The Lady's Slipper

by Deborah Swift

  As Alice spoke, Ella’s voice cut over hers. ‘You cannot dismiss me, mistress. I don’t take orders from you no more, only from the master.’

  ‘And we all know what sort of orders they will be,’ said Alice bitterly.

  ‘Are you calling me?’ Ella shouted. She turned to the justice with indignation. ‘Sir, she is blackening my character.’ She widened her eyes. ‘Her–the woman who has poisoned a babe and cut the entrails from an old woman.’

  ‘You vixen.’ Alice lost her temper; the words flew out of her mouth before she could prevent them. She was silenced by the banging of the mallet on the table and the justice’s cry.

  ‘We will have order. Remove that witness from the stand and call the defendant’s husband, Thomas Ibbetson.’

  Alice turned and appealed to the justice, raising her arms in a gesture of supplication. ‘Milord, it is all fabrication. I was out gathering flowers. I did see the procession pass by me, but I would never have harmed Margaret. She was my friend.’

  There was a muffled reaction from the gallery, which was hastily quashed by those others who feared missing the justice’s response.

  ‘I said, hold your peace. Call Thomas Ibbetson.’

  Alice heard the call go out for Thomas, a booming voice outside. The crowd craned round behind them, anxious not to miss a glimpse of the unfolding action. Alice searched the pews for his familiar balding head. Despite their recent differences, he would surely vouch for her. His name echoed again in the corridors outside the room, until the court official returned and whispered briskly to the judge.

  ‘Thomas Ibbetson does not appear to be here, so we will proceed without him.’

  ‘But, sir, surely I have the right…’ Alice pleaded that she wanted her husband present, but at the same time there was a commotion in the stalls at the front where Ella was still being escorted to her seat.

  ‘He will be here, sir. Give him a little more time,’ shouted Ella, standing up and calling out despite the two people either side attempting to restrain her. ‘He said he would be here.’ Her voice tailed off. ‘He was to say that—’ The crack of the justice’s mallet silenced them both. He pointed to Ella.

  ‘If you disturb us once more you will be put below in a cell. Hold your tongue.’ He turned to the jury. ‘If Ibbetson cannot grace us with his presence at his own wife’s trial, then we will proceed with the next witness. Constable Woolley, please take the oath.’

  When Woolley had been sworn in, Alice saw the clerk bring an object wrapped in a piece of black cloth to the jury’s table and place it before them.

  ‘This is the knife you found at the defendant’s house, is it not?’ asked the prosecutor.

  ‘Yes, sir, there were three of us present when we found it–concealed in the back of a drawer in Mistress Ibbetson’s summerhouse. You can see the blood on it right enough.’

  The clerk unwrapped the object and Alice caught a glimpse of a large hunting knife with a curved blade and a bone handle. She had never set eyes on it in her life. The members of the jury passed it along the table, most holding it at arm’s length with distaste, and then it returned to the clerk.

  ‘Hold it aloft,’ said the justice. There was a gasp from the crowd at the size of the blade.

  ‘Lord have mercy.’ A woman’s quavering voice rose above the uproar. ‘It is a gutting knife. You killed my sister with this? Like an animal?’ A large man was holding onto her arm, trying to quiet her. ‘Shush, Hetty. Let them get on with it. She will hang soon enough.’ Alice recognized the tortured eyes of the woman who had tried to drag her out of the cart.

  Alice stammered, ‘But how did it come to be in—?’

  ‘Be silent,’ cut in the prosecutor. ‘Three people will attest that they found this in a drawer in your summerhouse. A building for which you, and you alone, have the key. How do you account for that?’

  ‘I have no idea, perhaps one of them put it there.’

  The justice laughed. The whole room took his cue and erupted in guffaws.

  ‘Are we to believe that Justice Rawlinson, Constable Woolley and the eminent Sir Geoffrey Fisk would conspire to pervert the course of justice? Is not the more likely explanation that you hid the accursed object yourself?’

  Alice was unable to answer, and was forced to swallow the unpalatable fact that her guilt was a foregone conclusion. She watched with a sinking heart as one by one the villagers gave their testimony. She found it impossible to believe that the safe haven she had lived in for so many years had turned tail and become another place completely, where all those she had known and loved were ready to turn traitor.

  She endured the testimonies, as one by one they corroded any remaining dignity and redrew her as a different woman. Every ill in the village was somehow attributed to her, from breech-birth lambs to chimney fires. It seems she never passed anyone by without some disaster should befall them, as barley makes malt. She was an evil influence. This from Sir Geoffrey Fisk. Surely a man of his intelligence would refuse to believe these outrageous claims?

  He took the oath impatiently, as though he could not wait to get it over, rushing through the affidavit in stuttering haste. He appeared uncomfortable on the witness stand but answered all the questions briefly. It appeared he had been called upon to witness to her character, and she found herself horrified by the picture he painted.

  ‘Yes, she went into a decline after her sister’s death.’

  ‘As one who knew her well, do you think—’

  ‘Oh, I did not know her too well, she is a difficult woman,’ interjected Geoffrey.

  ‘Is it likely then,’ went on the prosecutor, ‘that she was suffering from grief, in your opinion, or could it have been remorse or guilt?’

  ‘Well, it is difficult to say. But she kept painting portraits of the dead child, as if she would make amends and bring her back to life.’

  Whispers ran round the gallery.

  ‘May I ask what your relationship was to Mistress Ibbetson?’

  ‘She painted wild flowers for my clients on commission.’

  ‘And you had a cordial relationship?’

  ‘Not of late. Mistress Ibbetson’s work had become somewhat unpopular. She became erratic, subject to moods and vapours. The quality had gone from her work.’

  Here Alice protested, but was warned by the judge to keep quiet.

  ‘I no longer wished to continue my association with her. One cannot afford unreliable associates in business,’ finished Geoffrey.

  ‘And do you think, as others have asserted, that she has been seduced by the dark powers?’

  ‘That I cannot say. Except that my horse always refused to go near her house–and on several occasions transactions over her paintings have gone mysteriously awry. Lord Shipley has thrown away the work he commissioned; he lost both his sons in a carriage accident since having them in the house and swears Mistress Ibbetson’s paintings are the cause of his misfortune.’

  ‘We cannot admit hearsay in court. Confine yourself to your own opinion, please. Have you any evidence of sorcery?’

  ‘Not actual evidence, no, but then sorcery is just that, is it not? Invisible, except in its results.’

  The jurors conferred some more. Alice tried to catch Geoffrey’s eye. Did he not realize he was condemning her with every sentence he spoke? But Geoffrey continued to stare studiously ahead into the middle distance, scratching at his sideburns and tapping his foot. The noise of his heel was loud in the stuffy chamber.

  ‘No further questions.’ The prosecutor turned with eyebrows raised to the judge, who was in the process of opening a silver snuff-box. He plucked out the powder and placed a pinch on his hand, from where he snorted it noisily into his nostrils. ‘Call the next witness,’ he said, before sneezing.

  Geoffrey glanced her way just once before striding out of a side door, but his face was cold, set, unreadable.

  The scrivener’s quill scratched on, setting Alice’s teeth on edge, noting it all.

  The last witne
ss was Betty Tansy, the cook. Alice resigned herself to more hurtful insinuations. As Betty took the oath, Alice did not even raise her head. She was ashamed of her bedraggled and coarse appearance. The evidence was stacked like firewood at her door, ready to blaze up when the next witness should drop the taper. She shrank away, fearing to hear more bruising words from an old friend.

  ‘You should all be ashamed of yourselves.’ Betty glowered at the assembly and took a deep breath. ‘I have been in service to Mistress Ibbetson these five years, and found her always to be godly,’ she said, defiant. ‘A more caring woman I have yet to meet. She never killed her little sister–she nursed her, and comforted her. She was well near destroyed when she died. And it’s rank nonsense to say she’s a witch.’

  ‘Are you dismissing the testimony of your neighbours, then, Goodwife Tansy?’

  Betty looked hesitant. ‘I don’t know about that. But my hens stopped laying one week and I did not look to witchcraft for the answer. I fed them better and brought them in earlier at night and they soon perked up. Seems to me, too much is being laid at her door that don’t belong there.’

  The room was now full of whispers, a noise like wind through trees.

  ‘But on the night in question, you were out on the wagon with the Cobbalds and the rest of Netherbarrow, were you not?’ The prosecutor paced back and forth, his hands folded behind him under his coattails.

  ‘Aye. And I did see Mistress Ibbetson right enough. She was bending over something in the ditch.’

  ‘Was it the body of Margaret Poulter?’

  ‘It could have been–but then again, it might not have been. It was dark.’ Further rustling from the benches and muffled talking caused the justice to admonish the people to be quiet.

  ‘What of the knife? Did you ever see her with this knife?’ The prosecutor pointed to where it lay on the bench before him.

  Betty stuck out her chin. ‘That knife could belong to any one of us here. Ask them–go on–how many of the men own a knife exactly like this one? With a bone handle and all?’ She looked round the room, a pugnacious glint in her eye. ‘How do we know it is hers? I know I’ve never seen a knife like that in her house. She had a little penknife for cutting flowers and such. Not one like this. Nor her husband. What use would they have for such as that?’

  ‘I think we know what use she made of it.’ The prosecutor shared the joke with the crowd. ‘Are you quite sure you have not seen this before?’

  ‘I didn’t say I hadn’t seen one. Like I said, I’ve seen many a knife exactly like that one–my lad has one, and most of his friends too, and I dare say half the men in the village. But I’ve never seen one at the Ibbetsons’.’

  Alice’s eyes were full of tears. Dear Betty, she was the only one who would vouch for her.

  Betty stood up straight and valiantly went on. ‘And another thing. You don’t want to believe everything that Ella Appleby says. She’s a conniving—’

  ‘You old cow!’ shouted Ella jumping up out of her seat. ‘What have I ever done to you? You plague-ridden old—’

  ‘Enough!’ The justice’s voice silenced them. ‘It is not Ella Appleby who is on trial here, but Alice Ibbetson. Kindly keep to the point.’

  ‘That is the point,’ said Betty stubbornly, refusing to be browbeaten.

  ‘But you did tell the constable earlier that you saw the accused in a violent argument with the deceased only last week?’

  ‘It was just a disagreement, such as we all have sometimes.’

  ‘Other people’s disputes do not lead to murder, though, do they, Goodwife Tansy?’

  The prosecutor waved a signal to the clerk, who brought forth another black-covered bundle. The noise in the room increased as people shuffled or leaned forward to see what the cloth might contain.

  ‘Show them to Goodwife Tansy.’ The clerk let the cloth drop to the floor to reveal a pair of yellow satin shoes.

  Alice’s hands came up to her mouth. The clerk held out the shoes by the heels so that Betty could see them.

  ‘Well, if you do not recognize the knife, do you recognize these?’

  Betty looked imploringly to Alice, and Alice nodded. Whatever the cost, the truth was all they had to hold onto in this world turned bedlam.

  ‘They are Mistress Ibbetson’s.’

  ‘And these stains–’ he held out one of the shoes–‘we have already ascertained that they are blood–they were not there before?’

  ‘No, sir. I never saw any marks on them afore now.’

  ‘So you have no idea how the marks got there?’

  Betty shook her head. The judge went on, ‘Or that they were found by Ella Appleby, hidden in your kitchen, on the morning after the murder?’

  ‘That’s not true! I hid them before that after I had taken the—’

  Alice tried to speak up but was immediately silenced by the judge. ‘Quiet. Or I will have someone stop your mouth.’

  The prosecutor went up to Betty and with his face close to hers asked, ‘Did you help Alice Ibbetson by finding a hiding place for these after she had murdered Margaret Poulter?’

  Those on the front row of seats with Ella began to boo and hiss and cat-call, shouting insults.

  ‘No, no.’ Betty became more and more flustered. She looked to Alice in confusion. Then loudly, above the hubbub, ‘No, I don’t know anything about it.’ She looked back to Alice, distressed. The prosecutor dangled one of the shoes from his index finger.

  ‘Look at the blood-stained shoe, Goodwife Tansy.’ He turned to the jury. ‘Surely a lady with nothing to hide would simply leave her shoes in her closet?’ He wagged a cursory hand in Alice’s direction. The jurors nodded one to the other and whispered between them selves. ‘You may leave the stand, Goodwife Tansy.’

  ‘But I’m not done—’

  ‘That will be all.’

  The scrivener paused from his writing and dipped his nib into the inkwell, ready for the summing up.

  Justice Lackwood’s voice was devoid of feeling, like reading a list of groceries. ‘I ask you to consider all you have heard, and indeed there has been a fine body of witnesses for the prosecution. Any one of the offences is a hanging offence, so be certain of your decision before you return your verdict. Weigh in the balance all the testimonies you have heard today. Consider also, before you reach your final verdict, the evidence of the knife and of the lady’s shoe. I trust you will reach the right decision. All rise.’

  Alice was returned to the holding cell to await the verdict. The holding cell was crowded with damp prisoners; the smell of urine permeated the cold air. They stood, not because the floors were running with water, as in the gaol, but because there was no room to sit. They were packed closely like skittles in a box, all the women together, lank-haired and filthy.

  Alice wondered if Hannah was on her way by now to the courthouse. She worried whether she would manage to stand up for the journey. All the Quakers were to be tried in the afternoon but she fretted that Hannah might not be able to survive rough treatment. Her husband, Jack, would be in court too for the trial, and it was this, the prospect of seeing her husband again, that had shored Hannah up.

  Alice had long since given up hope that Richard Wheeler would arrive with the help he had pledged to her. She should have known his friendship would not stretch to a thief and a liar, no matter what Hannah said. There had been no sign of him at the trial. Maybe after all, she thought bitterly, he has thought better of his promise, and does not wish to become associated with a woman accused of witchcraft and murder.

  When they called out her name again, she was surprised. She guessed it was less than one hour of the clock. Were her supposed crimes worthy of so little consideration? She had to extricate herself from the press of bodies and, as she did so, one woman took hold of her hand and squeezed it tight, making the sign of the cross in front of her.

  ‘God save you, mistress, good luck.’

  When she emerged into the courtroom again, flanked by two guards, she could see b
risk trading going on in the hall; peddlers were still selling tobacco and oranges, others hawking the usual grisly pamphlets detailing the crimes of notorious felons. There was much tattle and jesting as she was led up to the dock.

  ‘All rise,’ said the clerk, and the congregation rose as one body, with scraping of boots, jostling and elbowing, whilst the procession of the jury followed by the frail-looking Justice Lackwood filed in. All eyes were nailed fast to their faces, Alice’s included–all hoped to discern from their bearing a clue as to the verdict. The jurors took their time sitting, lingering to whisper to each other as they slid into position behind the table.

  ‘Spokesman for the jury, have you reached a verdict?’ asked Justice Lackwood, wiping a dripping nose and squinting at them under lowered brows.

  ‘Yes, it is unanimous.’

  ‘Alice Ibbetson, you are accused of the murders of Margaret Alice Poulter and of Flora Longley.’ Alice stared ahead at a spot in the wall over the heads of the crowd but her hands were tightly knotted together. ‘Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?’

  There was an expectant hush.

  ‘Guilty.’

  The room erupted as spontaneous cheering broke out in the gallery. This could not be happening. Up until this moment there had always been hope of reprieve, some small faith in the triumph of truth over falsehood, in the righteousness of English law. Alice almost sank to her knees, but caught a glimpse of the white flash of Ella’s chemise above the blue dress. She would not fall before her, would not give her the satisfaction.

  The judge was continuing to speak, to add the word ‘guilty’ to a longer list of supposed crimes, but his words fell empty around her after the first pronouncement. She clung onto the table, her veins standing out on her thin hands, and remained shakily upright as the justice placed the black cloth over his wig. There was silence then, for although everyone knew what the gesture signified, all wanted to hear him speak the words.