Scarlet Widow

by Graham Masterton

  *

  Shortly after three o’clock Mary appeared. Her face was flushed and her eyes were puffy, but she insisted that she was well enough to work.

  ‘I have to go into the village myself,’ said Beatrice. ‘Why don’t I take you back home? There is only plain-work to do. I was going to start boiling those cows’ hooves for gelatine, but that can wait until tomorrow.’

  ‘May I not stay here and sew?’ asked Mary. ‘If you take me back home, my mother will have me doing laundry and scrubbing the floors.’

  ‘Of course you can stay. You needn’t have to sew if you don’t feel well enough. Take the bed in the back room if you need some sleep.’

  Mary stared at Beatrice closely and said, ‘Has something happened, Goody Scarlet?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You have a bruise on your cheek, ma’am, and – please forgive me if I’m being disrespectful – you seem to be not quite yourself.’

  Beatrice lifted her hand self-consciously up to her left cheek, which Jonathan Shooks had slapped much harder than the right. ‘It’s nothing. I was going out to feed the pigs and I tripped over and fell against the gate.’

  Mary continued to stare at her as if she didn’t believe her for a moment, but then she gave a little curtsey and said, ‘I see. I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn. Thank you. Thank you for allowing me to stay. I’ll go and get the sewing basket. Are you going to the village now?’

  ‘Yes, and you won’t have to worry about minding Noah, because I’ll be taking him with me. He’s a little upset today and I think he needs to stay close to his mama.’

  ‘You’re upset yourself, aren’t you?’ said Mary. ‘And it’s not just the tripping over. You’re really distressed.’

  Beatrice tried to smile but couldn’t. She felt very close to tears and the very last thing she needed at this moment was sympathy. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell you about it now but I promise I shall. You’re a very perceptive girl.’

  Mary didn’t answer, but curtseyed again and left the room. It was only when she had gone that Beatrice realized that she probably didn’t know what ‘perceptive’ meant and thought that she was being scolded.

  She lifted Noah out of his high-chair and said, ‘Come on, my little man. Mama has a very important call to make. It’s time for us to start making some black magic.’

  *

  That Sunday morning, the meeting house was crowded. Bishop Coker had come from Dover to hold a special memorial service for Francis, and also to introduce the Reverend Miles Bennett, who would be acting as Sutton’s pastor until a new minister could be sent over from England.

  Bishop Coker was a very large, grand man, whose majestic progress down the central aisle of the meeting house was like a man-o’-war under full sail, and whose voice when he spoke was like the booming of a broadside.

  He knew nothing of the troubles that had been plaguing Sutton, mostly because Francis had been reluctant to admit to his superiors that he was unable to cope with Jonathan Shooks and the demands he had been making on behalf of Satan, or the demon who was acting as Satan’s procurator. No gossip had reached the ears of the church elders, either, as it would normally have done if there were suspicions of witchery or Satan-worship in the village. The people of Sutton had been too frightened to speak openly about what had been happening – especially after the ways in which Francis and Nicholas Buckley had met their deaths. They also didn’t want the inhabitants of the neighbouring communities to think that God might have picked them out for punishment, for whatever sins they might have committed, or their lack of faith, and allowed Satan to strip them of their precious property.

  ‘Truly, the Reverend Francis Scarlet was a light that shone in our darkness,’ bellowed Bishop Coker. ‘But his was a light that will never be extinguished, only passed on to his successor, and his successor’s successor, and indeed to his successors’ successors’ successors.’

  In murmuring voices, the congregation prayed that Francis’s soul would find eternal peace in heaven, and they also prayed for the Buckleys. Some of them were wiping their eyes as Bishop Coker gave the final blessing.

  When the service was over, Bishop Coker stood by the door to say a few comforting words and shake hands with all of the communicants, while Beatrice and Benjamin Lynch stood on either side of him. Close behind Beatrice stood Major General Holyoke, with his wig slightly too low over his forehead, which made him look as if he were frowning, or deep in thought. Every time one of the congregation took hold of Beatrice’s hand, he would stand on tiptoe and peer expectantly over her shoulder.

  George Gilman said to Beatrice, ‘A fine tribute, Widow Scarlet. The Reverend Scarlet more than deserved it.’

  Even Ebenezer Rowlandson took her hand between his and nodded tearfully, his lips puckered with emotion. ‘What can I say to you, Widow Scarlet? We are all much poorer for having lost your husband. Much, much poorer.’

  Henry Mendum was almost last to come out of the meeting house, wearing a black tailcoat and grey britches, arm in arm with his wife. He bowed his head to the bishop, and then to Beatrice, but he didn’t hold out his hand to either of them.

  Beatrice said sharply, ‘A very warm day for wearing gloves, Mr Mendum.’

  Henry Mendum held up his right hand as if he were surprised to see it on the end of his arm. He was wearing grey kid gloves, but they must have been too tight for him, because they were unbuttoned.

  ‘Out of respect for your late husband, Widow Scarlet, I dressed formally today. Unlike some others I see around us.’

  He nodded in the direction of William Rolfe, who was wearing a dark green coat with fraying cuffs, and his wife, who was dressed in a blue and white floral print gown.

  ‘Of course, Mr Mendum,’ said Beatrice. ‘And I appreciate it very much. But here... you’re undone... let me help you.’

  She took hold of his hand and twisted the button of his glove as if she were trying to fasten it.

  ‘That’s quite all right, thank you,’ said Henry Mendum. ‘I confess that I’ve put on a little weight since I last wore these gloves, so they fit somewhat snug.’

  He pulled his hand away from her, but as he did so Beatrice, quite forcibly, tugged it right off, so that all of the fingers were turned inside out. Henry Mendum tried to grab it from her, barking out, ‘Here! Give that here, if you please! What are you doing?’

  Beatrice held the glove up as high as she could and as Henry Mendum reached for it she could clearly see that the tips of his fingers and the ball of his thumb were all stained black.

  ‘It is you!’ she said breathlessly.

  Henry Mendum tried to snatch his glove again, but Beatrice swung it out of his reach. ‘It is you!’ she repeated, much louder this time, although she was so shocked that she couldn’t stop her voice from sounding shrill. ‘You are the demon! You are the one who has been terrorizing everybody in Sutton! You are the one who has been stealing their land!’

  ‘What the devil are you talking about?’ Henry Mendum snapped at her. ‘Give me back my glove, woman! Have you lost your reason?’

  ‘Your guilt is there for everybody to see, on your fingers!’ said Beatrice. ‘Look how black they are!’

  ‘What?’ said Henry Mendum. He stopped trying to snatch his glove and jammed his hand underneath his armpit, out of sight.

  ‘It is no good trying to hide it, Mr Mendum,’ said Beatrice. ‘It is the indisputable proof that you are the representative of Satan that Jonathan Shooks has claimed that he is doing business with.’

  ‘This is absolute madness!’ said Henry Mendum. ‘You’re raving! You’re insane! Do you hear what she’s saying, bishop? Do you hear the babbling nonsense that’s coming out of her mouth? She should be taken to a lunatic asylum and locked up for life!’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Beatrice. ‘Your fingers tell the truth, Mr Mendum. Your blackened fingers say that you have been terrifying the people of Sutton into handing over their land to you. They also say that you killed th
e Buckley family, and George Gilman’s four slaves, and that you killed my dear husband, too.’

  ‘That’s a slander!’ shouted Henry Mendum with spittle flying from his lips. ‘It’s a damnable out and out slander! I have never killed anybody in my life!’

  ‘Perhaps you didn’t murder them with your own hand. I believe that it was Jonathan Shooks who did that. I strongly suspected him right from the start, but now I’m sure of it. Even if he carried out the killings, though, he did it on your instructions. Sutton has been menaced by Satan, yes! But Satan’s real name is Henry Mendum!’

  ‘How dare you to speak to my husband like that!’ snapped Harriet Mendum. ‘He is the wealthiest and most respected member of this community! He has friends in very high places! In commerce! In the church! In politics, even! He has been charitable to a fault! How dare you accuse him of such a crime!’

  ‘His fingers give him away,’ said Beatrice. ‘The black on his fingers.’

  Henry Mendum took his hand out from under his armpit and held it up so that everybody could see it.

  ‘I have black stains on my fingers? What does that prove? Nothing – except that I spilled some ink across my writing-desk this morning while composing a letter to the president of New Hampshire – with whom I have a very close and amicable relationship, I might add.’

  ‘That is partly ink, yes,’ said Beatrice. ‘Ink, however, can be washed off. What you have on your fingers is a mixture of ink and lunar caustic, which is almost indelible. You may wash your hands a hundred times over and you will still have those stains.’

  She looked around at the silent crowd that had gathered around them. ‘Yesterday Mr Jonathan Shooks came to the parsonage and demanded that I prepare a letter for him, promising that I would hand over a large part of my land to this supposed demon who has been terrorizing us so much of late.

  ‘Mr Shooks had abducted my little son, Noah, in order to force me to agree, and so of course I did agree. I duly wrote him a promissory letter, one copy for him and one for the demon.’

  By now, Beatrice’s voice was shaking, but she was determined to carry on. Henry Mendum kept on making explosive noises of disagreement and blurting out ‘Nonsense!’ and ‘Slander!’ while his wife gave out one scornful cry after another, like a crow. But Beatrice refused to be silenced. She had lost too much to be silenced.

  ‘The copy I wrote for Jonathan Shooks I wrote in ordinary ink, but the copy I wrote for this demon with whom he said he was bargaining I wrote in a special mixture of ink and lunar caustic which stains the fingers when touched. The stains are almost indelible and cannot be removed by washing.

  ‘I came to this service today because I knew that everybody in the village would be expected to attend, to pay their respects to Bishop Coker and to welcome our new minister. I hoped very much that I would see none of you with stains on your fingers, because that would mean that we had a murderous extortionist among us, somebody who would be prepared to threaten his own friends and neighbours with death in order to misappropriate their land, and who would carry out his threat if they resisted him.

  ‘I hoped in vain, because here he is – Mr Henry Mendum, a demon in the shape of a dairy farmer.’

  Henry Mendum held up his hand so that everybody in the crowd could see the black stains on his fingers. ‘These mean nothing at all! These mean only that I have accidentally spilled a bottle of ink! I deny and refute everything that the Widow Scarlet is suggesting!’

  It was then that Major General Holyoke stepped forward. ‘Mr Mendum!’ he said, very loudly, so that everybody could hear him. Then, more quietly, ‘Henry,’ because they had known each other for more than a decade. In spite of that, he was a magistrate and he had solemnly promised Beatrice that whoever was suspected of having murdered Francis and the Buckleys and the Gilmans’ slaves, they would not escape justice.

  ‘The Widow Scarlet came to me yesterday afternoon and advised me of how she had treated the letters that she had written. The letter that was intended for the demon was rolled up and sealed so that only the person to whom it was addressed would have their fingers marked in the way that yours are marked.

  ‘Had she not told me this yesterday, well before you allege that you stained your fingers with ink, I might have found your excuse plausible. But I do not, Henry, I regret. The fact that you found it necessary to conceal the stains with gloves shows that you could not remove them, as the Widow Scarlet has suggested.’

  Henry Mendum opened and closed his mouth, but no words came out. His wife tossed her head and said, ‘Huh!’ and ‘huh!’ and ‘huh!’ but she, too, had nothing else to say.

  Major General Holyoke cleared his throat and said, ‘There is one more item of supporting evidence that the Widow Scarlet showed me yesterday. She herself was not sure what it meant, although she had her suspicions. In the light of this morning’s events, however, it has drawn me irresistibly to conclude that you, Henry, are more than likely to be the man responsible for the fear and misery and grief that has been brought upon this village.’

  ‘What “item of supporting evidence”?’ Henry Mendum protested. ‘This is not a trial and you are not a magistrate. Well, you are a magistrate, but this is not a trial!’

  Major General Holyoke reached into the inside pocket of his coat and produced a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it and held it up in front of Henry Mendum’s face.

  ‘This is a sketch-map of the various acres that Mr Jonathan Shooks persuaded various farmers to assign to his “demon”. This was on pain of having their crops or their livestock destroyed, or even their families injured or killed.’

  ‘Now, wait!’ Henry Mendum interrupted him. ‘You are forgetting that my finest Devon milkers were poisoned by this demon. Its hoof prints were first found in my field! The Widow Scarlet saw them for herself! I was just as much a victim as anybody else, and equally terrified, I might say!’

  ‘Your cows suffered no lasting ill-effects, Mr Mendum,’ Beatrice put in. ‘They all recovered completely and no lasting harm was done to your livelihood. As for the hoof prints, I am sure that they were made artificially. Not only that, they were composed of substances that anybody can purchase at any pharmacy.

  ‘More than anything else, did you deed any of your land to this demon in return for your cows’ recovery?’

  Henry Mendum’s eyes bulged with fury. He turned to the crowd of villagers who had gathered around to hear what all the arguing was about, and shouted out, ‘Well? Do you believe this slander? You all know me! You all know that I have always been honourable! I have always helped you through difficult times, both with money and with words of comfort! Who will speak up for me? Come on! Who will speak up for me?’

  At first none of the villagers answered, but stared at him with undisguised curiosity, as if he were Minotaur the Bull-headed Man in a travelling freak show. But then Ebenezer Rowlandson raised his hand and said, ‘You came to me not two years ago, Henry, did you not, and asked me if you could purchase thirty acres from me to increase the size of your farm?’

  ‘I did, yes. But I offered you a very generous price for it, did I not? And did I threaten you? No, I did not – in no respect whatsoever!’

  ‘But I said no to your offer, didn’t I? And I recall that you were not best pleased about that. You hoped that I would not live to regret it, that was exactly what you said.’

  ‘I think your memory is playing tricks on you, sir!’

  ‘I have an excellent memory, Henry. I even remember the day – May the fourteenth, Saint Matthew’s Day.’

  Major General Holyoke held up the sketch-map again. ‘Although this map is by no means complete, it shows beyond a doubt that a pattern is emerging! All of the land that the “demon” has so far acquired adjoins Mr Mendum’s farm on one side or another. The effect of this acquisition has so far been to double the size of the Mendum holding and to make it one of the largest properties in the county.’

  Somebody shouted out, ‘Mendum! Is this true?’

&nbs
p; Henry Mendum said nothing, but took hold of his wife’s hand and pulled her away down the meeting-house path, past the freshly mounded graves of Francis and the Buckley family, heading for the gate. The crowd of villagers called out angrily, ‘Shame!’ and ‘Shame on you, Henry Mendum!’ and ‘Where are you running to?’ and one woman screamed out ‘Demon!’

  Constable Jewkes was standing outside the gate, untethering his big brindled horse. Major General Holyoke called out, ‘Jewkes! Constable Jewkes! Detain Mr Mendum!’

  Constable Jewkes looked up and around, bewildered, as if his name had been called out of the sky by God.

  ‘Detain him!’ shouted Major General Holyoke, pointing frantically to Henry Mendum as he reached the gate.

  Constable Jewkes took two steps forward with his right hand raised and said, ‘Stop! Stop, sir! You are arrested!’

  Henry Mendum pushed Constable Jewkes so hard in the chest that Constable Jewkes staggered back and almost fell over on to the grass. But as the Mendums hurried away, hand in hand, heading for their carriage, Constable Jewkes went over to his horse and drew out the yard-long mahogany baton that he kept in a leather holster beside his saddle. Half running and half hopping, he caught up with the Mendums, raised his baton and hit Henry Mendum so hard on the back of the head that Beatrice could hear his skull crack like a pistol shot.

  Henry Mendum pitched face-first on to the road, still gripping Harriet Mendum’s hand so that she tumbled over beside him, her gown flying up to show her petticoats and her piano-like legs in black silk stockings.

  ‘Henry!’ she shrilled as she climbed to her feet. ‘Henry!’

  But Henry Mendum lay still, his face against the dry rutted mud, his eyes closed and blood sliding out of both nostrils.

  ‘May the saints preserve us!’ thundered Bishop Coker. ‘Don’t tell me that you have killed him, constable, right in front of our very eyes?’

  Beatrice hurried out of the gate and knelt down in the road to feel Henry Mendum’s pulse. Harriet Mendum hovered close to her, saying ‘Well?’ ‘Well?’ ‘He’s not dead, is he?’ ‘Don’t say that he’s dead!’