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  All the loose ends were tied when the baby died, and that should have been the end of it. One dead, one ruined and some satisfying unintentional damage along the way. It quietened the ancestors for a while - they visited less often, and I thought their work was complete.

  All was well until he came, poking and prying into our lives. I did not worry at first. There was nothing to fear. Then, I heard that he was going to visit Eliza Clay, and I wondered whether she would remember that day. And the moment that I thought it, the ancestors heard, and their voices revisited, low at first, then in a crescendo. They called me to action.

  I resolved it the old way; the way that wise women chose before medical men came. I reasoned that if they suspected poison, they would not know I created it. Whether they discovered it or not, I would be safe. Nothing could link back to me, and I put it in a mug of beer and waited until the Clay woman left her cottage. I popped it through the rear window onto a handy ledge. Sure enough, she drank the ale without considering what might be inside or who had left it there.

  It was too much to hope that she would die gracefully, serenely, without a clue to her demise. She did not. I hear her face was contorted and slaked with vomit. They took her away to cut her open and now they will know it was not a natural death, though they will not recognise my part in it. But, if the policeman finds out, he will remain in our village, and that will anger the ancestors. They brook no interference. He has gleaned too much already. Fortunately, he does not know who we are or why we seek vengeance. There is no reason to suppose he ever will. Even so, the ancestors demanded a curse crow. They thought it might make him leave. He ought to go. Then they will settle, until next time.

  Someone saw him poking around the old parish chest. We do not know why, but we have sent him a gift. It was signed by Honor, the loudest of the ancestors. Already her voice grows quieter.

  Chapter 22

  Another Illness

  Lawrence and Michael disposed of the bird at the top of the garden in a quiet corner, mainly occupied by soft fruit bushes. The gardener had conveniently left a spade in the ground by the cold frames, which they used to dig a small hole. They buried the box and its dreadful contents and returned to the house. Doctor Taylor was standing in the hallway, comforting a crying Emily Raven while Loveday perched on the bottom stair, watching impassively.

  "What's wrong?" asked Michael.

  "I must go," said the Doctor. "Emily will explain."

  Andrew Taylor opened the door and walked briskly away.

  "He is fetching Mr Smart," cried Emily. "Anna is extremely sick indeed. He can't find any reason for it and seeks a second opinion."

  "I am sorry," said Lawrence. "But I'm sure they will be able to help her."

  "I hope so," said Emily. "She is only fourteen. I must tell her mother."

  "Shall I go?" offered Michael.

  "No," said Emily. "It is my responsibility. I must do my duty with Mother and Father absent. Will you come with me, Loveday?"

  "Must I darling?" asked Loveday. "Wouldn't you prefer it if Michael joined you?"

  "It would be my pleasure," said Michael.

  Emily's cheeks flushed red across her pale skin. "I would like you to come," she said to Loveday in low, measured tones indicating a hint of anger.

  "Very well," sighed Loveday, smiling at Lawrence. "I'll see you later."

  "Perhaps," he murmured, turning to Emily. "Is there anything I can do?"

  Emily shook her head. "Mary Warne is sitting with Anna. She will not leave her side until my return. Dinner may be late tonight, but that is nothing. We must look after Anna."

  Lawrence nodded, watching as the girls left the house.

  "Do you think I should send word to the Reverend?" asked Michael.

  "Not yet," said Lawrence. "Everything seems under control. It would be a shame to bring him home unnecessarily. We ought to find out what Mr Smart has to say before making a decision."

  "Agreed," said Michael. "And we won't mention the other business until his return."

  "No. Not a word to anyone but the Reverend," said Lawrence.

  "Good," Michael agreed. "I shall retire to the study now and make myself useful until Mr Smart arrives. How are you feeling?"

  "Much better," said Lawrence. "I don't know why I reacted so out of proportion to the event. It must have been the dark. It magnified my fears out of all reason."

  "I understand. I expect the crow is somebody's idea of a bad joke and nothing to dwell upon."

  "I won't give it another thought," said Lawrence. "And I have these journals to read through. They'll keep me occupied."

  Lawrence carried the journals to the morning room at the back of the house. It was a light, bright room overlooking the lawn, and although he was alone, the room was near enough to the study to feel secure. Though usually solitary, he appreciated Michael's proximity.

  The curse crow had given him a shock. Lawrence was a rational man and should not care. The crow was not supernatural, nor evil, but the thought that someone disliked him enough to go to the trouble of concealing the feathered corpse, was unsettling. And the disquiet brought a familiar dread - a nebulous, indiscernible anxiety from the past. Then he remembered when he had last felt it, during the fire when Catherine and little Lily died. An accident, they said, but he was never quite sure. Something had always felt awry. Something he should have dealt with long ago, but in his grief, dismissed while he tried to heal.

  He banished the thought and looked down at his hand, which was throbbing in pain, and realised that he had been rubbing the glove into the scarred flesh beneath. It was sore and painful like the memories. Enough.

  Lawrence picked through the notebooks blowing a film of dust into the air and wrinkled his nose. It could have been his imagination, but the journals smelled like a decomposing crow. He wiped the cover of each book with a napkin from the table and turned the first page. He was in luck. The page began with an ellipse and the account he had been reading before continued...

  Chapter 23

  Honor - The Witchfinder

  I did not ask you to baptise him, Vicar, for I knew you would not, and I had abandoned the Church by then, even if Mother still believed in a God who had forsaken us. Charles was born a bastard and remained unbaptised. And we continued friendless and destitute.

  Every trivial ill suffered by the village was laid at Mother's door. When Goodman Smith's cow jumped a stile and broke her leg, Mother was blamed. Temperance Parker, the village wise woman, doubled her business overnight, cunning old crone that she was. Before the last of our acquaintances were frightened away, they told us her method for profiteering from our misfortune. It was a ruse she employed to stir up the first of the trouble with that wicked woman, Page.

  They said that Martha Page consulted the wise woman when her child first took ill, pleading to know whether he would live or die. Parker, sensing an opportunity for money-making, told Martha that her boy was bewitched and would die if the witch could not be traced. She asked Martha to name anyone who might have wished evil upon her. Martha could only think of one person who hated her enough and named my mother. The irony cut through me like wire through cheese. Martha - cruel, spiteful Martha whose ill-treatment of her servants was renowned, dared to accuse my mother, the soul of kindness, of such a heinous act. But any name would have done as far as the wise woman was concerned. It was trickery. She seized upon Martha's suggestion, scryed with her mirror and behold; Faith Mills became the perpetrator of the crime.

  Temperance Parker prescribed witch bottles full of stinking urine, iron pins and hair. Martha Page purchased them, took them home and buried them around the house. As if spending money on waste items and the wise woman's piss would ward off real evil.

  The lucrative business served Temperance Parker well, Vicar. Did you not think it wicked? You must have known what was afoot. Did you secretly approve? Casting out the devil and all his works is time-consuming. She saved the Church a job, did she not?

  The ac
coutrements of witchcraft flourished in the village. Runic markings appeared over walls invoking the Virgin for her protection and villagers flocked to the wise woman for defending charms. Her business, which had once scratched a living, became prosperous. She had money to spare while we starved. I heard it said that Lawrence Calver was so afraid of my mother, that he killed his cat and bricked it into the chimney because the wise woman said it would spare him from the witch's wrath.

  Did you censure her Vicar? Stop her taking money from them under false pretences? You did not. You were as guilty as they were. You did nothing, and the atmosphere turned febrile, in a county already paralysed by uncertainty. If good men had stood firm, the horror could have been prevented. If you and your-like had intervened, Hopkins and Stearne would have been sent away.

  They came in the spring of 1645. By then, the witch hunters were renowned, already having caused the death of alleged witches in nearby Cambridgeshire.

  Word of their cruelty had long since reached the village, and we knew they were dangerous men. They rode into town, unbidden, and made their way to Ufford Hall, where they sought out Francis Sancroft. He was a pious man, Vicar, pious and God-fearing. He should have turned them away, shown some compassion to his lowly parishioners. But he invited them in, gave them house room, told them of the troubles in Fressingfield. No doubt, you approved.

  He invited them to the village where they applied for and were granted funds for their services. Then they sent for their entourage who lodged at the Inn. They were housed in the warm and fed good food.

  I saw them in the village square by the well, dressed in all their finery. Hopkins and Stearne were clothed like lords and burning with zeal. They dismounted their sweating horses, which were led away by the Inn's servants, and I heard them talking, plotting their campaign. They did not see me, not that it would have mattered. They knew nothing of the village folk or who would be accused and marked for trial.

  They were both well-nourished and spoke like educated men. One was younger and better looking than the other. I listened as the taller, older man, deliberated about where they would go next.

  They decided that the man called Stearne would head south, and the younger man would conduct his business in Fressingfield. It was agreed that both would lodge at the Inn, spending the day on their separate missions and returning each evening. When they had finished their conversation, they returned to the Inn. I did not follow.

  I went home instead Vicar, filled with trepidation. I knew why they were here - everybody knew. As I walked past the Green, I was ignored by some and jeered by others. One unpleasant child spat in my face, nothing to which I was not accustomed. What else should the daughter of a witch expect?

  I tried not to worry as I walked home, assessing the effect that this intrusion of witch-hunters might have on my family. We lived quietly. Perhaps confrontation was avoidable. Alice and I still ventured into the village from time to time, neither of us prepared to accept our status as outcasts. Brave Alice. She was ten this year and showed the spirit of an adult woman. Mother only left the house to scavenge in the woods and byways for what little she could put on the table. She had lost her purpose now that she no longer worshipped in Laxfield Church. Walter was too small to go out alone and Patience, poor Patience. Perhaps it was better for her than for any of us. Her mind was so enfeebled and impaired, each day the same as the next. She was not troubled by the hostility as she could not comprehend it. But that was all to change.

  Chapter 24

  Honor - Torture

  They arrived at daybreak the following day, Vicar. It cannot have taken long for the ignorant fools to cast aspersions our way, for they visited our cottage first. Fervour shone full in the Witchfinder’s faces, especially Hopkins, a young, almost handsome man, with narrow eyes, exposing a cruel and cunning nature. He wore a moustache which covered his lips as if disguising some facet of his personality. When he spoke, it almost hid his sneering lips; almost but not quite. I saw them and detested him on sight.

  The door was already ajar, and I watched Hopkins stride up the pathway opening it further to show there was nothing secretive about our home. He looked me up and down, then asked if the lady of the house was available, as if he was visiting a friend. His voice was courteous, his tones even, almost languid. Slippery. I kept him waiting on the doorstep while my mother rose and made her way to the door. She bowed her head, and her face was pallid as if all the blood had drained away.

  Smiling, he told her she must answer some question. She could speak to him in her home or go to a room at the Inn. If she stayed at home, they would make us leave the premises, so against her better judgement, she elected to follow him.

  They set off, accompanied by two soldiers and two women he had brought from Manningtree. Mother was paraded down the street like a common criminal, guarded between soldiers at the front and the women at the rear. Hopkins strutted at the head of the party, while Mother remained expressionless, walking apace with her head held high for the first time in a long while. Somehow, her predicament made her stronger. It was half a mile to the Inn from our cottage, and she passed many people along the way. Some jeered as usual, but others turned their heads away and looked at the ground, shocked and fearful; thankful it was not one of their own.

  When Mother arrived at the Inn, the soldiers took her through the front door. I tried to follow, but they blocked my passage. I sent Alice home, to her chagrin. She had followed me, but Patience, Walter and the baby could not be left for long, and I pressed Alice to go and mind them. She reluctantly agreed, but only when I insisted upon it.

  I ran to the rear of the Inn, checking every window for signs of my mother. Not every room was visible from outside, and I could not see Mother in any of the rooms with a viewpoint. Desperate to find her, I slipped through the rear door and up the creaky staircase. Loud voices rang from a room at the end of the passageway. Someone was inside shouting instructions. I tiptoed towards the noise and found a small bedroom immediately before the room in which my mother was held. The door was open, so I crept in and closed the latch.

  I crouched by the window. The ill-fitting wood panels allowed me to hear every sound and view a small part of the room through an empty knot in one of the planks.

  My mother was sitting on a wooden chair, next to a square table. Hopkins squatted in front of her and two women watched from the rear of the room. They were both in their fortieth decade, one plump with hair piled in a greying bun, the other thinner with a slight stoop and loose straggly hair, which she stroked with dirty, bitten nails. Two men of about the same age stood behind Hopkins, leering at my mother, their lips curled in disdain.

  Hopkins stared in silence for a minute or more and then spoke. In a gentle voice, he said his name was Matthew Hopkins, and he was going to ask her some questions. Hopkins spoke almost conversationally, asking for Mother's full name. When she replied, he asked what she preferred to be called. She responded, and he nodded his head as if she was a small child winning favour. He asked her about her family and her work. Then he leaned forward until his face was almost touching hers. In the same quiet voice, he asked why she had bewitched the Page boy.

  I saw her start at his sudden change of direction. She put her hands on the chair of the seat and shrank back in shock. He moved further forward and repeated the question once again. She denied it vehemently. He raised an eyebrow, then stood up and walked to the rear of her chair. Leaning over her shoulder, he asked why she had killed the livestock. He counted on his fingers the various locations where the killings had occurred. His voice was even, low, and sonorous, though his words were poisonous. Mother denied any wrong doing, insisting that she would never kill. Having worked on a farm, she cared for animals, and it was against her nature to harm them. From what she had seen, the livestock had been mauled by a wild creature.

  Hopkins closed his eyes and moved his head away. He looked towards Mother and sighed before slamming his hand down on the square table with such force that
an unlit candle clattered to the floor. Hopkins turned to her triumphantly, claiming that she had made the candle move. Before she could deny it, he demanded that she confess to conspiring with a devilish creature to wreak havoc within the parish. Why did she hate the farmers? Was she in league with the Devil? She clasped her hands to her face, eyes misting in despair and said again that she was not, and he said that he did not believe her. The two women exchanged glances. A smile flickered across their faces. Satisfaction. A good outcome.

  My mother glanced over her shoulder, to the left and to the right, movements swift, eyes exploring every part of the room, searching for a way out. Seeing none, she looked straight into his eyes and reprised her denials.

  Hopkins continued, ignoring her words as if she had not said them. Witnesses had seen her covenant with the Devil. She asked how that could be as she had never done so, and he said that it happened in the presence of Martha Page and others who would attest to her wickedness. Furthermore, she had encouraged her daughter to do the same. Mother's face paled. She clenched her fists in anger, raising her voice for the first time. Mother accused William Page of defiling her daughter, and Hopkins countered it at once. Martha Page had already told him that Mother would say this. The Devil would persuade her to lie, and any claims about William Page were wicked untruths put into her head by Satan. Mother shook her head, railing against the unfairness, and asked him outright what the purpose was in answering his questions if he was going to ignore what she said. He shook his head and said that her words could not be trusted, for her motives were tarnished by her pact with the Devil.

  Then, Mother lost her temper, Vicar. She was educated and could see the hearing for the trap that it was. She jumped to her feet and said she would not tolerate any more questions, but Hopkins thrust her against the chair. She almost tumbled backwards but righted herself, maintaining a modicum of dignity. All the while, my hand was in my mouth for fear that I would cry out, watching her tolerate his cruelty.