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  The farm labourers gathered around the butchered sheep while the farmer prodded their carcasses with his stick. He scowled at the Shepherd who had joined the throng and admonished him for his carelessness in allowing the sheep to die. The Shepherd dropped to his knees and examined the smaller sheep, parting the bloody fleece to reveal deep gouges in the sheep's neck. His face set into a frown as he pointed to the bite marks. The farmer pursed his lips and thrust his stick deep into the ground next to the slaughtered sheep, then berated the Shepherd again for allowing the carnage. The Shepherd protested, stating that the sheep were always under watch. It would be impossible for two healthy animals to be savaged so close to the farm when the farm dogs roamed freely. One of the older farm servants, Audrey Smith, stepped forward and spoke. She said a similar thing had happened at the Page farm. Martha Page spoke of it at the market earlier that week. She believed her dead animal was killed by a familiar, sent by a witch.

  The workers listened in silence, then erupted in a babble of fevered speculation. Audrey Smith crossed herself and reminded them that a witch had endured a trial by water at Brandeston only a few years earlier. At this, my mother raised her eyes heavenward for she was educated and did not believe in witches or superstitious things. But the farmhand who found the slaughtered sheep spoke of the Manningtree Witch Trials and said if witches were in neighbouring Essex, then it would only be a matter of time before they came to Suffolk. By the time my mother returned home that day, the farm folk had convinced themselves that they had borne witness to witchcraft.

  When Mother recounted her day, I railed at the unfairness. The irony of imagined supernatural evil when real wickedness resided within one living in their own parish, sickened me. William Page had recklessly ruined my life with his debauchery, and I had no doubt he ruined other lives before mine. Yet he lived in the heart of these people, and they could not see the evil within. He was the wicked, ungodly one. I almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of it, but I did not, for my mind was preoccupied.

  At first, I put it down to the maggot of fury nestling within me, the violent depths of my revulsion, made real in sickness. My bruises had faded, and my body healed, though my soul was forever destroyed. But I ailed, and it was not like me. I had been healthy all my life.

  Gradually a thought wormed into my head, a notion so repugnant, so loathsome that I shut it out until it would not lie dormant. And when I finally allowed it voice, I wanted to die. I wanted it cut from me and was sickened with disgust.

  One day, when my mother returned to the fields, bone-tired with all the superstitious prattle, my aunt asked me to let her help with my problem. How she knew about the parasite within, I cannot say, but it was not a great surprise for she seemed to know much without being told. She offered me a foul-tasting liquid, yellow-tinged and cloying. I gulped it down and immediately vomited, so she made me drink more until it stayed in my gullet. She warned me that it may or may not help and I prayed to a God I no longer trusted, to destroy the evil seed within me. A week later, I knew my prayers had gone unanswered. The Page leech still clung to life, despite our best efforts. Worse yet, any hopes that my aunt would be able to assist in another way vanished. After a long life, she had succumbed to old age and infirmity, and we found her dead in her bed one Sunday morning.

  My aunt left us nothing for she had nothing to leave. We sold her clothes and a few trinkets and buried her as best we could. She was laid to rest in the Church where we worshipped, and her funeral passed without incident. It was the last dignity the parish afforded to us.

  Mother walked to work the day after Aunt Bennett's funeral. On entering the yard, the farmer came towards her and held his hand aloft, barring the way. She smiled and tried to pass, but he refused her entry and turned her away without a word. She shouted over to Audrey Smith, who was standing by the well, but Audrey turned her face and made for the dairy. My mother stared across the yard, perplexed, waiting in vain for someone to appear and offer an explanation. Nobody materialised, and she went home.

  The children and I were settled in the cottage going about our morning chores when Mother opened the door. She slumped in the wooden chair nearest the fire with her head in her hands. I rushed to her side and asked what ailed her, and she recounted her story, picking over the details, her thoughts mired in confusion. She could not account for the sudden hostility, knowing as she did, that her work had always been good. I tried to console her, but she was still mourning Aunt Bennett and began to cry. When Patience saw her tears, she wiped them away with a clumsy hand and put her head in Mother's lap. Mother stopped crying at this small act of love but stared disconsolately out of the window, brooding. I continued sewing, and an uneasy silence settled over the cottage.

  It did not last long. There was a hiss, and a thud and the melancholic atmosphere was interrupted by a burning stick falling to the stone floor. It had been tossed through the open front window of our cottage. Alice leapt to her feet and stamped out the flames while we rushed outside to see the perpetrator standing before us. It was Martha Page and her son Samuel who were waiting at the top of the path. Martha's face was a twisted mask of fury. Rivers of tears tracked down her face. "You Witch," she snarled at the sight of Mother.

  I stepped forward. "Leave us alone, you stupid woman," I said. I was unafraid. She held no power over me anymore.

  "He is dead," she wailed, pointing at my mother. "And you have killed him, as surely as you killed the sheep."

  The expression on my mother's face changed, enlightened. "Is that what you told the farmer?" she asked. "Is that why he will not let me work."

  "You should not be among decent people, witch," screamed Martha. "You have murdered my son. You said you’d make me pay when you cursed me."

  "I did not curse you," countered my mother. "Nor did I kill your son. I do not wish ill on your children, even if I despise your husband."

  Martha Page gasped. Her face whitened as if drained of blood. "You would harm my husband?" she cried, grasping Samuel and hiding behind his shoulder. "You threaten my family?"

  I stepped forward, sickened by her attempt to manipulate my Mother’s words. "Go," I said. "Or I will make him pay bastardy for the child he has forced upon me."

  "You Harlot," she screamed, then turned to my mother. "You have begotten an evil, wicked child and God will punish you." Samuel, who had remained silent throughout, spat full in my face, then put his arms around his mother's waist and led her away. Her screams rang in the distance for a long time. I wiped the spittle from my face, glaring at the incumbents of the next-door cottage. They stared back in silence, offering no support.

  We spent a sleepless night in the cottage. Mother tried to calm Patience who was unsettled by the incident while I cared for the younger two. We did not speak of it again but worry hung heavy upon us.

  The next day was Sabbath so we could neither work nor find an occupation. We decided we would both seek employment in case it became difficult for Mother to find work while the febrile atmosphere prevailed. One or the other of us should be useful at this busy time of year. Though Alice was only nine, it was time for her to take a turn caring for Patience and Walter. If Mother and I could both find work, it would be more fruitful than Alice labouring in the fields. She would get paid scant wages at such a young age.

  We set off for Church, leaving Alice in charge and paid our respects at Aunt Bennett's grave by the churchyard wall. Mother wept for her aunt who had shown us so much kindness, but I could not cry. My sadness had long since turned to a bitter bile, which coursed through my body. Mother laid wildflowers on her aunt's grave, and we made our way to the Church.

  We sat at the rear, nearest the door, having arrived early for the service. Only a few parishioners were already seated, and they were hostile from the first. They turned in their seats, and one after another bade us leave, saying we were not welcome in God's house. One woman seized a cross from around her neck and held it towards us, as if to ward away evil. I took Mother's trembling ha
nd in mine, unable to decide whether she was angry or frightened, faced our tormentors and told them it was our Church and our God, and we would not leave. Then more worshippers arrived, every one of them calling for us to go. They stood in the aisle before us, threatening and catcalling. Mother shrank into her chair but did not move and I sat bolt upright and told them I would not leave unless they dragged me out. Two men moved towards me as if they might try it, but the Vicar intervened and told them to desist. He commanded them to behave in God's house and insisted that they sat down. They returned to their pews but were not quiet, and railed and argued, refusing to worship in the same place as the witch.

  The Vicar gestured for quiet, approached us, then asked us to leave until passions quietened. Mother pleaded with him to let us stay, appealing against the unfairness of his decision. She had caused no trouble and only wanted to be allowed to pray to God as she did every Sunday, but the Vicar was unmoved. Adamant that he could not preach a sermon over the cacophony of noise, he said it would be for the best if we left and returned another day. Mother put her head in her hands, overwhelmed by the injustice. The shame of being asked to leave her beloved church was mortifying. I tried to quell the anger simmering in my chest, but it defeated me, and I confronted the Vicar and called him a coward, telling him that if he turned us away, we would never return. He turned his back on me and walked to the pulpit without another word, then stood in silence waiting for us to leave.

  Mother took a deep breath and walked from the Church with her head held high. She crossed the graveyard before kneeling at the foot of Aunt Bennett's grave where she sobbed as if her heart would break.

  Chapter 14

  Wingfield

  The journey to Wingfield was every bit as awkward as Lawrence had feared. The carriage ride was comfortable enough, but there was an uneasy atmosphere. Though nothing was articulated, Lawrence sensed a mutual dislike between Loveday and Violet Smith. Loveday did not react well to the news that they would be travelling in the company of others, fearing that the conversation would be dull, but Lawrence was unmoved. They would travel together or not at all. Loveday was only pacified when he agreed to escort her to her friend's house while Michael and Violet conducted their business with Mrs Higgins.

  The carriage arrived at Wingfield mid-afternoon with only a few brief words having been exchanged between the four of them throughout the journey. Lawrence did not try to move the conversation forward. He was preoccupied by the thought of May Day which was looming fast. It had been weeks since his last nightmare, but from previous experience, he anticipated that another night terror would soon arrive. They often happened when he became introspective. The more he thought about May Day, the more he feared it. The more he dwelt upon it, the more he began to create a self-fulfilling prophecy. And the good night's sleep that eluded him was the least of his problems.

  Catherine still occupied so many of his thoughts. He missed her more than ever and felt her loss keenly while travelling close to Loveday and Violet. He would be better off alone, or at least in male company. Their voices, their scents, their femininity evoked memories too painful to bear. He wished he had not accepted this assignment. Better to be alone in his rooms in Bury Saint Edmunds than lonely in company. For a fleeting moment, he wondered whether to abandon the investigation altogether.

  When it became clear that Lawrence would not be a convivial travelling companion, Michael tried to instigate a conversation himself. It was not to be. Violet tried, Loveday did not, and Lawrence was, in spirit, elsewhere. All four were relieved when the carriage stopped in the middle of the village, and the driver opened the door. Michael helped Violet down the step, and they walked west after agreeing to meet back in two hours.

  With Violet and Loveday apart, the awkwardness vanished. Loveday linked her arm through Lawrence's, smiling for the first time that day. He fought the urge to remove it, torn between concern at the over-familiarity versus a lack of manners. Eventually, he decided to keep it there, choosing not to upset Loveday in the hope that the journey back was less difficult. She smiled demurely, and he returned her smile. She was a beautiful young woman, and he decided to make the best of the situation and enjoy her company.

  "I have hardly seen you today," she complained. "Only from afar as you go about your business. Have things gone well?"

  "Things have gone very well," said Lawrence. "I may not have to spend quite so much time prevailing upon the kindness of our host."

  "That is too bad," said Loveday, "and not at all what I want to hear. You must stay at least three weeks until my ship sails."

  "You want me to prolong my investigation just to keep you company?" he teased.

  "Certainly," replied Loveday pouting. "You have only just arrived, and it would be too boring if you leave straight away. You are to remain here for three weeks, and that is the end of it."

  Lawrence laughed. "Then I will make sure I miss every clue and disregard any suspect to make this case last longer."

  "You have not told me what you are investigating yet," she said.

  "Nor will I."

  "That’s not much fun," she said. "I want to know everything about you."

  "There isn’t much to know."

  "Then tell it anyway."

  "Another time," said Lawrence. "We can’t be far away from your friend, and I must go to the farm."

  Loveday wrinkled her nose. "I would skip my visit and come with you, if you were going somewhere worthwhile," she said, "but I don’t want to go near a smelly old farm, not even for you, Laurie."

  Lawrence swallowed, thrilled by the intimacy at the shortening of his name. Only one person had ever called him Laurie. He should be disturbed at the familiarity, but it pleased him. He gazed at Loveday; his interest aroused.

  She smiled, then stopped by a red brick house. "This is it," she said, "Will you come back and collect me later?"

  Lawrence nodded. She put her hands to her lips as if to blow a kiss but did not. Then she turned away.

  Lawrence waited until Loveday gained admittance, then walked past lost in thought. He picked up his pace as he stepped out towards Elm Tree farm where George Corbyn worked. The farm was located about a mile up the road, but in his improved mood, the distance seemed minimal, and he was on the outskirts of the farm before he knew it. As he walked up the track, he spied a small group of men in the distance. They had broken from their labour and were sitting on the ground, talking. He approached them and asked if George Corbyn was nearby.

  "I am George Corbyn," said a man in his sixties. He was short and stout, with a flat cap over greying hair. Deep lines furrowed tanned skin, and he appeared too old to be a labourer.

  Lawrence approached him. "I am Lawrence Harpham…"

  "I know who you are," said George. "You have been two days in the village already."

  "Then, you must know why I am here," continued Lawrence. "Will you speak with me?"

  "Yes, I will speak with you, but only to put you right," George said. "Happen you need to speak to somebody who knows what they are talking about."

  The other men laughed. "You tell him, George," said one.

  "And you mind your own business, Henry Harper," snapped George. "Over there," he said, pointing to an area in the lee of a barn. He strode ahead, and Lawrence followed.

  George Corbyn perched on a low stone wall. "Sit down," he said," unless you would rather stand."

  Lawrence elected to sit. "Before we start, allow me to extend my condolences," said Lawrence. "I am sorry for your loss."

  "Are you?" asked George. "I am a good deal less sorry than you."

  "Oh," Lawrence was at a loss over what to say. Whatever he may have expected, he did not anticipate such coldness from a newly widowed man.

  "You might well look shocked," said George. "You will not meet many men glad of such a death. I am glad though and unrepentant."

  "It is, as you say, usual," repeated Lawrence. "May I ask why you were so glad of it?"

  "The woman was evil m
ade flesh," said George. "She killed my kin. She could have gone to the devil alone, but she took my granddaughter with her." He spat the words through pursed lips. "Evil whore of Satan."

  Lawrence paused, trying to remain impassive. "How could a dying woman harm a child?" he asked.

  "Cursed the girl, she did," said George. "Rubbed the Devil's spittle on her poor little body until it broke with sores. She burned from the inside out like the old woman said."

  "Come now," said Lawrence. "I understood your wife was bed-bound and could not stand."

  "Yes, she was bedridden," admitted George, "had been for three months, but she had the power to deliver the devil's work. We cannot know how his wishes were granted."

  "There are no witches or devils, George," said Lawrence reasonably. "If your wife could not walk, how could she harm your grandchild?"

  "If my wife did not harm my grandchild, why did she say she had?" countered George.

  "That I do not know," said Lawrence. "What did she say to you to make you think she had harmed the child."

  "We argued," he said. "Nobody could get along with Mary. She upset everyone, most especially my daughter. Sarah did not like her before we were wed and hated her after. My first wife, Harriet, disliked Mary, and Sarah saw no reason to disagree. She blamed Mary for Harriet's death."