Murder in the Meadow (Rosemary Grey Cozy Mysteries Book 1)

by Tracy Donley

  Rosemary reached out to stroke Izzy’s soft hair. “Hello, sweet Izzy. I like your scarf,” she said. “She’s adorable.” Rosemary looked at Jack and felt the hint of a couple of tears stinging her eyes. “You’ve done well for yourself here, my friend,” she said softly.

  “I’m home,” Jack said with a happy sigh. “Now. These are the original hardwood floors, that’s the original fireplace—can you believe that stone had been plastered over? It was hideous! And the beams that run along the ceiling—a couple hundred years old,” said Jack, setting Izzy down, and leading Rosemary into the kitchen.

  Rosemary headed straight for the coffee pot while Jack unloaded Mrs. Potter’s pie and donuts and slid them into the oven to warm. A few minutes later, they went back into the living room where Charlie joined them and they all sat by the fire, chatting and enjoying hot coffee and the apple treats.

  Charlie groaned happily. “I never tire of Mrs. Potter’s caramel apple pie. It’s amazing. Too bad she refuses to share the recipe.”

  “I’m so stuffed,” said Jack. “Think I’ll just sleep here by the fire tonight so I don’t have to get up.”

  “Me too,” said Rosemary with a yawn. “Is it tacky if I unbutton the top button of my pants?”

  “You’re among family now, so no,” said Charlie. “Wish I could stay, but I have a deadline fast approaching, so I’m off to my study to get some writing done. I’ll be back to check on you two later.”

  There was a low rumble of distant thunder outside.

  “Luckily he has a short commute to the office,” Jack said, pointing at the cased opening that led to the bedrooms. For the first time, Rosemary glimpsed the wide hallway, lined with loaded bookshelves that framed doors leading off to the left and right, which must’ve been the bedrooms. Double French doors stood open at the end of the hall, lit from within. The perfect writer’s alcove.

  “You two have fun,” said Charlie, turning to go.

  He headed off to his study, Izzy at his heels, and Rosemary and Jack, who were lazily snuggled up on the couch under a thick knitted blanket, both said at once, “Movie night!”

  “Let’s watch something spooky,” said Rosemary.

  “Something eerie and haunting,” agreed Jack.

  “But first, tell me all about the Witch’s Meadow.”

  5

  “Yes! Okay.” Jack cackled a little bit in his excitement, and turned to face Rosemary on the couch. “But before you learn about the legend, you need to know the history. But trust me, in this case, the truth is stranger than fiction. Ready for this?”

  Rosemary sat up straighter and nodded enthusiastically.

  “As you know, there were witch trials here in Connecticut before the whole Salem thing ever happened.” He made air quotes around the word “Salem” and gave a little snort.

  Rosemary nodded. “Right. Mostly in the 1600s.”

  “Very good, professor. Between 1647 and 1697, to be exact. Massachusetts didn’t really catch the bug until 1692. By then, witch trials were old hat here.”

  “I know there were two major Connecticut panics: Hartford in 1662 and Fairfield thirty years later.”

  “Right again,” said Jack.

  “And here in Connecticut, Governor John Winthrop, Jr. made a lot of progress by requiring more evidence be presented in order to prove someone was a witch,” said Rosemary. “There were no more executions after 1662.”

  Jack nodded slowly. “Except for one.”

  “What?”

  “Winthrop did change the rules, thank goodness,” Jack agreed. “But there was one tiny village that didn’t get the memo.”

  There was a long pause. The fire popped and crackled, and the rain started to pour in earnest outside.

  “Paperwick?” Rosemary’s eyes widened.

  “Paperwick,” Jack confirmed.

  “So, there was another witch trial right here?”

  “There was an accusation. There was a death. But there was no trial.”

  “Get out!” Rosemary shoved Jack back into the pillows of the couch. “But how have my history books overlooked this?”

  “That’s just it. Someone needs to write a new book.” Jack raised an eyebrow at Rosemary. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “If this is true, then yes, I emphatically agree.”

  “As president of the Paperwick Historical Society, I can offer various documents and artifacts tomorrow for your perusal when we go into town. But here’s the gist of it: There was a woman accused of witchcraft. And there was an execution of sorts—or that’s what folks around here have called it all these years.”

  “I don’t follow. What should it be called?” asked Rosemary.

  “Murder, perhaps?” said Jack.

  Thunder rumbled outside, sending a shiver down Rosemary’s spine, and Izzy came scampering in and hurled herself at the couch. Jack reached down, picked her up, and nestled her into the folds of the blanket.

  “Poor baby,” said Rosemary, petting Izzy. “She doesn’t like the thunder.”

  “But apparently she does like you,” said Jack, surprised as Izzy got to her tiny feet and curled up in a ball next to Rosemary. “She usually takes a while to warm to people.”

  “Well, that’s just the effect I have on animals.”

  “On professors as well, as we have seen this very day with the stodgy Dr. McGuire.”

  “Stodgy? That guy? He seemed pretty friendly to me.”

  “Oh yes, my dear. You clearly charmed him. I thought he’d never let go of your hand.”

  “Charmed him? Surely not!”

  “I know the man, and trust me, he was charmed.”

  Rosemary’s cheeks began to burn. Time to change the subject.

  “Don’t get off track. I want to hear about the Paperwick witch.”

  “Make that witches. There were technically two of them, or so the story goes. And get ready to get seriously spooked. Because it all started right here.”

  “Right here in Paperwick,” Rosemary nodded.

  “Right here on this farm.”

  “Wait. What? Are you kidding me? You and Charlie bought the witches’ house?” Rosemary looked around with a shiver.

  “Well, no. The house is old but not that old. But our land was part of the original Gallow farm. Travel back in time with me, if you will. The year was 1668. Hortence Clark Gallow lived on this land with her husband Jonathan Gallow. Her sister, Mercy Clark Brown, who had been widowed at the ripe old age of 19, was living with the couple at the time. The Clark sisters grew up on this land. Hortence was the village midwife, and in fact, there are descendants of babies she delivered who still live here to this day.”

  “Seriously? Over three hundred years later?”

  “Yep. The old families of Paperwick stuck around like glue. Think about it. You’ve already met a few. The Potters. Mayor Wright. And by the way,” Jack said as an aside, “it’s not easy to crack the social code here, but Charlie and I have done it. The town loves us. We’re as good as natives.”

  “How could they resist your modest charm?” said Rosemary with a laugh. “So back up. This woman—this Hortence Clark—married a man with the last name of ‘Gallow’? How unfortunate.”

  “It was as if fate had struck the blow in advance, giving her that name,” agreed Jack with a nod. “Hortence Gallow. Pretty great, right? Anyway, our Hortence was a midwife, like her mother before her, but she also practiced a sort of rudimentary medicine, using herbs and roots and things like that to treat everything from dysentery to warts. Her sister Mercy assisted her and kept surprisingly detailed records. They made house calls all over this area.”

  “So, Mercy was the second witch,” said Rosemary.

  “Correct. The nearest doctor was a few villages away, and even on horseback, it would’ve taken a while to get to Paperwick. So, the sisters stayed pretty busy, by what I can gather.”

  “But let me guess: Their kind of medicine ended up getting them into trouble.”

  “Exactly. Esp
ecially Hortence. She was a sort of wild beauty. It was easy enough for a few jealous housewives or snubbed suitors to decide that because she messed around with roots and herbs, because she practiced a very old kind of medicine that had been passed down to her by her mother and grandmother—that there was something disconcerting or even dangerous about her.”

  “People are always afraid of what they don’t understand,” said Rosemary.

  “Or can’t control,” agreed Jack. “Other people, of course, were just happy there was someone around who knew how to deliver a baby.”

  “I bet that was the more commonly held sentiment.”

  “But one well-poisoner can kill a whole village, and someone had it in for our Ms. Gallow—or the Widow Gallow, as she was known by the time the trouble really started in the fall of that year. You see, Jonathan Gallow had died quite suddenly during the summer under mysterious circumstances. There were rumors—one that he’d been killed in a duel or a fight, another that Hortence had killed him herself. Frankly, most folks wouldn’t have been surprised either way, because Jonathan Gallow was by all accounts an awful person.

  “Anyway, Jonathan was dead, but after a while, the rumors about his demise died down some, and people got on with their lives. Hortence had allies in the village and with her sister Mercy’s help, she was able to keep food on the table and hold onto the farm by way of her midwifery and dispensing her remedies around the village when people needed them. But there were always those rumors, bubbling just beneath the surface, waiting for any reason to flare up again.

  “There were stories that Hortence and Mercy were prone to disappearing at night, and were seen walking in the moonlight.”

  “They would’ve had to be out and about at night, though, if they were visiting sick people and delivering babies,” said Rosemary.

  “Sure, but then there were other rumors. For example, there is a surviving letter from that period that says Hortence was seen dancing. Without a partner. And without music. ‘As though she were charmed by some unseen phantom.’ I’ll show you the letter tomorrow. It’s in the museum.”

  “Well, that was . . . odd behavior . . . I mean, if it was true,” admitted Rosemary.

  “So, you see, the stage was all set: Two widowed sisters. Rumors flying about moonlit shenanigans and witchy medicine. There was talk of Hortence being seen with a baby—but then the baby would disappear. So, we had a figurative pile of dry kindling, just waiting to catch fire. And then, in November of 1668, the match was struck: A child died.”

  “One of Hortence’s patients?”

  “Yes—one she’d been treating for fever. And then a mother passed away during delivery, and yet another mother delivered a stillborn baby. All within about ten days’ time.”

  “Oh no.”

  “And the common link between all of these deaths?”

  “Hortence Gallow,” said Rosemary.

  “Exactly. The village fell into a panic, and what was probably really something like an influenza epidemic was laid on the shoulders of the local eccentric widow.”

  “They needed someone to blame,” Rosemary nodded. “But why not blame Mercy, too?”

  “Oh, she was on thin ice herself. But while Mercy was described as a plain, shy girl, Hortence, remember, had a sort of dark, dangerous beauty about her that the local women didn’t trust, and the men weren’t quite comfortable with. Mercy tended to blend into the woodwork. Hortence stood out. She was bold. She was known to speak her mind—a rarity for a woman in that place and time. She didn’t care what people thought. And to top it all off, not only did she have an unusual cat companion, but she bore…get this: the witch’s mark.”

  “A cat, you say?” Rosemary shuddered. “Um. Unusual in what way?” She shifted nervously in her seat, causing Izzy to open one bleary eye before nodding off again.

  Jack gave a deep sigh and shook his head.

  “I’ll never understand how you can study the history of witches in early America so thoroughly and be deathly afraid of cats,” he said. “Yes, the cat was a fluffy tortoise shell with bright green eyes. Unusually intelligent, or so the story goes. But didn’t you hear the part where I said, she bore the witch’s mark?”

  “Sorry. Tell me more about this witch’s mark,” said Rosemary.

  “In Hortence’s case, it was a birthmark in the shape of a goat’s horn. On her back, somewhere around her right shoulder blade.”

  “And everyone back then thought the devil could sometimes take on the form of a goat,” said Rosemary, nodding. “That sure could’ve sealed her fate in the eyes of the good people of Paperwick.”

  “Of course, no one would have ever known about the birthmark, except that on drunken nights at the tavern, Jonathan Gallow—before his untimely death—liked to talk. And one of the things he talked about was his wife. And how she bore that mark, and apparently, he said it wouldn’t bleed—which, of course, confirmed her witchy status.”

  “How did he know it wouldn’t bleed? And what was a Puritan doing drinking at a tavern?”

  “Who knows? He was probably just spouting off. And presumably, the tavern was more of an inn that served ale, and Jonathan was known to indulge a bit too much. He wasn’t well liked by the time he died. But when he first moved to the area, he’d managed to charm Hortence’s parents and win her hand—and get his hands on the family farm. But even with all of these strikes against her, the case against Hortence might’ve blown over if it weren’t for the fact that people started getting sick just as the rumors were beginning to rise. That much we know for sure.”

  “Historians agree now that incidents of this nature—deaths happening in groups like this—were probably caused by something like the flu spreading through the population, like you mentioned. The culprit also might’ve simply been a fungus running rampant on grain grown in the area at the time,” said Rosemary.

  “But back then, it was a dark mystery. And the villagers were horrified and desperate for a solution, and it must’ve seemed all too easy to ‘fix’ the problem if the cause could just be strung up from the nearest tree and wiped out forever.”

  “So, they killed Hortence?”

  “That’s where the story gets even stranger,” said Jack. “She was formally accused of witchcraft, taken to jail, and set to go to trial. We have the judge’s journal. He was quite clear about the details of the accusation. One, Hortence bore the witch’s mark. Two, disappearing baby. Three, visited by an imp—the cat. Four, her patients were dying. Five, eyewitness accounts of dancing and walking around at night. It didn’t help that the judge himself was Matthew Graves, who lived on the farm next door to the Gallows. He’d observed the sisters’ strange comings and goings firsthand. But get this: The morning of the trial, when the constable came at sunrise to escort Hortence to the judge, he found her cell still locked up tight. But Hortence was nowhere to be found. A search party was sent out, and they soon hit pay dirt. They found Hortence in the Witch’s Meadow—the very same Witch’s Meadow that you’ll visit tomorrow over by the churchyard.”

  “So that’s why they call it the Witch’s Meadow? Because she was found there?”

  “Well, even before that night, village folk had told tales about that meadow being a meeting place for witches. Anyway, that’s probably why the search party headed straight there to look for Hortence—and they found her there, strangled and lying face down at the foot of a maple tree, a signed confession in her hand and her dress torn, exposing her right shoulder.”

  “Revealing the witch’s mark.”

  “Yep. Confirming all the rumors. The judge said the confession included Hortence’s admission that she was, indeed, a witch, and based on that, he also surmised that she had killed her husband, Johnathan Gallow. And since no one wanted to be the one to move her body, they buried her right there, under the maple tree. Naturally, she couldn’t join her husband in the respectable graveyard next door—even though by most accounts, she was by far the better person of the two.”

  “So,
she’s buried there, in the meadow—still?”

  “Her grave is marked now, but she’s still there.”

  “Didn’t her descendants want her moved to the family plot? And what ever became of her sister, Mercy?”

  “Seems she escaped in the night, taking one small piece of top secret, precious cargo with her.”

  “What was it?”

  “A baby. Hortence had a baby—a daughter. She’d been pregnant when the horrible Jonathan Gallow died. The child’s name was Lilly. Apparently, the sisters had kept the baby a secret for those first few months of her life.”

  “The disappearing baby,” said Rosemary, sighing deeply.

  “We know about Lilly, because of Mercy’s impeccable records. She’d delivered her niece herself—a healthy baby girl.”

  “But why hide the baby? And how on earth have you obtained all of this information?” asked Rosemary, amazed. “I’ve researched this whole area, and I knew about the region’s history with witches. But never have I heard of Hortence or Mercy or Jonathan Gallow or any of this.”

  “Local evidence and stories passed down through generations, mostly,” said Jack. “We have letters and Mercy’s medical notes at the museum. Thank heaven someone from every generation was smart enough to preserve them. In fact, it was the women of Paperwick who held onto them in the first place, presumably because they wanted a record of babies born. And remember the judge, Matthew Graves from the farm next door? His wife, Elizabeth, took over as midwife after Hortence and Mercy were gone. Oddly enough, even though the good judge apparently had issues with Hortence, Elizabeth is known to have been a friend to the sisters, and I would bet they’d showed her the ropes. She would’ve been the first to use the notes the sisters left behind. She would’ve needed to study them.”

  “Of course. The women of Paperwick protected Mercy’s records. They wanted to be able to refer to those notes to take care of their families and each other.”

  “But I also have another very special primary source. And it’s a bit of a riddle that I hope you can help me solve.” A grin spread across Jack’s face.