‘That is a very damning accusation, Goody Scarlet. An accusation like that could send me to the gallows.’
She noticed that he hadn’t asked, ‘Why do you think that?’ or ‘Do you have evidence?’ He hadn’t even said, ‘That’s a damned lie, how dare you?’
‘My husband was immersed in a vat of linseed oil, Mr Shooks, which had the effect of hardening his body until it took on the consistency of wood. About a week ago, you purchased from Abel Norton’s paint shop two hundred gallons of linseed oil, which you had delivered to Rutger’s Farm, and filled up a cheese-kettle with it. This cheese-kettle is about six feet in diameter, which is quite sufficient to accommodate the body of a man with both of his arms outstretched.’
Jonathan Shooks stopped swirling his wine and sat back in his seat.
‘You are a very intelligent and astute young lady, Goody Scarlet. Considering that you lost your husband less than a day ago, I greatly admire your pluck in pursuing this matter. Most women would be wailing inconsolably and reduced to a jelly.’
‘Believe me, sir, I am suffering pain so intense that I cannot even begin to describe it to you. But I will see justice for my husband, and I will know why he had to die in such a manner, and I will see an end to all of this pretended devilry.’
‘Pretended devilry? Do you not believe, then, that Sutton is being persecuted by some agent of Satan?’
‘Yes, Mr Shooks, I do, but I do not believe that this agent of Satan is some witch or wizard or some Indian spirit from the woods. Every misfortune that has been visited on Sutton since our pigs were killed in a Devil’s Communion can be attributed to chymistry or botany. Some of the events I admit I have not yet been able to explain, but I shall. I believe, Mr Shooks, that the agent of Satan is you, and you alone.’
‘Well, well, the apothecary’s daughter,’ said Jonathan Shooks. ‘He taught you very well, your father, didn’t he? Oh, don’t give me that look! Of course I know who you are. Before I came to Sutton I made it my business to find out everything I could about everybody of any importance in the village – who they were, where they originally came from, what their background was. Their strengths and their foibles. How wealthy they were, or how destitute. You cannot properly protect people unless you know them intimately. Your late-lamented husband will have been aware of that.’
‘Protect, Mr Shooks, or deceive? I think that you are nothing but a clever trickster – a charlatan who uses chymistry to frighten superstitious and God-fearing people into thinking that they are being threatened by the Devil. I think that my husband followed you and found you out and when he confronted you with your deception you killed him.’
‘I see. Is that what you truly believe?’
‘Yes, it is. What other explanation can there be?’
‘What if I told you, Goody Scarlet, that there is a demon and that everything I have said since I came to Sutton is true? What if I told you that I am doing business with an agent of Satan and that I have been persuading the local people to surrender some of their land only to save them from a fate so ghastly that I could never describe it to you?’
Beatrice was trembling and underneath the table she was twisting the ends of her shawl around and around as if she were wringing them out.
‘If you told me that, sir – if you told me that, then I would not believe you.’
‘You do believe in Satan?’
‘Of course. But what does Satan want with people’s land?’
‘It’s very simple. He wants Christianity driven out of it. He wants demons to dance on it again. Satan has never encouraged evil for evil’s sake, whatever you think. He advocates complete human freedom – that we should think what we like, say what we like, and if you are offended by the way your neighbour looks, go pluck out his damned eyes, rather than your own. If you want something, take it, says Satan, whether it’s land or gold or pigs or a woman’s body. All Satan is trying to do is to make sure that the this wild and virgin country never becomes so noisy with ecclesiastical cant that we can no longer hear ourselves think, and that its air never becomes so choked with Bible dust that we suffocate.’
‘And do you agree with him?’
Jonathan Shooks stared at her, breathing quite noisily through his nostrils, as if he had been hurrying upstairs. ‘Did you hear me say that I agreed with him? All I said was that I am acting as a go-between in order to protect the people of Sutton from a fate much worse than death.’
‘Did you kill my husband?’
‘No, I did not.’
‘Who did, then? Was it this demon of yours?’
‘No.’
‘Why did you buy all that linseed oil if it was not to dehydrate my husband’s body? Who did that to him? Was that you?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t believe one word you say, Mr Shooks. Not one. I am going directly to Major General Holyoke and I am going to tell him what I have discovered about your buying linseed oil, and what you did with it, and if you are not arrested and tried and hanged after I have told him that, then there is no justice or humanity here in New Hampshire and Satan and his demons might as well take it back and dance on it for all eternity.’
She said this quite loudly and the two travelling salesmen, who had been preparing to leave the dining room, stopped to listen to her, open-mouthed. She turned around to look at them and they both said, ‘Sorry, ma’am, good afternoon!’ and stumbled out.
In spite of what Beatrice had said, Jonathan Shooks appeared completely unruffled. He sat back in his chair inspecting his fingernails and then he said, without looking up, ‘You are placing yourself in great danger, Goody Scarlet. This particular demon waxes very wrathful if he is crossed.’
‘I am not afraid of your demon, Mr Shooks, nor I am afraid of you, especially since I believe them to be one and the same.’
‘Very well. In that case I will swear to you two things, and I will swear them on the Holy Bible. Mistress Pitcher!’
The beaky-nose woman reappeared in the dining-room doorway. ‘Yes, sir? Can I fetch you anything?’
‘Would you be kind enough to bring me a Bible, Mistress Pitcher?’
The woman looked perplexed, but disappeared and came back a few moments later with a large family Bible. Jonathan Shooks moved his plate of hogs’ ears aside and set the Bible down right in front of him.
‘Thank you, Mistress Pitcher,’ said Jonathan Shooks, making it clear that he wanted her to leave him and Beatrice alone. When she had gone, he laid his right hand on the Bible and said, ‘I swear, first, by almighty God, that I did not murder your husband, the Reverend Francis Scarlet. I swear, secondly, that I am not the instigator of the recent misfortunes that have been befalling the people of Sutton.’
He paused for a moment, staring at Beatrice as if he wanted to make sure that his words had sunk in.
Then he said, ‘Thirdly, I swear to you that if you attempt to hinder me in my business or report what I am doing to any constable or magistrate, you will suffer the consequences, just as the Buckleys did, and just as your late husband did, too. This demon will not be hindered by anybody.’
‘Mr Shooks—’ Beatrice began, but Jonathan Shooks raised his left hand to indicate that he had not yet finished.
‘Because your late husband was Sutton’s pastor, Goody Scarlet, the demon was particularly insistent that he, too, deed over some of his acreage. You see his reasoning? If the representative of God is seen to be giving a tithe to Satan, in order to ensure that he and his loved ones are kept from harm, then who else in the village could possibly refuse to do the same?’
Beatrice’s tongue felt as if it were coated with fine dry sand. She would have done almost anything for a drink, but she was not going to drink at the same table as Jonathan Shooks.
‘You may swear that you are not the demon himself, sir, but I hardly see the distinction when your heart is just as black as his.’
‘Don’t you understand, dear young lady? I am doing everything I can to save you from contracti
ng some disfiguring disease, or being hideously burned in a fire, or struck by lightning. I am trying to save your life, Goody Scarlet!’
‘I care little for my life now that my beloved husband has been taken away from me. All I want is to see justice done.’
‘Oh, come now! Of course you care about your life! What would your baby son do without you? He looks so much like his father! Don’t you want to see him grow into the man that the Reverend Scarlet once was?’
Beatrice didn’t answer that – couldn’t. Jonathan Shooks leaned forward across the table and said, ‘I know that the parsonage and its yards belong to the church. But you have title to a further seventy-seven acres that surround it, don’t you? And, of course, that acreage is all yours now that your husband is deceased. I believe that the demon would be content with only forty of those acres, so long as they included half of your orchard and a stretch of your brook.’
‘You have lost your reason, Mr Shooks. I will not give you that. I refuse even to consider it.’
Jonathan Shooks sat back again. ‘You will, Goody Scarlet. Have no doubt of it.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘Of course not. There is a world of difference between that which is threatened and that which will simply come to pass, no matter what.’
Beatrice stood up, and Jonathan Shooks stood up, too.
‘I believe we are done here, Mr Shooks.’
‘Very well, but I hope to see you again very soon, Goody Scarlet, so that we can talk some more about a transfer of title. Please don’t let it be too long.’
‘You can hope until your face is black, Mr Shooks, to match your heart.’
He smiled, as if that amused him, but then he said, ‘Before you go, Goody Scarlet, please remember not to speak of any of this to anyone. I would not wish to see anything untoward befall you.’
‘And you don’t consider that to be a threat?’
‘It is out of my hands, I’m afraid. As I keep trying to tell you, I am no more than the go-between. If the demon thinks that you are defying him, then he will do whatever he thinks fit to persuade you to change your mind.’
Beatrice looked at him narrow-eyed for one more moment and then turned around and walked out of the dining room without another word. The beaky-nose woman called out to her as she went down the steps, but she ignored her. She was too angry, and in spite of all her bravado in facing up to Jonathan Shooks, she was confused, and she was very frightened, too.
Thirty
When she arrived home she found Peter Duston’s wagon in the driveway. As she drew up her shay beside it, she couldn’t stop herself letting out a single loud sob. Jonathan Shooks had shaken her badly and the very last thing she needed now was to have Peter Duston explaining to her how he was going to fit Francis’s rigid body into a coffin.
Jubal must have heard her coming because he came round the side of the house and helped her down. Under his wide floppy hat his whiskery face was very grave, and his grey eyes were full of sorrow. His hands were so callused that they felt like leather gloves that had been soaked in the rain and then dried in the sun.
‘The finish carpenter is here, Goody Scarlet.’
‘Yes, Jubal. I know.’
‘I am very grieved for you, ma’am. The Reverend Scarlet was never a fingerpost. He lived the way he asked others to live. He was always the best of men who gave you his heart.’
‘Yes, Jubal.’
She went inside the house just as Peter Duston was coming out of the parlour. He was about to close the door behind him but Beatrice said, ‘It’s all right, Mr Duston. You can leave it open. Have you completed your measurements?’
‘Yes, Goody Scarlet. And I have some real fine basswood to make the coffin out of. You could have some fancy carvings on it if you’d care to.’
‘No, thank you, Mr Duston. I think the Reverend Scarlet would have preferred plain.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say.’
Beatrice went into the parlour. Basswood for your coffin, my love. How sadly appropriate. Francis used to suffer from headaches, especially when he had been working on a sermon for too long by candlelight, and she used to make him an infusion of linden flowers to relieve them, linden flowers from the basswood tree.
‘His arms, ma’am,’ said Peter Duston, who was still standing close behind her. ‘I’ve tried to think of another way, believe me, like steeping him in a mixture of water and maple syrup, maybe. To be honest with you, though, I don’t believe we have much of a choice except to – you know.’
Beatrice turned around and Peter Duston was making a sawing gesture in the air.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Do it when you bring the finished coffin. How long will it take for you to make?’
‘I’ll start work on it today, Goody Scarlet. You will have it by Friday morning.’
‘Thank you.’
She left the parlour without lifting the sheet to look at Francis’s body. She had seen so many bodies in her lifetime, either bloated on the riverbank, or crouched in a doorway stinking of gin, or lying in their coffins in people’s front parlours, their skin waxy and their lips pursed. She had never thought when she had seen those bodies that the people they had once been were still within them. Those people had gone – quietly closing the door behind them, as she was doing now.
*
She spent nearly two hours in the kitchen, writing letters to Francis’s family and friends in England, and also to his fellow ministers in neighbouring parishes. Each letter began ‘It is with a heavy heart...’ and told them briefly that he had lost his life to a person or persons unknown.
She asked none of them for help. She was sure in her own mind that she was more than capable of discovering how Francis had been murdered, and who had murdered him. It might take some time, but she had more knowledge of potions and plants than anybody else she knew, with the possible exception of the Widow Belknap, and for all she knew the Widow Belknap was somehow involved in Francis’s death. Perhaps she was the demon that Jonathan Shooks claimed was responsible for so much havoc, or perhaps she was possessed by a demon, or even by Satan himself.
In spite of her firm belief that there was a logical explanation for everything that had happened, she thought it would be unscientific to rule out altogether the possibility that there had been some supernatural influence involved.
Beatrice had just finished writing to Geoffrey and Lavinia Scarlet, Francis’s parents, when she heard Noah crying in his crib upstairs. Mary was outside, pegging up the wash, so she put down her quill and went to see what was wrong with him. Mary had put him down less than a half-hour before and usually he slept for at least two hours.
When she went into his bedchamber she found him standing in his crib, hot and sobbing. His cheeks were bright red, so she could see that he had started teething again. She opened the drawer of the chest beside his crib and took out his amber teething-necklace. When he sucked it, it would gently soothe his gums with spirit of amber.
She picked him up and cuddled him for a while, but when she tried to lay him down he started crying again.
‘Come on, then,’ she said. ‘Come downstairs and help mama to finish writing her letters. How would you like some apple sauce? Apple sauce always makes those nasty teeth feel better, doesn’t it?’
She carried him downstairs, but as she did so she saw that the front door was wide open. Mary must have come into the house for something and forgotten to close it. She went along the hallway, but when she reached the open door she stopped in shock. The brown-cloaked figure was standing outside, only about thirty or forty yards away. He was right in the middle of the driveway, his face concealed by his hood, holding up his staff, not moving.
Beatrice was tempted to call out to him and demand to know what he was doing there, but Noah was still grizzling and she didn’t want to upset him by shouting. She stood in the doorway for a few moments staring at the figure, and the figure was presumably staring back at her. With Francis lying rigid on the pa
rlour floor, she thought that the figure looked more like the Angel of Death than ever.
She closed the front door very slowly and deliberately to show the figure that she wasn’t frightened of him, even though her heart was fluttering like a songbird trapped in a cage. She went back into the kitchen and sat Noah in his high-chair. Dear Lord, she thought, please help me through this. Please give me strength. Is there no way that You can turn back the days, like a prayer-wheel, so that none of this ever happened?
She went to the cupboard and took out a jar of apple sauce. She placed a bowl on the table in order to spoon some out, but as she did so she saw there was a fresh sheet of paper lying across the letters that she had been writing and that her quill was lying beside it. A drop of ink had fallen from the nib and stained the pine wood beneath it.
Written on the sheet of paper were the words: Your sorrow gives me sorrow but also hope. But be warie of those who seem to be freinds. There is ever a price to be paid.
Beatrice picked up the sheet of paper. The ink was still wet and it smudged the ball of her thumb. She looked towards the front door and realized that the brown-cloaked figure must have quickly and quietly entered the house while she was upstairs seeing to Noah and written these words.
But what did they mean? Why did her sorrow give him sorrow, too, ‘but also hope’. Hope of what? And who were those ‘freinds’ of whom he had warned her to be ‘warie’? And what was the price that had to be paid?
She put down the letter and stood staring at it as if more writing might magically appear to explain what it meant. Perhaps she ought to seek help, after all. Perhaps Major General Holyoke might understand it. It appeared to be a friendly warning, and yet she wasn’t so sure. There was something threatening about it, too. There is ever a price to be paid. In other words, pay up or else.
More than anything else, Beatrice wanted to know who he was and why he was lurking in the woods around the parsonage. She didn’t have any more time to think about it, though, because Noah had dropped his amber teething-necklace out of his mouth and was crying for some apple sauce.
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