Chapter 5
Laxfield - Extract from the Parish Register
She arrived at my church mired in despair, rejected by her 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 fearful 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. The war between King and Parliament had defined a whole landscape, with 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. It brought consolation while the world turned to mayhem about her.
There were rumours that they would march on the churches soon, but nobody knew when, and she continued to worship.
She was alone when the doors burst open. Soldiers stormed in and set about their dreadful task, swarming into our church, tearing every picture from the walls, and hurling them to the floor with careless abandon. Later she found them beside the graveyard, trampled and burned as if they’d 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 and 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 possible destruction had been wrought upon the tiny church, 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 as all hope vanished. When I arrived, she was kneeling on the ground, silently praying, as if in a trance. I also fell to my knees at the sight of the devastation before me, shock and distress rendering me motionless. 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 bowed. She never came to Laxfield again. They said that she prayed through the night until her daughter forcibly removed the bible from her hand.
“What God would allow this?” her daughter snarled. 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, 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. "Don’t look so worried. Reverend Raven speaks openly in front of me. Even if he hadn’t, I would know soon enough. Mrs Harris likes to share her worries."
"You must have been with her a long time. She clearly holds you in high regard."
"I’ve known her for nearly ten years," replied Violet. "Ever since she lived in Norfolk and before she became too unwell to walk. Her deterioration in health coincided with the Reverend's move to this lovely big Vicarage, and he offered her a home with his family."
"He is a good man," said Lawrence. "It was kind of him."
"Yes, and typical of his generous nature," said Violet. "He has welcomed me into his home and, as I have little family left, it has been a godsend."
"May I ask if you’ve heard any talk of witchcraft?" asked Lawrence.
"A little," replied Violet, pushing back a tendril of dark hair.
Lawrence watched her pin the unruly tresses with bitten, unpolished fingernails. Faint streaks of grey dappled her temples. 'Definitely nearer forty than thirty,' he thought to himself.
"I haven’t heard much because I don’t know many people," Violet continued. "I didn’t grow up in the village and I don’t have any children, nor am I ever likely to. I lead a solitary life spending most of my time with Mrs Harris or running errands and I rarely exchange pleasantries with the villagers. I know some of the storekeepers, but they don’t gossip much, at least not to me. As for the occupants of The Vicarage, it is only Michael in whom I confide. He has kept his counsel over these rumours and barely mentions them. I don’t think he realises that the Reverend has already expressed his concerns to me."
"That’s for the best," said Lawrence, smiling. "At least it means I won’t 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 talk to. He decided that he liked her.
"We’ve arrived," she said, pointing to the Bake Office. A sign to that effect was set into a cream lime-rendered cottage and 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 tabletop by the door. He wore a navy apron 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, waving 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?"
"Can you tell me what happened that day?"
"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 to know more. Anyway, who are you? Why do you ask?"
"I am a friend of Michael Farrow," said Lawrence. "He has concerns about the welfare of some of his parishioners and thinks it would help their peace of mind if there was a little more clarity surrounding certain events."
"I am not 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, replaced by an angry frown. 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 said.
"I must go out. Will you mind the shop?"
She nodded and heaved herself onto a stool by the trestle table.
"Come with me," said William and Lawrence followed him outside, retracing his steps from earlier.
William slowed a short distance up Church Street. "Where are we going?" asked Lawrence.
"To the churchyard," said William brusquely. "Where he died."
They walked in silence, then William opened the churchyard 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. "Jonathan fell across that 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 it as she walked towards the church. She tried to help but soon realised that Carter was too far gone. I was on my rounds at the time, delivering bread to the big house, and I met her as she rushed up Church Street, muttering and out of breath." He paused as if struggling to remember something he would rather forget.
"Go on," said Lawrence.
"She begged me to help, and I ran over. Jonathan was still alive when I got there," said William. "His breathing was heavy and laboured, and he lay prone, with his cheek against the grass, eyes fixed open and staring. His mouth was agape, and his lips trembled as if 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 shoved into its breast."
"So, the Reverend said," observed Lawrence. "Though I heard that press didn’t report it."
"No, they didn’t," said William, "and I'll tell you another thing that wasn't mentioned. On the same pathway, a couple of feet from the church gate was a mess of rotting crows - a great, grotesque pile of dead birds, all crawling with maggots. I don't doubt that Carter saw it. I couldn’t sleep properly for a long time after."
"Why wasn’t this mentioned to the authorities?"
"It was," said William bitterly. "I spoke of it freely, at first and tried to be truthful at the inquest. But 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. “Dead and decaying creatures are part and parcel of rural life."
"Not like this, they aren’t. How could a bunch of birds all die at once in the same place?" asked William, raising an eyebrow as he glared at Lawrence.
"Surely that’s the only explanation?"
"They were put there," said William. "Either by mortal hand or something more sinister."
"Unlikely," said Lawrence. "It’s irrational to suppose that supernatural forces are 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 can’t 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, and in his dying breath, he uttered a single word – "bewitched."
Chapter 7
Honor – Ill-fortune
How soon my mother's fortunes changed as 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 and impossible to keep clean. The Lavenham house, with its pretty windows and spacious rooms, was handsome. Mother led 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 which gave her time 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 which 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 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 Father died, I would have said she loved him, that she always had and that 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. Were we in his thoughts 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 while 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 holding 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 a 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, and 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.
I do not think my mother ever understood the extent of my father's grief. Her loss so consumed her that his anguish escaped her notice. Instead, she occupied herself with running the house and raising her other four children. He walked the streets alone, grieving for his eldest son and they carried the burden of their loss privately. If they spoke of Thomas to each other, I never heard it.
But my mother should have remembered how low his spirits had fallen when Patience was born. His sorrow that Patience had not thrived as she ought, was a millstone about his neck. The dawning realisation that she would be forever a child sapped his joy, and he felt responsible for her condition. Small wonder that his mood grew blacker at the double blow. His eldest daughter an imbecile and his first-born son dead before his sixteenth birthday.
Away from the comfort of home, the mood of the land was changing. Men watched and waited, knowing that harder times were coming. The once-thriving clothing industry was in sharp decline. Some men were destitute. Others escaped poverty by emigrating to strange and foreign lands. Two of my uncles left to start a new life in Virginia with countless others across the shire. Only my aunt remained in her home county. Father did not speak of his loss, but we knew he missed his brothers and wondered whether
he would have gone with them, were it not for his obligation to his wife and children.
Elsewhere, the risk of war loomed. The Scots had threatened to invade northern England and Charles I was demanding more money to repel their army. Father worried about our future, convinced that Parliament was on a collision course with the King.
He fretted about the Suffolk clothing industry, which was failing, though Father still clung to the hope that the Royal Commission would succeed with their plan to improve matters. It was around this time that we noticed our food becoming plainer and our threadbare clothing was not replaced. The household income had diminished, and father grew ever more preoccupied.
One day he returned from the Guild Hall in an evil temper. As he strode through the door, I smelled spirits on his breath. He sat down at the dining table with his head in his hands, demanding mother fetch him wine. I peered around the corner and watched as she placed a pewter cup in front of him. He clutched her arm and spoke without meeting her eyes. "It is all over," he said. "Manufacturing will be aided in some Suffolk towns, but not here in Lavenham. It is too late anyway. We have more debts than I can ever pay."
Next day Mother dismissed Elizabeth, but Father carried on in the same vein spending increasing amounts of time at the Guildhall, often inebriated by the time he came home. He took the record books away from my mother and compiled the accounts himself. She, in turn, took on those chores that Elizabeth used to perform.
Father made no mention of our changed lifestyle, except once, in the week before he died. Mother had unexpectedly entered the dining room as he was writing in a ledger, and he snapped it shut upon sight of her. She offered him a cup of water which he declined. Then he stood, faced her, and stroked his hand against her cheek. "I am so very sorry that I have failed you, Faith," he said. Four days later, he was dead.
The Lawrence Harpham Boxset Page 4
