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  "I don’t deny it’s strange behaviour," said Lawrence, "but not compelling evidence. From your account, Mary didn’t confess to killing your mother. In any case, how could she?"

  "My sister, Martha, was living with Mother when she died," said Sarah. "She found her in bed, not restful like she was sleeping, but with eyes that stared out of her face in fright. Her mouth was agape as if she’d died in terror, and she had been sick with fear. Martha was in the house the whole time, and there was nothing for Mother to fear when help was so close. She only needed to call for Martha and Martha would have come."

  "But how could Mary have been involved?" asked Lawrence.

  "I don’t know how she works her evil," said Sarah angrily. "If I knew, I would have stopped her killing my baby. But she did something to cause it. There’s no doubt."

  Sarah’s hands shook, and a crease beneath her eye twitched uncontrollably.

  "I am sorry," said Lawrence gently, reaching towards her.

  She allowed him to pat her hand and, biting her lip, managed to staunch the tears that threatened. "What happened to your hand?"

  Lawrence started. The words came from nowhere, frank pointed and cutting through common courtesy. Most people were too polite to ask. He rubbed his gloved left hand.

  "I burned it," he answered. "And I can’t bear the sight of it, so I don't look."

  Sarah touched the tips of his gloved finger. He wanted to recoil, but she was trying to be kind, and he needed her cooperation.

  "You know loss, too," she sighed, "I can see it."

  Lawrence swallowed, as goose bumps prickled his arms. He would not be distracted from his questions, nor would he allow a stranger to intrude into his nightmare.

  "Why was Eliza Clay afraid of Mary?" It was his turn to parry. The question cut through his discomfort, slicing her kindly interference away."

  "That was Mary at her most wicked," said Sarah. "She frightened that poor girl to her wit's end. Eliza thought that Mary had the power to destroy her."

  "What did Mary do?"

  "She made a wax doll and put some of Eliza's hair into it. At least she said it was Eliza's hair. It could have belonged to anybody."

  "That's just a parlour trick," said Lawrence. "Anyone would be simple-minded to believe in it."

  "Eliza wasn’t frightened, to begin with," said Sarah.

  "Tell me, why did Mary make the doll?"

  "Because they fell out," said Sarah, "over money. Mary had made a cough tincture for one of Eliza's children. She made things all the time. There was nothing unusual in it except that Eliza already owed her money for other things. Mary asked for her usual fee, which was not very much, but she couldn't afford to give things away, and Eliza said that she didn’t have any money now but would pay Mary's fee as soon as she could."

  "Reasonable," said Lawrence.

  "It happens all the time," agreed Sarah. "So, Eliza owed Mary for several things, and Mary let it go for a few months. Then Eliza's brother died. He was a member of the Friendly Society, and they gave money to his mother to pay for his funeral. There was a little left over, so she gave it to Eliza.

  "So, Eliza could pay her debts," said Lawrence.

  "Yes. She had the means," confirmed Sarah, "but she did not do it. Instead, she ordered a new dress and Mary came to hear of it. She was furious."

  "So furious that she made a wax doll?"

  "Exactly," Sarah nodded. "She took it to Eliza's house one day and showed her. Eliza laughed, and Mary pulled a pin from her hat and stuck it into the doll's leg. Eliza said that her leg was already wounded due to a sprain, and Mary was too late with her dolls and her pins. Then Mary left and came home."

  "Came home here?"

  "No, we didn’t always live in Fressingfield with Father and Mary. We were in Wingfield at the time."

  "It must have been difficult living with Mary when you disliked her so much."

  "It was, "agreed Sarah. "I tried to stay out of her way, but it was a small cottage, and there wasn’t much chance of avoiding her. We tolerated each other, and that is where I heard her wish Eliza ill."

  "How?”

  "Mary was home when I returned from my errands, cackling in the corner with Hannah Roper. You’ve met her, haven't you?"

  Lawrence nodded.

  "Hannah wasn’t like Mary. She was pleasant and did not have much truck with Mary's foolishness, but she was her friend and ignored her faults when she ought to have chastised her. I can’t think what she saw in Mary for Hannah was far more intelligent, but they became as thick as thieves after Harry Roper died in eighty-four. Anyway, they were together as usual, and Mary smiled at me as soon as I came through the door. Well, she rarely smiled at me. We disliked each other, so I knew no good would come of it. Mary showed me the doll and pointed to the pin in its leg, then said that Eliza would suffer for her treachery, smirking as she said the words. She thought she was so clever, but even Hannah stood behind her, shaking her head in disbelief."

  "Well, evidently she didn’t harm Eliza as Eliza still lived until yesterday."

  "Oh, but she did," said Sarah. "Two days after she put the pin in the doll, Eliza suffered an infection in her leg that nearly killed her. The flesh almost rotted to the bone. Were it not for the skill of Mr Smart, Eliza would have lost her leg. He cut the rotten flesh away and saved it. She had a scar, but she could walk."

  "Just another coincidence," said Lawrence. "An existing injury is easily infected with or without a wax doll."

  "Probably," agreed Sarah, "but it put the fear of God into Eliza, and she never crossed Mary again. She borrowed the money from her mother and paid it to Mary as soon as she could walk."

  "Extraordinary," said Lawrence. "This matter seems to be one coincidence after another joined together to make a fantasy in which rational people foolishly believe."

  "Don’t you believe in evil?" asked Sarah.

  "Evil exists, but the devil does not," said Lawrence. "There is a difference."

  "You have suffered a loss and so have I," said Sarah. "My loss was an innocent child. I don’t know what you grieve, but I can see that you feel the injustice of it. How do some people lead wicked lives and never come to harm while good people suffer? If that is not evil, then what is?"

  Lawrence considered her words. She was heading into uncomfortable territory again. "I have one more question for you, Sarah," he said.

  "Feel free to ask."

  "Did Jonathan Carter die a natural death?"

  "Now, there's a question," said Sarah. "The medical men thought so, the inquest said so, but my mother knew better."

  "She was his sister?" asked Lawrence cautiously.

  "Yes, she was. Jonathan lived with her for a while, and she knew about the crows."

  "I’ve heard of them too,” said Lawrence. "People say they plagued him."

  "They did," said Sarah. "But Mother didn’t believe in witchcraft. She said it was a spiteful act – the crows, that is. She was cross with Uncle Jonathan, for taking them seriously, and thought the accident had made him weak in the head."

  "What accident?" asked Lawrence.

  "A horse kicked him," said Sarah. "Nasty business. He was steadying a cart while it was being loaded and a horse reared up and kicked him in the ribs. Poor Jonathan was never quite the same after that, though he fared better than the other man who was killed outright when he fell."

  "Dangerous things, horses," said Lawrence. "I have never been fond of them."

  "Well, Jonathan stayed clear of them after that, I can tell you. He seemed better after a week in bed, though he appeared to have aged, become frailer, you know."

  "Commonplace for an older person after an accident," mused Lawrence.

  "Yes, but we wondered if he over-reacted to the crows because he was still not himself after the accident. He might have responded more rationally if he'd been in full health."

  "I see," said Lawrence. "He reacted particularly badly."

  "Dreadfully," agreed Sarah, "He..."
/>   Her voice trailed away as the door slammed open and a boy of about eleven ran into the room. He stopped at the sight of Lawrence. "Hello, Sir," he said, removing his cap.

  Sarah smiled, "Charles, my eldest son," she said.

  Lawrence offered his hand. The boy cautiously accepted, then dragged a chair to the corner of the room and sat with his arms around his knees.

  Sarah shrugged her shoulders, and Lawrence interpreted it as reluctance to speak in front of her boy.

  "I should go now," he said. "Can we talk another time?"

  Sarah nodded. "You know where to find me."

  Lawrence emerged from the cottage, blinking. He hadn’t realised it was so dark inside, and the daylight hurt his eyes. He considered his next move. There were very few people who could offer any insight, and the investigation felt like a waste of time. What had he actually discovered? Nothing new. Some people thought the deaths were natural, and others did not. There was no evidence, either way, only anecdotal accounts that amounted to nothing. On the plus side, he was pleased with the cooperation he had encountered. Everyone had behaved decently. He had feared that the village would be seething with rumour and speculation. It was less than that. If it had been the case a few weeks ago, then the worst of the rumours had passed, and he was confident that things would return to normal soon. In fact, his presence was probably inviting speculation. He should finish as quickly as possible and return to Bury.

  The only outstanding matter was Faith Mills. He was on the right track, he was sure, but he still hadn’t found the link that connected her with Jonathan Carter. He decided to return to The Vicarage and locate the other journal.

  Chapter 19

  Discord

  Lawrence arrived at The Vicarage, feeling tired and a little shaky. Sitting down was fine but walking even a short distance made him feel unwell again. He had talked too much, and his throat burned. He walked through the door and straight upstairs to his room which had been cleaned in his absence. He picked up one of his powders and reached for the water decanter, but his breakfast tray had been tidied away together with the glass and washbowl. Lawrence sighed. He wanted to rest but he would most likely be interrupted by the maid returning to complete her unfinished task.

  He picked up the journal again and sat on the bed, re-reading the last entry. He must have fallen asleep as he read and woke, bleary-eyed and fully dressed on the bed, with the notebook splayed open on the floor where it had fallen. He reached for his pocket watch. He had been asleep for two hours, and it was past lunchtime.

  Lawrence sighed and rose from the bed. He was hungry, which was encouraging, as the illness had depressed his appetite up to now. He went downstairs and peered into the drawing-room. It was empty, and he tried the morning room, where he found Emily Raven sitting alone sewing.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked when she saw him.

  “A little better,” he said. “The house seems empty. Where is everyone?”

  Emily smiled. “Mother has joined father in Norwich. Violet has taken Mrs Harris to Eye and Loveday has gone for a walk with Doctor Taylor.”

  “Has she now,” said Lawrence.

  “Yes,” said Emily, “and it is extremely inconvenient. Poor Anna is unwell, and I am worried about her. She has taken to her bed and cannot keep a thing down.”

  “I hope she hasn’t picked up my illness,” said Lawrence.

  “No, she has stomach cramps,” said Emily, “It is different.”

  “Tell me where they went,” said Lawrence, “and I’ll fetch the Doctor.”

  “Thank you,” said Emily, stopping short as she heard the front door open.

  “Perhaps that is Loveday now?” she said.

  They walked into the hallway to see Loveday standing by the open door, waving to someone outside.

  “Ask him to return?” called Emily.

  “Why?”

  “Just ask him.”

  Loveday beckoned the doctor back, and Emily explained the situation, then the three of them disappeared upstairs, leaving Lawrence alone again.

  He decided to re-visit the basement room for more reading material and strode to the back of the house where the passage turned into the orangery. Lawrence collected the lamp from a cabinet by the inside door, and a box of matches which had been thoughtfully left beside. He put the matches in his breast pocket, then walked across the lawn to the screened area, unlatched the door and entered the room. It was still dark and musty. He lit the lamp and descended the steps, turning the wick so that the lamp was at its brightest.

  Lawrence gazed towards the parish chest and almost dropped the lamp in shock. The lid was closed, and the contents of the box were spread haphazardly across the floor. Papers and journals were everywhere, covered in debris from the damp ground. With a shaky hand, he placed the lamp on the steps and gathered the books. He picked through them, searching until he found three in the familiar writing of the transcriber, stacked them together, took them upstairs and placed them on the table.

  Lawrence returned to the basement to finish tidying and arranged the lamp to light the greater part of the room. As he collected 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 intend to spend a moment longer in the cold underground chamber and would tidy and go. He grabbed a handful of papers and heaved the chest open with his good hand, but a smell of death assailed his nostrils with a foul stench that had not been there yesterday. Lawrence leapt back, dropping the lid, and 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, and 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. Lawrence held it aloft in his left hand, knelt upon the damp floor and pushed the lid of the chest open again. 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, ran straight back to The Vicarage.

  Chapter 20

  The Curse Crow

  "Lawrence, what's wrong? You're 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 can't. You must come and see this thing in the storeroom, Michael, and tell me I'm not losing my mind."

  "Calm down," said Michael, "you're speaking in riddles. What have you found in the storeroom that’s so upsetting?"

  "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 than when he was alone. Nothing had changed. The books were still in the same tidy pile that Lawrence had made, but papers were strewn across the floor.

  "Who did this?" asked Michael. "Not you, I hope?"

  "Of course not," snapped Lawrence.

  "Sorry," said Michael, "This vandalism is distressing. We'll have to put a padlock on the room now. Why would anybody make such a mess?"

  "There's worse," said Lawrence, darkly, fear welling in his chest again. "Open the box."

  He raised the lamp high above while Michael lifted the lid. The smell of decay permeated the stagnant air.

  Michael looked in the box then up at Lawrence and shook his head. "This is unbelievable," he said. "You can’t tell anyone."

  "I know," said Lawrence. "
There would be uproar.

  "We’d better clean it up," said Michael practically.

  "There's a box upstairs," said Lawrence. "I'll fetch it."

  "Then, leave the light here," said Michael.

  Lawrence returned to the table. The journals were 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 thrust firmly into the remains of the bird held a note in the cleaved top.

  "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 Eliza Clay when there were so many better witnesses to Mary’s guilt? But she alone had seen through the ruse. The mask had slipped in her presence.

  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 must stay hidden.

  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, with all my intelligence, cannot know what living persons are to blame for the unfairness of deeds carried out centuries before. There are too many to count.