The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  "Are they real letters?" asked Violet.

  "What a curious question," said Lawrence. "Why wouldn't they 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 intellectually 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, growing increasingly frustrated while Violet notated a string of entries in her notebook.

  "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 originated there, 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.

  "That's 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 Alice," 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 can't think 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 he had enjoyed the morning's work, despite the eye strain. Working quietly together with a companion genuinely interested in the research 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 or friends? They removed my mother from Fressingfield the day after her 'confession', and I use the term loosely for it was no such thing. They carted Mother and Patience 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 would 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 steadily, and I walked until nightfall, breaking 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 lacking in sustenance that I was beyond hunger. Feeling faint, I scooped a handful of water from a trough near a farrier, sipping through parched lips. Still feeling as if I might pass out at any moment, I decided that 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 my family as you had.

  I did not know Bury Saint Edmunds, 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 attending to 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. But it was useful to know, and I continued asking questions. Then she passed on some 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, and almost two hundred more 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 a
s 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 around the Cornhill in the hope that I would witness 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 means possible. 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 and prevented many of the scheduled hearings. There were more witches in the Gaol than it had space to hold, and the matter had become pressing. The date 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 go to court and watch the proceedings and he knew of people who had attended Shire Hall last time. They witnessed the trials and remained there until 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, and 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, and I was clearly 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 fair, 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. Tiptoeing up the pathway, I moved towards the window near the rail, and grabbed a handful of clothing items in the hope that at least one would fit. 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, before running through the town and back towards the Abbey grounds, until their cries of indignation were only a memory.

  I arrived at the Abbey ruins, out of breath and perspiring. My heart pumped through my chest, fit to burst. It took several minutes to recover, then I lay the stolen items on the ground and surveyed my purloined spoils. There were two dresses, both damp; not of high quality, but they had the advantage of being clean. I hung them behind a bush to dry, then waited until dusk and set off for a trough in which to wash my hair. I returned well past midnight and fell asleep, slumped against a small outbuilding to avoid getting grass or straw in my drying tresses.

  I rose at dawn and dressed in the smaller of the two garments, before running my fingers through my hair. I looked presentable, as far as I could tell from my reflection in the Abbey pond. Then I set off for court confident that my appearance would not betray me.

  On arrival, I realised that I did not know where to go and followed a pair of well-dressed merchants as they made their way into the Shire Hall. I trailed close behind them and was granted access without challenge. A low buzz of chatter came from the courtroom, which I followed. The dark panelled room was full of people, and I squeezed through the crowd and stood at the back, waiting for proceedings to begin.

  Presently, Justice Edmund Calamy entered the courtroom, and nodded at the gathering, before easing himself onto a carved wooden chair behind a high desk. Once the Justice was comfortable, Sergeant Godbold marched towards the rear of the court. He called out the names of forty alleged witches, including my mother, and they entered the courtroom. Every one of the accused was a woman. Most were elderly, and judging by the state of their clothing, many lived in poverty. I searched for Mother and finally located her squashed at the back of the crowd, looking pale and emaciated. She seemed to have aged since I last saw her less than a week ago. The women stood crushed together with many obscured from sight, and I could not see Patience, however hard I tried,

  Sergeant Godbold called for silence and asked for the witnesses to make themselves known. I recognised, at once, the smug form of Matthew Hopkins as he pushed forwards, full of self-importance. As the first few women arrived at the stand, Hopkins uttered a monologue of his findings followed by a recommendation for further action. For the first cases, he suggested an additional trial, this time by water. There was a collective gasp from the crowd at this notion, but Sergeant Godbold rose from his seated position and slammed his hand down on the desk. He studied Hopkins for a moment, then addressed the room, making it clear that the judiciary had neither the time nor inclination for any trial other than the one in progress. He explained that The Royalists were en route from Peterborough. Too much time and expense had been expended upon the witchcraft problem, and there was a war to consider. Only the worst cases of witchcraft would be heard today, and the remaining witches would go to Ipswich Gaol or return to their parishes. Godbold remained on his feet facing Hopkins, face florid and fists clenched. I formed the impression that he did not have much regard for the Witchfinder.

  Matthew Hopkins spoke up, defending his position. He warned of the folly of leniency, but Calamy forestalled his objections. It was a rare moment of pleasure, Vicar, as I revelled in Hopkin's discomfort, and I stole a brief, but premature, hope that our ordeal might end with this declaration. It did not, and the trial continued for those women in court. Sergeant Godbold addressed the accused, one at a time, while Hopkins reluctantly selected some women for release and fewer still for punishment. How he decided, I do not know, for he did not use manuscripts to refresh his memory and spoke without notes. In the end, I think, it was a matter of remembering. He had forgotten details of the earlier confessions while the more recent ones were fresh in his mind.

  It did not end well for us. Not only was my mother the most recent case, but Hopkins produced John Gooding to stand as a witness against her. Gooding had been present at my mother's alleged confession, which he embellished for the benefit of the court. When he spoke of imps, loud gasps came from the crowd. One man stood and shouted, 'death to the witch' and a chorus of voices soon joined him. With the court against her, Mother had no hope of clem
ency. Justice Calamy condemned nine women to death by hanging, ordering their transfer to Almoner's Barn on the edge of Bury and execution within the week. The women held hands as they received their sentence, standing meekly before the court, resigned to their fate.

  I did not cry, Vicar, for I was numb. I did not rail against it, for I knew it would be pointless. I did not call out, nor did I commit an act of violence. I sat until the court was almost empty, and then I left. I could not say whether my mother saw me, and I did not know where my sister was.

  I rested beneath a tree outside the courtroom overlooking the gravestones, trying to decide what to do next. My mother was to be taken straight to Almoner's barn, wherever that was. A barn might be less secure than a Gaol house. There could be an opportunity to see her or even speak with her. As I did not know what else to do, or where to go, I decided to look for the barn. At least, that way, I was doing something. So, I returned to the outside of the courthouse and asked passers-by for directions until one of them helped me.

  Chapter 31

  Honor – Almoner’s Barn

  They did not move my mother immediately, as it happened. I waited night and day by the gaol house, watching for signs of movement, yet not a carriage, or cart appeared. I was there more than an entire day, my stomach cramping with hunger, bleary-eyed and weak. How they did not move me on, I cannot say, for I gave every impression of being a vagrant, though I was better clothed. Inevitably, sleep stole upon me, and I woke on the second day to the sound of hoofbeats against the earthen streets. A covered cart had emerged from the rear of the courthouse and was halfway up the road before I comprehended its purpose. I could not catch it. Over a day without food had rendered me too feeble for speed. I watched it clatter into the distance, yearning to be close to my mother and hear her voice one last time. Finding Almoner’s Barn became my sole aim, my only concern. I did not know where to look, and darkness was approaching. There were few people on the streets and nobody who appeared trustworthy. I considered returning to the Abbey grounds to beg help from the Jesuit priests, who occupied the least damaged part of the Abbey ruins. It took seconds to dismiss the thought. After our recent rejection by the church, any man of God was abhorrent. My stomach churned at the thought of their pious faces.