The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  Hopkins questioned her for at least an hour, though it seemed an eternity. I heard the church bells ring from my vantage point marking the passing of time. Mother rebutted every accusation and denied the barrage of slurs against her character. She did not fold, not once.

  Hopkins mood was darker now and angry. He might have thought that the interrogation would be easy, and that Mother would break quickly under his onslaught. Unhappy with his progress, he summoned the women to his side. They had been muttering in the corner, bored by the proceedings. He introduced them to my mother, addressing them as Anne and Priscilla, oddly formal in the context of what he was about to ask them to do. Then he commanded them to search her and strode from the room. I waited next door with bated breath, as he walked past the door and stopped. Sick with fear in case he entered, I covered my face, as if it could stop him. Then, he moved along the passageway with measured steps and I could breathe again.

  The distraction now gone, I peered through the wormhole. Do you know what I saw, Vicar? Can you begin to imagine the horror of it? They held my mother down and tore the clothes off her back. Every item of apparel was peeled from her body and flung into the corner of the room. She sat on the chair, trying to cover herself, exposed, humiliated, her dignity in tatters. She wept, Vicar, big shuddering sobs as if her heart would break.

  They hovered around her like a pair of vultures, pointing to her body parts, and discussing her anatomy in graphic detail. I did not want to look, but if she must endure it, so would I. Bitter tears streamed down my face, as I watched her torment through the wall.

  They made her stand, Vicar, while their beady eyes scanned her body, so close that she could feel their breath on her flesh. The women were like truffle pigs, rooting, snouts twitching with anticipated pleasure. She covered her breasts with one hand, Vicar, and her modesty with the other, trembling from head to toe. Whatever they sought, they failed to find and soon grew impatient. The thin woman ordered Mother to move her hands, but she refused, and they viciously swiped them away. Then the plump woman lumbered around and pinioned her arms from behind. Mother cried out and kicked her assailant, and the thin woman slapped her about the face causing a vivid red welt. She gave up then, Vicar. It was as if she shrank, became less. She stopped crying and stood impassively. They pushed her to the chair and parted her legs while the plump woman cackled in delight. She pointed to something on my mother's thigh and likened it to a nubbin. A witch's mark, she claimed - a teat for a familiar to suckle upon. My mother said nothing and did not argue or rail against it. She did not try to close her legs but stared into the distance and allowed them to look at her.

  The thin woman took a long wooden implement from the floor and walked towards my mother, sneering. She said that the instrument was a pricking needle and it would soon reveal whether Mother was a witch. She brandished it in the air, so close to me that it could only have been an arm's width away. The needle glinted, sharp and long on the end of the stick. Then she manipulated a mechanism, and the spring-loaded needle vanished. By the time the stick reached my mother, the needle was out of sight. They prodded it against her thigh, and, of course, there was no pain. The blunt stick was not capable of piercing skin, and the needle was concealed in the shaft.

  When Mother failed to cry out, they declared her a witch. On hearing their cries, the soldiers returned to find Mother sitting on the chair, naked and numb. They did not avert their eyes - they were no gentlemen. Priscilla Briggs recovered my mother's clothes and tossed them in her lap. She told her to cover up and sit down, then a soldier opened the door and called for Matthew Hopkins.

  Hopkins returned from the room in which he had been resting further down the corridor. He marched past my room, and once again, I held my breath as my heart thumped in my chest. One single sound and he would have heard me, one sob or heavy breath and it would have been over. I knelt, my bones stiff with lack of use, waiting to see what would happen to Mother. My pulse thundered in my ears as I considered her fate. She had already been subjected to horrific treatment, Vicar. How much worse could it get?

  Hopkins strode towards her. She was half-dressed by now; stays up, dress open, eyes red-rimmed and empty. She stared at him, unblinking.

  He collected the pricking needle and examined it, stroking a gloved hand across the rough wood. He smiled, with a sinister twinkle in his eye and told my mother that she had failed the test. They had found a teat, and there was no doubt that she was a witch. Now she must confess. My mother remained seated, head bowed, eyes sullen. He spoke again and told her to make her confession immediately, in front of witnesses. She shook her head. He threw the stick to the ground and pressed his face up to hers. Snarling, Hopkins bade her confess again. She spat a single word. No. The men cried shame and the women jeered. Hopkins hauled my mother off her seat by her hair and told her he would make her confess in the gaol house.

  They marched her away again, two burly men to the front, and the two searchers to the rear. Hopkins headed the wicked parade, striding out in front like a vainglorious soldier, sated from the capture of his prey.

  I waited until the footsteps faded to nothing, then rose to my feet, shivering. My head swam. For a moment, I thought I would faint away. I had been there for hours, crouched and cramped without water or sustenance. I waited unsteadily by the window until I was sure that they had left the premises and watched them in the distance. They had tied my mother's hands behind her back. She walked lonely and friendless towards the parish gaol. When I was sure that I wouldn’t be seen by the occupants of the Inn, I crept downstairs and away from the house, into the clean air, unpolluted by evil.

  Mother was held at the gaol for three long nights. I could not find a way to see her the first night and paced the cottage throughout the evening. At daybreak, I journeyed to the gaol house, desperate to be in close, though impotent, proximity to her.

  The two cells in the gaol were formed from a stone-built room. They had been locked the previous evening but now stood open. I tiptoed inside and saw Mother at once. She lurched up and down the cell, linked arm in arm with Priscilla Briggs who was dragging her along. Mother moaned, eyelids half-closed, head shaking from side to side while Priscilla complained, chiding my mother for being too slow. I concealed myself behind a screen, and after ten minutes, Priscilla turned and stared through the cell doors, beady eyes searching for signs of life. She shoved my mother into a corner and told her to stay there, and I slipped outside and flattened myself against the wall, hoping she would not see me. She walked towards an oak tree and stood on the other side, then removed an old clay pipe from her apron and puffed upon it, obscured by the tree. I took my chance and tiptoed towards the cell.

  Mother was slumped in the corner with her head in her lap. I reached for her hand and called her name. She lifted her head regarding me with faded eyes and whispered that I should not have come. She had only been in the cell for one day, but her lips were cracked, and her tongue swollen. She asked me to leave and told me that everyone would be in danger if I was seen. She said she could endure the pain but not the thought of one of her children being harmed. I said I did not care, but she was adamant. I must go. Then, I asked her what they had done to her, and she said they had walked her through the night without stopping - up and down the cell, over and over again. She had fallen to her knees more than once, but they hauled her up and started anew. They worked in shifts, taking turns at dragging her, and one by one they left for sleep or sustenance. Within the hour, another woman would replace Priscilla and were it not for Priscilla's tobacco habit, Mother would still be walking the cell.

  Mother implored me to leave. I tried to argue, but as tears began to well in her eyes, I decided not to drive her to further anxiety. So, I left her, Vicar. Walked away and left her to her fate. At least I visited her, which is more than can be said for you, or indeed of any of God's holy men.

  I walked home the long way, wending my way through the woods in search of something edible. I had not eaten for a whole day
, and my milk had begun to dry. I would need sustenance soon. The child still fed from my breast, and if I could keep producing milk for a little while longer, there would be one less mouth to worry about. My other concern was keeping Walter alive. He had grown thin and sickly and was in dire need of nourishment. For once, food came easily. A fat hedgehog shambled along the track in front of me, and I picked it up and put it in my apron pocket. I gathered some fungi and a few sticks, enough for food and a little heat.

  When I arrived home, the house was quiet. Alice was nursing the child and Patience rocked in the corner chair while Walter slept in the upstairs room. Alice asked me how mother had fared, and I told her everything, facts a young girl should never hear. I told her anyway because I feared worse would follow and she might as well be prepared. She was stoic, rational beyond her years, but sad. I prepared the meal, despite my lack of appetite and we were readying ourselves to eat when there was a disturbance outside. Alice opened the door, and Matthew Hopkins strode into our abode as if he owned it, his two male assistants following behind.

  He surveyed the room, curling his lip in disgust at our lowly quarters, then addressed me and asked which of us was Patience. Alice looked anxiously towards me. We exchanged glances, and I hoped she understood my meaning. I said nothing. He asked again, narrowing his eyes as he spoke. I stared mutely. He looked at me with a sneer and said he would beat me if I did not answer and I readied myself, but at that moment, Walter traipsed down the wooden steps rubbing his eyes. He looked at the big man standing before him and pointed wordlessly towards Patience.

  Hopkins told Walter that he was a good boy, and Walter smiled, not realising what he had done. Hopkins ordered his assistants to seize Patience. I shouted 'no' and sprang at Hopkins, but he pushed me to the floor, and my head smacked against a wooden chair leg. I watched through a mist of pain as he approached Patience. She began to wail. He pulled up short and stared as if he did not comprehend the nature of this full-grown woman rocking and moaning like a child. Patience did not like strangers. She was inconsolable already and her tears mixed with snot as they tracked down her face.

  Hopkins swore under his breath, taking God's name in vain, which did not trouble me, Vicar. Then he called Patience an imbecile and said that the Devil must have been desperate that day. The two soldiers sniggered. I tried to rise, but the knock had left me reeling, and I could not stand. I begged them not to take her and told them that despite appearances, she was only a child. Do you think they showed her mercy, Vicar? Did they consider the impact of tearing a gentle soul with an impaired mind away from her family? You know full well they did not.

  They took my tender-hearted sister, tied her hands behind her back and pushed from the house. She howled piteously as they dragged up the street as if no better than a donkey in harness.

  Alice ran from the house, screaming at the men as I crawled towards the door and vomited over the floor. Walter and the child were crying, I was retching, and Alice's angry cries rang in our ears - a discordant mess of anguish.

  Within moments Alice returned, slammed the door, and threw herself on the floor, head upon her knees sobbing fit to burst. I asked her what had happened, and she said they had taken Patience to the gaol. When they saw her following, one of the men took a rock and hurled it, narrowly missing her head.

  Do you think of us, Vicar, when you say your prayers at night? Four troubled souls who were trying to make sense of what happened, two of them too young to comprehend. We sat there for the rest of the day and huddled together through the night. Page's child slept, but the rest of us lay awake in wary silence. Alice held Walter while she prayed to a God she no longer believed in, and I counted the ways to exact my vengeance upon Hopkins and his ilk.

  Chapter 25

  The Smoking Baby

  "Are you there, Lawrence?" A female voice was calling him, pulling him away from the other world. Unwelcome. He looked up from the account and snapped the notebook shut.

  "What is it?" he asked tersely.

  The door opened, and Violet Smith entered.

  “Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t realise it was you."

  "Don’t worry. I wouldn’t have disturbed you, but something’s happened and I think you should come downstairs."

  "Why?" he asked, then ignoring her suggestion continued. "When did you get back?"

  "About an hour ago," she replied.

  "Should be impossible,” he said gruffly. "I can’t have been reading a whole hour." He pushed the notebook away. "Did you enjoy your trip?"

  "Never mind the trip." It was Violet's turn to be short. "Something has happened,” she reiterated, staring at him wide-eyed. Lawrence almost reached for her hand, then decided against it.

  "What is it?"

  "It’s Anna," said Violet. "She’s taken a turn for the worse."

  "Have you seen her?"

  "No, Mr Smart turned up not long after I returned, and I showed him to Anna's room but didn’t go in myself. Instead, I settled Mrs Harris and unpacked for her. But when I finished my duties, I met Mr Smart on the landing. He was telling Michael how worried he is."

  "Why?"

  "It's Anna. She is dreadfully poorly, Lawrence. Much worse than we thought. She can’t stop being sick."

  "Poor thing," murmured Lawrence.

  "Her heart is weak, her breathing shallow, and they have taken some of her vomit away in a bowl."

  "That sounds serious," said Lawrence.

  "It is," said Violet. "She is still conscious, thank goodness. Mr Smart asked her what she had eaten. He suspects food poisoning."

  "A reasonable diagnosis," said Lawrence. "It explains her symptoms."

  "It would do, except that she’s barely eaten, and has hardly drunk anything, for that matter," said Violet. "Apart from dry toast, a mug of tea and a few sips of water from the glass in your room, she has had next to nothing."

  "None of that's likely to cause food poisoning," said Lawrence. "It is the sort of meal you could safely give to an invalid."

  "I know," said Violet, "I’m a paid companion and I do have a little medical knowledge."

  Lawrence raised an eyebrow at her tone, wondering if he ought to apologise, then decided not to. Sometimes Violet seemed bitter about her choice of occupation, but that was not his problem, and he had not intended to cause offence. He searched her face for further signs of displeasure but found none.

  "Well, let’s hope she soon recovers," he continued, gazing towards the washstand. "Dash it, she must have taken ill before she finished cleaning," he said. "My washbowl and decanter have not been returned."

  "I'll be sure to admonish her as soon as she's out of bed," said Violet, with the barest trace of a smile.

  "I didn't mean it like that," Lawrence protested.

  "I know you didn’t," said Violet.

  "No, but now I come to think of it, her presence in my bedchamber could be important," said Lawrence. "The decanter was almost empty because I’ve been unwell and keeping hydrated. I used the last of the water to dissolve my medicine this morning, but I did not drink it, do you see? I was interrupted and left it."

  "You think she drank your powders?" Violet asked.

  "It is a possibility. The mixture was left for a long time. It might have settled until the residue was at the bottom and looked like water."

  "And that caused her stomach upset?"

  "The powders weren’t prescribed for her. She might have an allergy to something in the preparation."

  "Where are the powders now?" asked Violet.

  "Here," said Lawrence. He took the small brown envelopes from the chest of drawers on which they had been placed. "Do you think I should show Doctor Taylor?"

  Violet nodded. "Yes, he's in Anna's room with Mr Smart. Wait for them to come down and ask them what they think."

  They left Lawrence's bedroom and proceeded downstairs. Michael met them at the entrance of the drawing-room and stared down the hallway with his hands on his hips. "What an awful day," he said.
<
br />   "I've had better," agreed Lawrence.

  "Will it take Anna long to recover?" asked Michael.

  "It is hard to tell," replied Violet. "We are worried that she might have taken Lawrence's medicine by mistake and suffered an allergic reaction."

  Michael started to speak but was interrupted by footsteps on the stairs. "How is she?" he asked, as Doctor Taylor came down followed by Mr Smart.

  Doctor Taylor shook his head. "She is gravely ill," he said. "There has been no improvement."

  Mr Smart pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat. "Has her mother been fetched?" he asked.

  "She has," said Michael. "She should be here by now. I don’t know what is keeping them."

  "I must go," said Mr Smart, snapping his watch shut. "Taylor, you inform her mother." Doctor Taylor nodded.

  "What is wrong with her?" asked Violet.

  "She is a very sick young lady," Mr Smart responded. "Aside from the vomiting, her pupils are dilated, and she has bradycardia with mild ventricular arrhythmia. In layman's terms, she has a slow and irregular heartbeat. These are not symptoms of food poisoning."

  Lawrence spoke. "Could she be suffering from an allergy to an un-prescribed medicine? I have reason to think that she might have accidentally taken some of my powders."

  "What do they contain?"

  "Nothing uncommon," answered Doctor Taylor, "It is one of my preparations. Just a dose of opiate powder, with syrup to taste."

  "We can rule that out," said Mr Smart. "There is nothing untoward in that mixture but show me if you have any left, in case there has been a mix-up."

  Lawrence reached into his breast pocket and withdrew the remaining envelopes and passed them to the surgeon.