The Harlot's Tale (The Midwife's Tale)

by Sam Thomas

  “If that was her name, then yes I did.” He looked at the crowbar. “I didn’t even realize it was still in my hand until I got back here. Then I didn’t know what to do with it. I couldn’t think.”

  “And you killed Betty,” I said.

  He shrugged. “I didn’t ask their names. They didn’t matter.” I could not tell if he meant that the women he’d killed didn’t matter or their names didn’t. Each was horrible enough.

  “Who was with you?” I asked. “Who helped you do it? John Stubb? Joseph Hodgson? Your own father?”

  With that question, Praise-God seemed on the verge of panic.

  “What? Nobody!” he cried. “I killed them by myself. All of them.”

  “We know that’s not true,” I said. “And the Lord hates a liar.”

  “Did John Stubb help you?” Martha asked. “He must have killed many men in the wars, so it would be no great feat on his part.”

  “I killed them myself,” Praise-God repeated. Before we could ask any further questions, we heard the pounding of feet on the stairs, and the door burst open. My nephew Joseph stood in the door, a sword in his hand. Several beadles stood behind him.

  “Aunt Bridget,” Joseph said. “Are you all right?”

  “Mr. Hodgson,” Praise-God said before I could answer. “You should arrest me. I murdered the whores.”

  “What?” Joseph cried out. “You murdered them?”

  “Yes,” Praise-God said. He stood and crossed the room. “I killed all of them. Last night I killed one of them with the crowbar that maid is holding. And I killed a whoremonger, too. He was the first.”

  Joseph grasped Praise-God by the arm and pulled him toward the door.

  “Take him to the Castle,” he said to one of the beadles. “Tell the jailor to put him in double irons.” The beadles dragged Praise-God down the hall.

  Joseph turned back to us. “You are lucky I arrived,” he said. “God was with you today.”

  “Joseph,” I said. “He is lying.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, surprise clear on his face. “Why would he lie about murdering the whores? And if he is lying, where did he get the weapon?”

  “He did not do it by himself,” I said. “He had help, or he helped someone else do it.” As soon as I said the words, I knew I had made a mistake. If Joseph were Praise-God’s comrade, I’d just alerted him to our suspicions.

  My fears became more real when Joseph’s face hardened and he gazed at me through half-closed eyes. With menacing deliberation, he reached over and took the crowbar from Martha’s hand.

  “Why would you say that? Did he say something before we arrived?” he asked.

  I cursed myself for my stupidity. I could tell from Martha’s face that she recognized the seriousness of the situation.

  “No, nothing,” I said. “He seems like such a gentle boy; we could not believe he’d do such a thing.”

  Joseph regarded us a bit longer. I felt like nothing so much as a lamb alone before a wolf.

  “I’ll interrogate him further,” he said at last. “If anyone helped him, I will find out.”

  We heard the sound of someone rushing up the stairs. The uneven gait signaled Will’s return.

  “Aunt Bridget!” he cried before he appeared in the doorway. He was sweating profusely and out of breath. When he saw Joseph, he stopped midsentence. Joseph turned to face his brother.

  “There you are. Thank you for the warning about Mr. Ward. The beadles have taken him to the Castle. I’m sure our father will be very proud of you when I tell him.”

  Will’s face twitched, and I could tell he resented Joseph’s condescension, but he said nothing. Joseph turned back to me.

  “Do not worry any more about Mr. Ward,” he said. “You are to be commended for catching such a beast, and the city thanks you for your service, but the hunt is over. I will go to the Castle and finish the interrogation.” He nodded at Will, then disappeared down the stairs.

  “Oh God, Aunt Bridget, I’m sorry!” Will cried. “I found another constable, but as we made our way here, Joseph saw us and sent him away. It was the devil’s luck. Then Joseph ran ahead, and I could not keep up.” He looked disdainfully at his cane.

  “There was no harm done,” I said. “Any other constable would have done the same thing. There is nothing left to do here. We should go.” The three of us descended the stairs and stepped into the afternoon sun, which struck with such force that it robbed me of my breath.

  “If God is pleased that we’ve captured a murderer, he’s not showing it,” Martha said. “It’s hotter than ever.” None too soon, we reached my home and found refuge in the parlor. While Martha filled three glasses with small beer, I told Will what had happened at the inn after he left.

  “And you still think Joseph might be Praise-God’s comrade?”

  “We must consider the possibility. He made it very clear that we are not to pursue the matter any further.”

  “But we must do something,” Martha said as she entered the room. “There is still a killer out there.”

  I had no ready answer, and from the look on Will’s face, neither did he. It seemed possible—likely, even—that for the second time in a year, a murderer would slip through my fingers. We talked over the matter for a time, but none of us had a solution. Will went home, and Martha and I retired to our chambers. That night as I prayed, I asked God what he meant by such events, and prayed that I would see justice done.

  * * *

  The next morning, Will appeared at my door, his face grave.

  “What is it? There can’t have been another murder.” I said.

  “Joseph convinced my father to try Praise-God last night,” Will said. “And he convinced the Lord Mayor.”

  “What?” I cried.

  “My father was willing to wait until we could find a judge, but Joseph argued against it. He said that since Praise-God had confessed, there was no reason to wait. They called it a ‘special assize’.”

  “Did he learn nothing the last time he hurried through a trial?” I asked.

  Will offered a slight smile. “I asked him that. He thought that because you and Martha were the ones who caught Praise-God, you wouldn’t object.”

  “And the jury convicted him?” I knew the answer, of course.

  “He is to be hanged as soon as an executioner arrives from Hull. If one lived here in the city, he’d be dead already. Joseph said we could manage without one, but for once my father stood firm.”

  “Joseph is in a rush to see Praise-God dead, isn’t he?”

  “Aye,” Will said. I could tell he wanted to say more but could not find the words. I put my hand on his arm.

  “You’re worried that Joseph might be the one who helped Praise-God,” I said. “And the reason he sought a hasty trial was to make sure Praise-God is hanged before he tells anyone else.”

  Will nodded, but refused to meet my eyes. My heart ached for him. Whatever their disagreements, and despite Joseph’s late cruelties, Will loved his brother, he did not want to accept his guilt. I had no remedy to offer, so I sat with him in silence and did my best to comfort him. When Will left, our parting was melancholy.

  Not an hour later, I was at prayer when Martha knocked on my door. “What is it?” I demanded. I knew Martha took some perverse pleasure in interrupting my prayers, and I usually tolerated it, but the murders had set me on edge, and I had sought solace in the Lord.

  “Mrs. Cowper is here,” Martha replied. “She says she learned something that might help us find Isabel’s murderers. Both of them.”

  Chapter 19

  I clattered down the stairs, eager to hear what Mrs. Cowper had to say.

  “She brought a girl with her—I think she’s another whore,” Martha said. “And she has Isabel’s daughter with her as well.”

  “Elizabeth?” I asked, thinking of the way the girl’s red hair had blazed in the sunlight and of the life she faced now that she had been orphaned. “Why?”

  “I don�
��t know.”

  “Does Mrs. Cowper know that Praise-God has been convicted?” I asked. “Another witness against him is of no use.”

  “She didn’t say. She and the girl wanted to see you before they said anything more.”

  I hastened to the parlor and found Mrs. Cowper and a young woman waiting there. Elizabeth stood in the corner, gazing at the shelf on which I kept my mementos. She looked up when I came in.

  “Is this your daughter?” she asked. She pointed at a small portrait I’d had made of Birdy when she turned six.

  “Aye,” I said. “Her name was Bridget, but we called her Birdy.”

  The girl nodded. “And she died?”

  “Yes.” I did not tell her about Michael.

  “How old was she?” The death of a child did not frighten her. I supposed her mother’s murder might have pushed her beyond ordinary fears.

  “She was eight.”

  “I’ll be eight next Michaelmas,” the girl replied, clearly pleased to have something in common with Birdy. “My mother died, too,” she added.

  “I know,” I said. “I’m sorry that she did.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “I’m sorry Birdy died. She looks nice. Were these her checkstones?” She picked up a wooden box on the shelf. I said they were. “Can I play with them?”

  Although the sight of the game usually brought me to tears, I could not help smiling at the light in Elizabeth’s eyes when she asked. Birdy and I had played every Sunday afternoon from when she was just five. We’d last played the week she died.

  “I must speak with Mrs. Cowper, but why don’t you take them to the kitchen and ask my servant to play with you? Her name is Hannah, and she is very kind.”

  Elizabeth smiled and—checkstones in hand—walked toward the kitchen. The sunlight through the dining room window transformed her hair from red to a burning gold. While not in the least similar to Birdy in appearance, she was a beautiful child, and it seemed to me that she had some of Birdy’s audacity.

  I turned back to Mrs. Cowper and the whore who had accompanied her. I did not know the lass’s name, but thought I’d seen her at the Quarter Sessions, accused of fornication. She was still young, but soon she would begin the swift descent into a whore’s old age. In the dim light of a tavern, a man might be able to ignore the deepening lines on her face, but that would not remain true for much longer. All too soon some young country girl would replace her, and she would wander into oblivion.

  “Martha says you’ve learned something of the murders,” I said. They both nodded. “I should tell you that the city arrested a man yesterday—probably the one you saw fleeing Isabel’s murder.”

  “We heard that,” Mrs. Cowper replied. “And the city is better for it. But I’ve got other news. After you left, I started asking around about the boy who was taken for the murders. Jane here knows him, too.”

  “You knew Praise-God?” I asked. The girl nodded earnestly. “Did he hire you?”

  “Aye, he did, but not for himself.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “He procured you for someone else?”

  “Yes,” she said, and looked at Mrs. Cowper. “I won’t get in trouble for this? I don’t need any more trouble.”

  “I told her that once she talked to you, she would be done with the business, and none would trouble her again,” Mrs. Cowper explained.

  “And that I’d get a sixpence,” the girl added.

  I looked at Mrs. Cowper, who had turned quite pale.

  “I’ll not pay a whore for lies,” I said, standing up. “You should take her back before I summon the beadle.”

  Mrs. Cowper and the girl leapt to their feet, clamoring for me to stay.

  “Lady Hodgson,” Mrs. Cowper said. “It is not like that at all. She told me the truth before I mentioned the money. But she did not want to venture so far, or risk being punished, without the prospect of a reward.”

  “Tell me what you have to say,” I demanded. “I make no promises.”

  Mrs. Cowper nodded to the girl.

  “Last week the preacher’s son came to the alehouse I frequent, twice in the same day,” she said.

  “He came to you twice? What do you mean?” I asked.

  “In the afternoon he brought others with him. They preached and cried against us, told us we were damned.” I looked at Martha, and she nodded. It sounded like the same thing that had happened before Betty died.

  “And then he came back?” I asked.

  The girl nodded. “That night. I thought he’d come to do more preaching, but he kept his head down and his collar high, as if he didn’t want anyone to see him. A lot of the men do that, so I knew why he’d come. I didn’t recognize him until I sat down. I said I wanted to use the room upstairs, but he said he’d give me an extra penny if I came with him. I made him give it to me first.”

  “Where did he take you?” Martha asked.

  “I don’t know exactly,” the girl said. “A room in All Saints in the Pavement, I think. It had its own door so nobody would see us go in or out.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “He’d brought me to be with that preacher,” she said. “The one with one good eye.”

  Martha and I stared at the girl for what seemed an eternity.

  “He brought you to Hezekiah Ward,” Martha said at last.

  “The one-eyed preacher,” the girl repeated. “I didn’t know his name, and he didn’t tell me. And it wasn’t just me, either. Me and Jennet Porter—the girl who was murdered?—we were gossips. “Right before she died, the lad took her to the preacher, too.”

  “Why did he send for you?” I asked, though I felt stupid doing so. “Did he preach to you?”

  “No,” the girl said with a smirk at my naïveté. “He used me as a man does. But he was very kind. He told me I was good, and that he loved me just as God does. He paid me twice what I usually get, too.”

  Martha and I looked at each other, trying to absorb this news. I turned back to the girl.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes, my lady. I knew even before Mrs. Cowper came to me.”

  “Good. Then you know that you should not lie. If you do, I will see that the beadles and constables hound you so far from the city that the next whoremonger you find will be an Indian. If you are spinning a tale, you must tell me now. I will let you go in peace. If I find out later that you are lying, you are finished.” I did not relish threatening such a poor creature, but I had to know that she was telling the truth.

  “I would not lie, my lady,” she said, before realizing the absurdity of such a statement coming from a whore. “I am not lying,” she said. “The preacher’s son brought me to his father. I swear.”

  I looked again at Martha, who nodded. She agreed that the girl was telling the truth.

  “How is it that you have Elizabeth?” I asked Mrs. Cowper.

  “The parish needed a place for her, and it was the least I could do for Isabel.” I knew taking on Elizabeth would add a considerable burden to Mrs. Cowper’s life, but I could not help thinking that Elizabeth could have done much worse.

  “How is she?”

  “Well enough for a whore’s orphan. She is a good girl.” As she prepared to leave I gave Mrs. Cowper a shilling to share with the whore, and then two more.

  “If you need anything for Elizabeth, you must tell me,” I said.

  She nodded her thanks, and called into the kitchen for Elizabeth. When the girl arrived, she took Mrs. Cowper’s hand and handed me the box of checkstones.

  “Thank you, my lady,” she said as we walked to the door. “I had fun.”

  “I’m glad,” I said. “Tell Mrs. Cowper that you are welcome to come here any time you wish to play at checkstones.”

  The girl smiled and then the three of them disappeared toward Stonegate. As I watched them go, I said a prayer. It was a hard world, and harder still for women who were old, alone, or orphaned. Once they’d gone, I joined Martha in the parlor.

  “Do you believ
e her?” I asked. “With her promise of a sixpence, Mrs. Cowper gave her ample reason to lie.”

  “If she had been lying, you would have scared her out of it, I think. There’s no sense in risking the city’s wrath for a mere sixpence. Even she would see that. But how does this help us find Praise-God’s associate?” She paused. “You don’t think it could be Hezekiah, do you?”

  “I don’t know, but it does complicate things,” I said. “He preaches against whores during the day and turns into a whoremaster at night?”

  “So it seems,” Martha said. “But hypocrisy is no new thing for their kind.”

  I considered this and in a blinding moment worthy of the Apostle himself, I realized what had happened.

  “No, that’s not it at all,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hezekiah Ward’s not a hypocrite,” I replied.

  “Of course he is!” Martha cried. “With one breath he damns whores to hell, and with the next he whistles for them? It’s the worst kind of hypocrisy!”

  “I don’t think it is,” I replied. “Joseph is a hypocrite—he condemns whoredom, but then accepts Helen Wright’s money. He does not care about the sin.

  “But Hezekiah Ward is different,” I continued. “He genuinely believes that whoredom is a sin, even as he practices it.”

  “And that is why he is so frantic against the whores in his sermons,” Martha said. “He hopes he can make up for his own sinful deeds.”

  “Aye,” I replied. “I think that he wants to resist the temptation of the flesh, but there are times when he cannot. That’s when he sends Praise-God to bring him a doxy.”

  “It makes sense,” Martha said. “But he’s gone beyond the preaching, hasn’t he?”

  “Preaching was enough when he was in Manchester,” I said. “But not anymore. Now he sends Praise-God once so he can lie with them. And then a second time—”

  “So he can kill them,” Martha finished.

  “This also explains how they escaped the city watch,” I said. “What guardsman is brave enough to arrest a preacher on his way to offer solace to the sick or dying? They wouldn’t even need to know the smaller streets—they could walk down the pavement bold as brass. We saw it with our own eyes the night we found Betty’s body down in Micklegate.”