The Doll

by Elizabeth Andrews

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he offered. ‘Sit and drink your coffee then, I think, we should start going through my notes.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Queenie nodded. ‘For Paul’s sake as well as ours.’ She sat down in the armchair and watched as Archie raked out the ashes and began laying the fire. ‘I wonder why she was around Patricia? Whatever the reason it bodes ill for all of us,’ she said and then looked up. ‘Where is Sybil?’ she suddenly demanded.

  ‘She is doing the dishes.’

  ‘Go and tell her to hurry up, we need to get started.

  ‘Did I hear my name mentioned?’ asked Sybil, appearing in the doorway. ‘And would anybody like more toast?’

  ‘No! Stop fussing and come and sit down.’

  ‘I’ll just finish drying the plates then I will be back.’

  ‘Damn the dishes Sybil,’ Queenie said crossly. ‘They can wait, we need to get started.’

  ‘But I thought we were going to wait for Paul?’ Sybil asked in surprise.

  ‘He’s not coming, the witch made an appearance at the Vicarage.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Sybil exclaimed. ‘Shouldn’t we go and help?’

  ‘If I thought that was the answer dear, I would be up that hill in a flash!’ Queenie scowled and tugged on her lower lip. ‘But I think we need to carry on.’

  Archie sat back on his heels, poker in hand and stared earnestly at the sisters. ‘Perhaps that is her plan, to lure you away from all this.’ And he gestured at the profusion of notes he had carefully spread out on the carpet.

  ‘Maybe,’ she agreed and stared bemused at all the neatly typed notes. ‘I see you have made another one of those charts,’ she added gloomily.

  ‘It’s a time line,’ he corrected. ‘It’s a good way of showing the sequence of events.’

  She picked up her empty mug and held it out to her sister. ‘Sybil, I think we are going to need some more coffee and perhaps with a large tot of whiskey in it for good measure; just to get through all of this.’

  ‘Don’t be like that Queenie,’ Archie said in a mildly reproving manner. Taking a pen he gently tapped the first sheet. ‘It will all make sense as we go along. So shall we get started?’

  ‘Okay,’ she heaved a big sigh. ‘If we must!’

  ‘Right,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘I started with the two women, Dorcas Hangler and Agnes Moor. We know they are connected to Nicholas Spicer so I started by going through all the court documents for that period to see if Spicer had accused any other women. One name kept coming up time and time again,’ he said looking up from his notes. ‘Margaret Jones. So I went back to that image Paul sent me and I think, although the writing is very indistinct, that it might be her. It looks like Spicer had been harassing her since 1617, numerous accounts of ducking, floggings and the last account reported she had been committed to the stocks for absenting herself from church, living in a ungodly manner and other such acts.’

  ‘Ungodly manner?’ asked Sybil looking puzzled.

  ‘I thought that was rather strange myself so I researched the religious climate of the town during those years. It seems that after the Great Fire in 1613 which destroyed over two thirds of the town the local Puritan preacher of Holy Trinity church managed to convince the inhabitants that the fire was a sign of Gods displeasure with them. His Sunday sermons for many years after were dominated by the theme of divine admonition and repentance. It had a profound effect on the Governors and the town persuading them to turn away from their ungodly ways and begin a crack down all those who resisted. Fornicators, drunkards, Sabbath breakers and the ungodly especially those considered to be involved in the dark arts. The town fathers believed it to be their duty to promote sobriety and godliness in all of the population. But it seems that the most long lasting effect of the fire and the preacher’s ideology was to convert the whole town to Puritanism.’

  ‘That sounds really boring,’ observed Queenie. ‘I’m glad I wasn’t around then.’

  ‘True,’ said Sybil with an ironic smile. ‘You would have been ducked, flogged and burnt, all in one day.’

  ‘Now there’s a thought,’ her sister replied.

  Archie shook his head. ‘Not a pleasant one,’ he murmured, ‘it makes my blood run cold.’

  ‘Why?’ she said, looking at him in surprise. ‘You would be alright; you go to church like a good little boy.’

  ‘That is not what I was referring to,’ he said sharply.

  Sybil chuckled and winked at him. ‘My sister can be really dense sometimes, Archie.’

  Queenie looked from one to the other with a frown. ‘Shall we just get on with this?’ she snapped. ‘What’s next?

  Archie pettishly flicked the piece of paper to one side and picked up the next. ‘Back to business then,’ he said irritably. ‘So as I had the name of Margaret Jones I did a bit more digging into this women. Not many parish records at this time but I did find a few interesting nuggets.’ He smiled in satisfaction, his ill humour forgotten as he showed Queenie the next page. ‘This is a Bastardy Notice from the year 1610.

  “ Whereas: Margaret Jones, of no fixed address formerly of the said Parish of Fordington in the said County, single woman, hath by her Voluntary examination taken in writing upon oath, before me James Hunt Esq. one of his Majesty’s Justices of the Peace in and for the said County, this present day declared herself to be with child, and that the said child is likely to be born a Bastard, and to be chargeable to the parish of Fordington in the said County, and that Abel Brooke of Dorchester in the said County of Dorset is the father of said child.”

  ‘So she had an illegitimate child,’ said Queenie, looking unconvinced. ‘So what? Many women did in those days; it doesn’t mean that she is the one we are looking for.’

  From his position kneeling on the floor he looked up at her eagerly. ‘But I haven’t finished yet,’ he said and patted her on the knee. ‘The next document I found,’ he continued, not seeing the frosty look she bestowed on his bent head, ‘is this one. It’s a parental order for an Abel Brooke, in it he is ordered to pay towards the upkeep of the bastard child of Margaret Jones of Fordington. He appealed; he declared he never had carnal knowledge of the woman as she “was of such a loathsome appearance he could not bring himself to lie with her and that a Thomas Chubb was the real father of the base born child.” So,’ he said, dropping the paper onto the carpet and staring triumphantly at Queenie, ‘didn’t you say she had a hare lip?’

  ’Yes, it was quite pronounced. The poor woman! To be abandoned like that and to have to go through the indignity of being rejected by her lover, no wonder she turned bad.’

  ‘It gets worse, Queenie,’ he said, pointing to the next box on the time line. ‘In the year 1620 there was a vagrancy order against her. She was in the parish of Broadmayne at that time, previously employed as a pot washer in a Public Ale House. She was found begging with her child and an order was put out to have her removed back to her parish of Fordington.’

  ‘So she still had the child...’

  ‘Is there a name for it?’ asked Sybil.

  ‘Not one that I can find, no baptism records in the local church, but that is not unusual for the year.’

  ‘You have done really well,’ Queenie said, sitting forward and rubbing her hands together with glee. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes and this I think,’ he said with triumph, holding out the last piece of paper, ‘is the irrefutable proof that this Margaret Jones is the one we are looking for.’

  Queenie took the page and glanced down at the neat type. ‘But this is just a school report,’ she said, looking baffled.

  He took it back with a slightly patronising smile. ‘That’s right, my dear, it’s an account of the Dorchester Free School.’

  ‘And who was that for?’ she asked slightly nettled. ‘For the paupers I suppose!’

  ‘On the contrary, it was for the sons of the more wealthy inhabitants of the town, gentlemen in fact. I was just scanning through the article when I found one of the Master
s mentioned by name; he was employed to teach Grammar and more importantly Latin.’ He sat back and smiled at the sisters. ‘Can you guess where this is going?’ he asked smugly.

  ‘Oh for goodness sake get on with it, Archie!’

  ‘Latin?’ he quizzed. ‘And who spoke Latin to you?’ He put his head on one side and smiled at her. ‘Okay,’ he relented, raising a hand. ‘The Master’s name was the Reverend Mathew Jones, and it states in the report that “he was ably assisted with his studies by his daughter Margaret”.’

  Her mouth dropped open and she collapsed back against the cushions of the chair.

  ‘So that is how she knew Latin!’

  Archie sat back on his heels flushed with pleasure and glanced down at the scattered sheets on the carpet. ‘I think that has brought us neatly to our woman.’

  Sybil, who had been silent all this time got up from the sofa and trod across the room. She knelt down and gathered up the notes then took them across to the window to read in the morning light.

  ‘Well Sybil?’ asked Queenie. ‘Did he miss anything?’

  ‘Archie has been very thorough,’ she said slowly, scrutinising the notes and turned back to face her sister. ‘It also explains her reaction to Paul, having a father who was a priest!’

  ‘So despite everything, her upbringing in the church and her father’s influence still carried weight with her no matter the road she travelled in later life,’ Queenie said, then nudged Archie with her foot. ‘Well done!’

  ‘Thanks, that means a lot coming from you,’ he said, smiling happily.

  She stood up and straightened her thick tweed skirt then patted him on the head as she walked to the door. ‘You’ll get over it,’ she remarked calmly.

  ‘Get over what?’ he asked, looking mystified.

  ‘What ails you,’ she smirked. ‘It’s not real. It’s Sybil’s fault so blame her for having your head turned. I mean... really,’ she scoffed. ‘An old goat like me! Sybil muddled up a spell!’ she explained patiently. ‘It was meant to be a cleansing spell but she did it wrong.’ Queenie smiled at the crestfallen look on his face. ‘Don’t worry, it will wear off soon and you’ll be back to normal. Now,’ she said, looking at them enquiringly, ‘who would like some tea?’

  ‘Yes please,’ Sybil said absently, still rifling through the notes.

  ‘Archie?’

  He nodded and watched as she headed off towards the kitchen, as soon as she was out of earshot he turned to her sister.

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘What?’ she asked, looking up.

  ‘That love spell.’

  ‘Oh that...just a couple of days ago. Why?’

  ‘Queenie seems to think I am under its influence or something,’ he said, looking miserable.

  Sybil rearranged the notes and moved back towards the warmth of the fire. ‘My sister can be remarkably stupid sometimes. And of course it’s easier to keep you at a distance if she can dismiss it like this. You are fond of her aren’t you?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘Of course, I have felt this way for many months,’ confided Archie. ‘I remember the first time I saw her, she was in the High Street giving a Traffic Warden a piece of her mind. It was love at first sight,’ he sighed. ‘Her use of the English language was quite formidable!’

  ‘Yes,’ Sybil agreed feelingly. ‘Formidable is the right word!’ She tapped the notes in her hand. ‘But we should get back to the matter in hand Archie, we need to call Paul and let him know the results of your endeavours.’

  He nodded and took the sheaf of notes from her then neatly folded them. ‘You’re right, but you know even after all this I can’t help but feel a little bit sorry for this Margaret. Pregnant at an early age, probably cast out by her family and left to make her own way with a baby in tow, and to top it off she had to deal with being hounded by the good Puritan citizens of the town, what an awful life she had.’

  ‘I wonder what happened to the child?’ mused Sybil.

  ‘I guess we will never know,’ stated Queenie, coming back into the room laden with a tray of tea and cakes. ‘What did Paul say?’

  ‘I haven’t called him yet,’ he admitted.

  ‘Why not? What have you been doing all this time?’ she demanded and glowered at him. ‘This is important Archie, stop treating this like a jolly coffee morning and get a move on!’

  A blush rose on his cheeks as she scolded him and he got up stiffly from his position on the floor. ‘I’ll go and do it right now,’ he said and headed for the door, ‘on the way to the bathroom.’

  ‘Up the stairs and first open door on the right,’ said Sybil.

  He nodded and closed the door behind him; they could hear him talking to Paul as he slowly climbed the creaking stairs.

  ‘You shouldn’t be so rude to him, the poor man. And anyway we were discussing the notes,’ remonstrated Sybil.

  Queenie snorted.

  ‘Yes we were, so stop being horrible and drink your tea!’

  A frown descended on Queenie’s face and she stepped moodily over Archie’s notes to her chair.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said grudgingly. ‘But I’m worried.’

  ‘Why? I thought we were doing really well.’

  ‘It just came to me in the kitchen; we haven’t seen the witch, Margaret, for a while. Where is she because I can’t believe she has given up.’ She stirred restlessly on the shabby seat and plucked nervously at her skirt. ‘She’s up to something.’

  Sybil sat down opposite her and leant forward to give the dwindling flames a stir. ‘But we know the doll is safe and she can’t enter the church,’ reasoned Sybil. ‘You worry too much dear.’

  ‘I never worry too much,’ she stated coldly. ‘I worry the exact amount needed!’

  ‘If you say so,’ muttered Sybil and stirred her tea.

  The creaking stairs announced the imminent return of Archie from the bathroom. He was beaming as he entered the room. ‘Paul was over the moon that we have identified her,’ he declared. ‘And he has been doing a bit of sleuthing himself. I got the impression that he was feeling guilty that he wasn’t able to help.’ He helped himself to a cup of tea from the tray and took it over to the sofa. ‘He’s been trying to find out what happened to Spicer, not much luck though. A marriage in 1626 and a christening a year later; after that nothing.’

  ‘Perhaps he did die,’ suggested Sybil.

  ‘No, no! Queenie said quickly. ‘The curse didn’t work.’

  ‘But he might have died of natural causes.’

  ‘I thought of that when I was doing my initial research,’ interrupted Archie. ‘No death or burial was recorded for a Nicholas Spicer. Of course he might have moved out of the parish.’

  There was silence for a while until Archie cleared his throat. ‘That is a beautiful dolls house,’ he said conversationally.

  ‘What?’ said Sybil quickly, glancing across at her sister who was staring into the fire.

  ‘In the bedroom,’ he said. ‘I went in the first open door as instructed,’ he apologised with a smile, ‘but it wasn’t the bathroom. It looks handmade, was it?’

  Sybil gave him a warning shake of the head and glanced at Queenie who was still staring moodily at the flickering flames.

  ‘Yes, it was,’ she replied, looking up. ‘But that door was locked,’ she added accusingly.

  ‘No, I can assure you it wasn’t.’

  ‘Sybil?’

  ‘Don’t blame me,’ she replied quickly. ‘I haven’t got the key for Catherine’s room.’

  ‘She was a beautiful little girl,’ he said, looking at the old woman hunched before the fire. ‘I saw the photograph.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said curtly.

  ‘Where is she?’ he probed, ignoring Sybil’s frantic gestures.

  ‘She died.’

  ‘Oh... I’m sorry.’

  Queenie shrugged her shoulder. ‘I’m not the first to lose a child.’ She turned away from his pitying gaze and withdrew a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her
baggy old cardigan. She impatiently clicked her old lighter trying to coax a spark then angrily gave it a shake. ‘Darn,’ she muttered and leaning over the arm of the chair rooted about in the kindling box for the can of lighter fuel.

  ‘No but even so...’ Archie persisted.

  ‘Would you like some more tea, Archie?’ Sybil asked desperately, trying to draw his attention away from her sister. ‘Or a cake?’

  ‘No...’

  ‘So what should we do next?’ she gabbled on. ‘Queenie? What would you suggest?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said quietly and rubbed a weary hand across her forehead. ‘I suppose we could wait until she surfaces again.’

  ‘I’m sure that won’t be long,’ replied Sybil quickly, before turning to Archie. ‘Did Paul mention the girls, are they okay?’

  He paused, a look of comprehension crossed his face and he slowly nodded. ‘They are all fine. Patricia was still asleep; apparently the Doctor prescribed some sleeping tablets. So at least Paul doesn’t have to worry about her at the moment.’

  They both jumped as a cup crashed to the floor, it had slid from Queenie’s hand and she was staring blankly into the fire. ‘Patricia!’ she gasped. ‘How can I have been so stupid!’ She threw the half smoked cigarettes into the fire and thrust the lighter and can of fuel into her pocket then started scrabbling beneath the chair for her shoes. ‘Ring Paul and warn him about Patricia!’ she ordered Archie. ‘We need to go to the church!’

  The house was quiet for a change, the girls were playing in their rooms and Victoria was baking. Paul yawned; he had just spent a frustrating hour searching through old parish records in an effort to find anything relating to Nicholas Spicer. A pad full of handwritten notes lay next to the laptop.

  He eyed his empty mug and for a second considered wandering through to the kitchen, then guiltily decided against it knowing that his wife was quite capable of finding him numerous chores to do.

  Outside the sunlight was casting a dappled shade through the holly, and a lone hungry sparrow was pecking frantically at the nut feeder that Abigail had hung from the tree. Paul wandered over to the window and gazed out over the garden to the old churchyard with its worn leaning headstones. A figure was just pushing her way through the iron kissing gate of the cemetery, Paul recognised her as she began to walk across the snowy grass towards the church. Gladys, he thought gloomily, I bet she’s on her way here. For a minute he debated hiding and letting Victoria deal with her but reason and good manners prevailed. He was just going to wave when she halted halfway to the path and stared towards the church. He saw the look of amazement on her face even from the window and he drew closer to the glass to see what had attracted her attention.