot sleep for the constant intrusion and their spectral pleas for justice. I must work quickly. This will end soon.
Chapter 29
A Family Tree
“I may as well move my bed down here,” complained Lawrence as he unlatched the basement room for the fourth time that week. He searched the vicinity and located a brick which he used to prop the door open. A small shaft of light spread into the room.
He entered the storage room followed by Violet. They placed two large storm lamps on the desk. “Wait here a moment,” he said brandishing a pair of shears which he had bought from the orangery. He walked to the rear of the building and started clipping the ivy that obscured the back wall and a substantial part of the tiny window. When it was clear, he returned, located the latch and forced the window open.
“It does not make much difference to the lighting,” said Violet.
“No, but it will clear the musty air,” Lawrence replied. He could not forget the smell of decomposing crow. The open window may not be effective as a light source, but it made him feel better about returning to the basement.
He dragged the desk a foot closer to the basement stairs and lit the storm lamp. It cast a wide beam of light into the dark of the cellar.
“Better,” he said.
Violet collected the second lamp and followed Lawrence down. The room was unchanged from his last visit. He walked to the rear and hefted the lid of the chest without hesitation. There was no smell of decay, no unexpected items in the chest. The books and papers were orderly, as he and Michael had left them once they had cleared the remains of the crow.
He pushed the lid to its furthest extent and rifled through the chest. The parish records were much larger than the journals in his bedroom. He located them with ease. There were only two books.
“I would have expected more,” he said turning his head towards Violet.
“There should be more,” she agreed, “but the current registers are kept with Elijah Scoggins. You will only find the older entries here.”
“I cannot see much in this light so I will take both. I would rather not attempt to decipher the dates in these conditions.” He closed the lid and walked towards Violet.
“No need to spend any longer here than necessary,” she agreed.
They removed the records and returned to the house, relocating to the morning room where they spread the books across the table.
Lawrence opened one book and Violet the other.
“This one dates from 1554,” he said. “Oh dear.”
“What is it?” asked Violet.
“It is in Latin,” he said, “and my schoolboy Latin is not up to the task at hand.”
He turned the first few pages. “Agnes Drane vidua sepulta fuit decimo quarto Iulii 1556,” he read in Latin.
“What does that mean?”
“It is a death record,” he said, “perhaps I will get by. I do not know every word, but I may not need to.”
“We are looking for entries for anybody called Mills,” said Violet. “Anything else?”
“Not that I know of, but if you see something strange, anything about witches, note it down.”
He nodded towards paper and ink which he had placed on the table earlier.
“My book starts in 1673,” said Violet, “and finishes only a few decades later. It is very thin but at least it is written in English and looks a great deal easier to read than yours.”
“That is fortunate,” said Lawrence. “Mine is giving me a headache already.”
“Ah, I may have found something,” said Violet. “Alice Fayers als Mills born in 1674. What does ‘als’ mean?”
“Alias, I think,” said Lawrence. “It sounds like she was a Mills but the family wished to be known as Fayers. I wonder why?”
“Could they have wanted to escape the association with witchcraft?”
“Yes,” agreed Lawrence. “Faith Mills had a daughter Alice,” he continued, “but that cannot be her christening record.”
“Why not?”
“Because the journals were transcribed from writings made during the Civil War and it was all over by 1659. Faith’s daughter Alice was about 10 when the original letters were written.”
“What letters?”
“Terrible letters, angry letters written to the Vicar of the local church by Faith’s daughter, Honor Mills. She held the Parish Vicar responsible for their ills. It seems they received support from another Vicar in a different parish. The incumbent of their own church sided with the accusers. He abandoned them and left them to suffer.”
“Are they real letters?” asked Violet.
“What a curious question,” said Lawrence. “Why would they not be?”
“It was rare for women to read and write in those days. It is hard enough to get some parents to send their children to school even now.”
“I see,” said Lawrence. “These were educated people fallen on hard times. They were all able to read and write, except for the eldest daughter who was mentally deficient in some way.”
“How sad,” said Violet. “I will note the name anyway in case young Alice is a relative.”
Lawrence poured over his records. He read on in increasing frustration while Violet notated a string of entries in her note book.
“There was one other child christened Fayers als Mills after Alice,” she said, “but they seem to have given up the name Mills entirely after that.”
“You are having better luck than I am,” Lawrence grumbled. “I am ruining my eyesight for nothing. I cannot find a single entry for this family.”
“Perhaps they were not born in the parish,” said Violet.
“Of course,” said Lawrence. “they may not have been. And if the mother was, she would have been called by another name. It is like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Go to the end of the record,” said Violet. “You may have better luck.”
Lawrence flipped the book over, peeling the last page away from its binding. It was blank so he flicked a few pages further forward.
“This is better,” he said, “and in English. “Ah, there is a birth here for Thomas Mills, christened in 1672, son of Charles and Christian.”
“He is also the father of Ali
ce,” said Violet. “See if you can find their marriage.”
Lawrence turned a few more pages and there it was. “That explains that,” he said, “there is a marriage entry here for Charles Mills and Christian Fayers, both of this parish. Odd. It is scribbled in the margin. There are no other marriage entries in this book. There must be a separate register. Oh, excellent."
"What is?"
"I have just realised where Charles fits in.”
“Where?”
“He is the illegitimate son of Honor Mills. Good, keep going.”
Lawrence continued for several hours sifting through the records, while Violet came and went as her duties to Mrs Harris allowed. Eventually, they gleaned enough information to build a family tree. Lawrence sketched it onto a large piece of paper starting with Faith Mills at the top. Of her four children, there was no death record for Patience but Alice had died at the age of sixteen. The youngest child Walter married and produced descendants and Honor died at the age of ninety-one, survived by her son Charles. There was no evidence that she married or produced more offspring.
When they finished, they examined the chart. “I suppose we are looking for a descendant of Honor rather than Walter?” asked Violet.
“It would make the most sense,” agreed Lawrence.
“So, we have Faith Mills, Honor Mills, Charles Fayers als Mills, Thomas Fayers, Thomas Fayers and James Fayers, all of whom are direct descendants. Then our register runs out. We have also found several siblings.”
“It is a good start,” said Violet.
“But I cannot imagine where to go from here,” said Lawrence. “We have recorded a lot of information but how does it help? I thought we would find a connection with the Corbyn’s but there are no marriages between the two families that I can see.”
“The only way forward is to trace the tree to the present day,” said Violet. “To do that, you will need to consult the Parish Clerk and ask to see the newer records.”
“Elijah is due to visit Michael this evening,” said Lawrence. “I will get Mary to run down to his shop and ask him to bring the register with him.”
“No need”, said Violet. “Mrs Harris has asked for some junket for her tea. Mary has run out of rennet so I must pop out and get some. I will see if he is prepared to trust me with the register.”
“Good,” said Lawrence. “I have not quite finished reading the journals yet. We are still a long way from understanding this thing so it can only help to know as much as possible about the Mills family. I will read on while you are out.”
“Do let me know what you discover,” said Violet. “I am intrigued.”
“It is good to have your help,” said Lawrence. And it was. As he ascended the stairs to his bedroom, he thought how much had enjoyed the morning’s work, despite the eye strain. To work quietly together with a companion genuinely interested in the matter at hand was gratifying and a balm to his loneliness. Violet Smith was plain, but good company, intelligent and articulate. If only he could be sure she was trustworthy.
He reached his room and sat at the dressing table, eager to read more about Honor Mills. He opened the journal and turned the page to the now familiar handwriting, devouring the words as he read.
Chapter 30
Honor - Trial
It takes nine and a half hours to walk to Bury St Edmunds from Fressingfield as the crow flies. I know, Vicar, because I walked it. What else could I do with no money and no friends? They removed my mother from Fressingfield the day after her ‘confession’ and I use the term loosely for it was no such thing. Both Mother and Patience were carted off to an unfamiliar town clad in leg irons like common criminals.
I watched the cart leave; my kin in the hands of the two watchers Moses Rayner and Richard Glanfield. Two men who had treated them with contempt over the last few days and from whom I could expect no sympathy in the next few. I expected to hear the usual round of abuse as I watched the cart draw away. Though many had turned out to watch, they were subdued, silent, guilt-ridden perchance. Wondering if it could be their kith and kin the next time.
I paused only long enough to make plans with Alice to ask her to care for Walter and the boy while I was away. Then, I set out on the long, arduous walk to Bury Saint Edmonds. It drizzled constantly. I walked until nightfall and broke the journey after six hours in an abandoned shepherd’s hut where I found shelter of sorts. The ruined shack was past the point of offering much protection from the elements, but it kept the worst of the rain away. I woke at dawn to birdsong, cold, wet and hungry, and resumed my journey to Bury.
I limped into the outskirts of the town, footsore and weary, so empty of sustenance that I was beyond hunger. Feeling faint, I scooped a handful of water from a trough near a farrier, sipping through parched lips. I still felt as if I could pass out at any moment and decided I must eat whether hungry or not. I could not help my family if I allowed myself to become ill. I broke the eighth commandment, Vicar, because it was quicker to steal than beg. I walked past a market stall and helped myself to a loaf of bread. Quite how I was not apprehended, I do not know, so brazen was the act. But nobody gave chase and I kept the loaf hidden beneath my shawl, found a quiet spot near the Abbey ruins and forced myself to eat. I stuffed the rest of the bread into my apron pocket.
You may wonder why I bothered, Vicar. Wonder what I could hope to achieve. But understand this. I could not abandon them as you had.
I did not know Bury, but I walked the streets until I came to recognise them. After a while, I realised that I could travel unnoticed. I was a stranger; my mantle of invisibility restored. In Bury I was not the witch’s daughter; merely another peasant girl going about her chores.
I struck up a conversation with a washerwoman hanging clothes in an open space near a row of cottages. She was amiable and prepared to pass the time conversing with a stranger, so I asked her if she had seen a cart come by from Fressingfield.
She did not know of such a cart because carts came into Bury every day from all parts of the county, more than ever since the Witch Trials. It was useful to know this so I continued asking questions. Then she passed on news that chilled me to the bone and caused me to feel faint all over again. Eighteen people had recently been executed in the town square for witchcraft. Almost two hundred others languished in Bury Gaol awaiting trial. My face must have paled for she asked me if I was unwell and guided me towards a mounting stone, where I sat for a moment. I could not tell her what ailed me as I needed her help and could not risk condemnation. I told a white lie and said I was a little overheated and would be well in a moment. She carried on with her laundry while I gathered my thoughts.
After a little time had passed, I joined her again and asked how to get to the Gaol. She did not question my intentions and gave me directions. I left her and sought out Bury prison.
I had given little thought to the purpose of my visit and was at a loss when I arrived there. From the first, it was clear that gaining entry was out of the question. There was no way to see my mother and no way to ascertain whether she was there at all. I waited for two days, Vicar, wandering aimlessly around the Cornhill in the hope that I would see her leave or arrive at the Gaol. I spoke to anybody who would give me the time of day, trying to glean further intelligence. At dusk, when activity in the town had quietened, I returned to the Abbey grounds. Few people passed by and although I could not find shelter, I remained out of sight and unexposed to the danger of vagrancy charges. I fell into a routine and my morning chore was to steal food by whatever possible means. I grew more skilful Vicar and my conscience did not trouble me.
On the third day, I moved from the Cornhill further down towards Churchgate Street. While there, I happened upon a friendly labourer with whom I fell into conversation. He carried out menial tasks at the Gaol and told me that another court was due to convene shortly. There were still many witches due for trial. He said that the civil war had proved a disruption. It had prevented many of the scheduled trials and there were more witc
hes in the Gaol than there was room for. The matter had become pressing. Plans for the trials had been brought forward and they would be convened on the morrow.
I gasped and asked where the trials would be held. The labourer misinterpreted my interest and thought me keen to see the evil folk condemned. He said that it was possible to attend court and watch the proceedings. He knew people who had gone to Shire Hall last time. They witnessed the trial and remained through to sentencing. Now I had a purpose. If I could get inside, I might find an opportunity to see my mother. I asked the labourer what I should do to gain entry to the court. He laughed and said that I only needed to turn up on the day but he doubted they would let me in dressed as I was. Given the condition of my attire not to mention my hair, it was unlikely that I would be allowed any further. The least I must do is look respectable. Stealing was becoming second nature, Vicar. I spent the remainder of the day deciding how to find suitable clothes to misappropriate.
With the trial less than a day away, I had little time to act. By now, it was afternoon and the marketplace was empty. I needed clothing and soon. After walking the streets, I located a tailor and wandered inside his shop. It did not take long to realise that there was no opportunity to take clothes without being caught red-handed. It was clear that I was not welcome in the establishment. The tailor eyed me with suspicion, watching my every move. Hardly surprising as I was wearing rags and did not look as if I could afford a turnip much less a fine dress.
I could not decide how to proceed, so I walked the streets again. As I circumvented the town, I passed by the rear of a merchant’s house. The afternoon was set fine and several items of clothing were laid upon a rail in the back yard drying in the sun. I waited until there was no sign of movement, then climbed over the low wooden fence at the back. I tip-toed up the pathway and moved towards the window near the rail. I grabbed a handful of clothing items in the hope that at least one would be suitable. I was halfway back down the garden when an elderly man shuffled from the house, brandishing a stick and shouting. I heard him cry ‘thief’ and momentarily stopped still, in shock. A woman in her forties emerged behind him and rushed towards me. I gathered my wits and pulled my skirts high off the ground, then set off running towards the bottom of the yard. I reached it a few yards ahead of the woman and clambered over the fence. I ran through the town and back towards the Abbey grounds, until their cries of indignation were only a memory.
The Fressingfield Witch Page 17
