Familiar Spirits

by Leonard Tourney

  All during the long afternoon, a furious wind sent the rain dashing in sheets against the houses; the town seemed beleaguered by it. Everything dripped. The houses trembled with the gusts. After changing out of their wet clothes, Matthew and Joan spent their time by the kitchen fire, drinking hot punch. Their spirits had been much depressed by the funeral, and of course the miserable cold and wet made it the worse. Both avoided any further discussion of the Waites or their problems, hoping that with the burial of the glover more than a body had been buried. But both knew too that it was not so. The savage storm was ominous and would surely be interpreted in the town to Margaret Waite’s disadvantage.

  By four o’clock, although the wind persisted in its fury,

  the rain had stopped and in the west the sun made a halfhearted appearance from between large mottled clouds. The cobblestone street was slick and treacherous, but Matthew decided to go out. He traversed the puddles and runoff from the alleys and ditches and arrived at the Waite house, where he found John Waite and Margaret’s sons visiting quietly in the parlor.

  In their thirties, the sons resembled the mother more than the father. They were men of middle stature with broad faces and wide-set eyes and mouths with fleshy underlips. Matthew remembered them as young boys, Edward and Richard—or Dick, as he was called. They had been quiet and well behaved as children, and had grown up to be serious men. Successful too, if their clothing was any indication. They greeted the constable coolly and exchanged reminiscenses. They were deeply grieved over their father’s death but not surprised. They had been well aware of his ailment. They had not, strangely enough, heard about Ursula Tusser and had not learned until a few hours before of the slanderous accusations now being made against their mother. Their cousin John had explained it all. Outraged and defensive, they regarded the constable suspiciously until he assured them that he believed none of the gossip and would do all he could to clear their mother’s name.

  For the next hour, he provided his own account of what had happened since the death of Malcolm Waite, mentioning also his commission from the magistrate, just so they would understand the difficulty of his own position. During this time, John Waite listened intently and made no demur; Matthew assumed that his version largely confirmed what the nephew had told his cousins. Critical before of his aunt and uncle’s credulity in regard to Ursula’s powers, John Waite now seemed content to be silent, either out of respect for his aunt’s bereavement or for fear that an incautious remark would provoke his cousins.

  Margaret came down from upstairs, where she had been resting. Seeming slightly refreshed, she invited Matthew to join the family at supper, which had been laid out on a table

  at the end of the room and offered a pleasant array of meats, fruits, and cheeses. Matthew declined with thanks, and said he wanted to speak to the Crispins.

  Margaret said, “Thomas was here—Jane too—and I hoped they would take supper with us, they and the children, but Thomas took my sister home. She was drenched to the bone and Thomas feared she would fall ill from it.”

  “She had a rheum and cough, I think,” said John Waite.

  The discussion turned to the weather.

  “If ever some superstitious fool looked for a sign of God’s disapproval, the frenzy of the storm was it,” remarked the nephew in a loud voice.

  One of the sons said he thought the very violence of the storm might purport nature’s grief over the death of a good man.

  They talked now about what the storm meant, the second son, Dick, observing that great inundations foreshadowed insurrections and the downfall of princes. Margaret clasped her hands together and prayed it was not so, for the family had had sufficient grief. Matthew excused himself, saying he would see himself out. But Margaret insisted that Susan show him to the door. As Matthew was about to step into the street, the serving girl touched his arm and asked him to wait.

  “I must speak to you, sir,” she said, staring up at him.

  “About what? Where, by the way, is your companion Brigit? I missed her at your master’s funeral. Pray God she’s not in bed with some fever.”

  “She’s gone,” said Susan, her eyes brimming with tears. “That’s what I had to tell you, sir.”

  “Gone where?

  “I rose this morning and found her gone from our bed. She left no message and took what few clothes and possessions she had with her.”

  “She’s run off, then,” said Matthew, not surprised considering the temper of the town. “Does your mistress know?”

  “I told her, but she is too mindful of her own grief to care. Now all Brigit’s work must fall upon me until a new servant

  is found, which may not be soon, for who will work in this house with such horrible goings-on, spirits coming and going, and such a howling wind to put the fear of God upon us all?”

  “That’s just the weather—the wind’s fury,” he said in an effort to calm her. He wondered why she stayed herself, and was tempted to ask her. But he did not want to put ideas into her mind. Margaret Waite had enough troubles as it was. He asked her if she or Brigit had seen another apparition.

  “Another?” Susan exclaimed with obvious dread at the very thought. “I don’t think so—at least I have not seen it. When we slept, we covered the window and passed the night in each other’s arms for fear. Brigit sprinkled our chamber with rosemary, which they say is wondrous effectual in warding off spirits. And none came. If at some moment when we were separated she saw . . . anything . . . face or form, 1 know nothing of it.”

  “You slept together all night long, then?” asked the constable.

  “I slept like the dead,” Susan said; her eyes grew wide and she shuddered visibly at the phrase that had tripped from her tongue so casually. “I did not wake,” she said, amending her words and looking comforted at the rephrasing.

  “Well, then,” said Matthew, thrusting his hat on his head, “if she returns, will you come at once to tell me—or if you should see her about the town?”

  “I will, sir,” Susan said, “but I think not to see her again.”

  “Not again? Why so pessimistic? She isn’t dead, is she?”

  Susan stiffled a sob and rubbed her pale hand across her mouth. She was obviously disturbed by her own prophecy. “I don’t know why I said that” she said. “I swear I do not. But as God lives, sir, I know it is true.” She laughed feebly, a forced laugh. “Brigit won’t be back. No, not ever.”

  Susan stared at him with glassy eyes. The laughter trailed off, but Matthew found both the stare and the strange laughter unsettling. That Brigit had run away seemed plausible enough It even showed a certain prudence on her part. Mar-

  garet Waite had a few friends left in the town, but Brigit was a mere nobody. He smiled kindly at Susan and reached in his purse to find a penny for her. “Here, put this in your pocket,” he said. “Mind your mistress faithfully.”

  She continued to stare after him as the door closed. He went next door to the tanner’s house, still thinking of her prophecy. He knocked and was shown into a well-furnished room on the second floor, where he found the tanner and his wife bundled up before the fire, Crispin in his shirt and hose, his shoes drying at the hearth, the wife nearly smothered in a woolen coverlet that hid everything but her face. She peered kindly at Matthew from the folds of the coverlet.

  “You are most welcome, Mr. Stock,” said the tanner, rising as Matthew entered and motioning to a stool near their own. Crispin called the servant to fetch more wood for the fire, which was well supplied already, and then settled back in his chair. Matthew observed the couple with interest. He had never known them well. His relations with them had been friendly but distant. They seemed an affectionate pair, alike in their tempers, their countenances displaying that similarity of expression which often makes others believe that husband and wife grow to look alike with the passing of years. They were obviously saddened by the loss of their kinsman and the distress of his widow, and affected too by the slanders now being circulated aga
inst her. But they seemed not only dejected but nervous. Crispin quickly made the cause plain.

  “We found this nailed to our door when we returned from the funeral,” Crispin said stonily, handing Matthew a fragment of coarse paper. It was a warning, scrawled crudely. The Crispins were advised to forsake the town and take their servants with them. Just what was to happen if they did not follow these instructions was not said.

  “We thought all was done when poor Ursula was hanged,” Jane Crispin lamented in her soft voice. “Now all is again astir with my brother-in-law’s death.”

  “We have always led good lives,” Crispin said with a tone

  of injured merit. “Decent God-fearing lives. This falls hard upon us, Mr. Stock. Is there no remedy?”

  “Time may heal it all,” said Matthew feebly, not convinced himself that time would—or how much time; that was another question, too. A sense of foreboding hung dangerously over his own head. In this mind’s eye he saw again the stark, horrified expression in the glover’s eyes, heard the warning prophecy of Susan Goodyear, recalled his own wife’s dread in the Waite barn. It was all adding up to something, pushing toward something. But what? He said, “Malcolm Waite’s death and yesterday’s panic in the street have given the gossipmongers and balladeers of the neighborhood stuff enough. Within a week, it will be business as usual. People do forget.”

  Hearing himself say these words, Matthew despised himself a little. He had chided Brigit for her pessimism; was he not more guilty still for a foolish hopefulness, a blithe disregard for the signs, all of which pointed to the prospect of things getting far worse before they would be better?

  “Some forget,” said Crispin, frowning thoughtfully. “There’s a sort of meanness bred by long association. You take a town the size of Chelmsford. How many families are we—three hundred?”

  The tanner did not complete his thought, but Matthew caught its drift. Crispin was right, of course. Unfortunately right, but certainly so. Intimacy, which was the sole and proper ground for love and friendship, made spaces as well for ancient grievances, inexplicable spite, murderous thoughts growing rank amidst the tender shoots of domestic felicity and civil order. Matthew doubted not but that the day would come when Chelmsford would require a small army to keep the peace—no more half-time constables with their mind on their trade, their accounts, but men whose sole husbandry was the management of this unweeded garden. The day would come.

  Jane Crispin reached out for her husband’s hand, murmuring softly. The fire in the hearth had brought out the color in

  her face and given her smooth cheeks a youthful glow. Her striking blue eyes were particularly intense, and Matthew could well understand her husband’s devotion. Jane Crispin had a beauty above her station in life; her voice was soft and cultured like a gentlewoman’s. “If the constable thinks all will be well,” she said reassuringly, “then I am sure he knows whereof he speaks, for he watches the temper of the town the way a faithful physician does the heats and colds that trouble the body that is sick. Should the fever grow intense he will have a remedy for it.”

  She turned her radiant smile on Matthew, and he acknowledged the complimentary words with an awkward, self-conscious bow. A silence followed, during which Matthew thought of ways to broach the subject for which he had come to the Crispins. Finding no strategy and recognizing he must speak or take his leave, he blurted out his question without prologue or apology.

  “At Ursula’s trial, both of you gave the girl a good character. But surely you knew the mischief she was up to?” Neither husband nor wife seemed disturbed by the directness of his question, the complete lack of reasonable transition from their former discourse. Without hesitation Jane Crispin said, “Ursula was with us over two years. We knew her very well, very well indeed. She had many good qualities, although about her work she was slow and deliberate. Her mind always seemed elsewhere. Of her . . . practices ... we knew very little. To us they seemed innocent enough. The sort of conjury young girls are wont to practice while boys their age play rougher sports and games. In the course of her trial we discovered more. We were astonished but ...”

  Her voice trailed off; she glanced at her husband for help. “We were asked at the trial about her work. We answered truthfully—she was a good servant,” answered Crispin mat-ter-of-factly. “We knew little of what transpired in the barn loft. Certainly we knew nothing of her that merited her death. It came to that—for us, at least.”

  Concluding his remark, Crispin looked at his wife, she at him. They seemed agreed. Ursula had done nothing to their

  knowledge that merited death. Matthew felt the solidity of their relationship. Shoulder to shoulder they were a formidable pair. Like the Stocks, he thought, and he felt a sudden warming surge of friendliness toward them. “Evidently,” Matthew continued, “your sister had a different view of Ursula's powers.”

  “The testimony was my sister’s,” Jane said. “You must put that question to her. She undoubtedly knew of matters beyond our ken.”

  “I understand Ursula claimed to have a familiar. A brindled cat, I am told. I have heard it still haunts the premises. Ursula also promised to put your sister in touch with the dead brother of the two of you, Philip Goodin.”

  “We knew nothing of that,” Crispin said, glancing nervously at his wife, who at the mention of Philip Goodin’s name seemed visibly disturbed. Her cheeks, flushed from the warmth of the fire before, now grew pale and the expression in her eyes was one of sudden alarm. “Our sister was never reconciled to her brother’s murder as my wife was,” said Crispin, apparently sensitive to his wife’s distress. “It was ever Margaret’s desire to know of Philip’s state in the next world. What was said betwixt her and Ursula regarding these matters is unknown to us. Surely we never sought to know forbidden things, or to communicate with the dead.”

  The tanner made a face to suggest the topic was as repugnant to him as the practice. He went on to say he thought the town had erred in executing the girl, that it had made too much of a lot of nonsense. He said he didn’t want to think about it anymore. Certainly he had nothing more to say on the matter. Philip Goodin’s death was also an ancient sorrow he saw no good in stirring up again.

  “My brother died a long time ago,” Jane said wistfully after staring into the fire for a long time. “He was greatly loved by us all, but by my sister Margaret the most. She never accepted his death, which acceptance came to me only through long prayer and meditation.”

  “Who knows God’s will?” asked Crispin philosophically. “We must have faith,” Jane added, with a heavy sigh.

  “Margaret Waite told my wife that her brother’s spirit appeared to her in this very house,” Matthew said, not content to let the subject die and eager to know whether the couple were aware of this apparition.

  Their surprised expressions indicated at once that they were not. “What’s this about an apparition?” cried the tanner incredulously. Jane moaned softly and covered her eyes with her hand. She seemed to lapse into unconsciousness and her husband was alarmed, but the fit was only momentary. She sat up in the chair, as pale as death, and searched Matthew’s face.

  Matthew repeated what he had said.

  “I know of no such apparition,” said the husband angrily. “This is some idle tale of the servants.”

  Matthew assured him the story had come from Margaret Waite herself.

  “How could this have happened in my own house?” asked Crispin, glaring around him as though the apparition might have the effrontery to put in another appearance.

  “I know nothing of this either,” said Jane, finding her voice at last. “Surely my sister would have said something to me. Oh, my poor sister is distracted by her husband’s death and does not know her own mind!”

  “This transpired before Malcolm Waite’s death,” Matthew said. “It was with Ursula’s aid that it occurred, the apparition. So says your sister.”

  “She says Philip Goodin appeared to her—his spirit, that is—in this very
house?” Crispin asked, a dubious glint in his dark eyes.

  “She said it.”

  “Well, then, pray what message did he have for her?” asked Jane.

  “She said his spirit told her that he was in heaven,” said Matthew.

  “Pray it is true, but I doubt the spirit was anything more than the poor woman’s fancy,” said Crispin, who was obviously more comfortable with this explanation. “Tell us, in what likeness did he come?”

  “According to her, in the likeness of Philip Goodin.”

  “Margaret swears to it?” asked Jane.

  “She has taken no oath, but so says she,” said Matthew.

  “My sister wouldn’t lie,” Jane said, exchanging worried looks with her husband.

  “I say not that she lies, but her mind ...” The husband’s voice trailed off. There was no need to finish the sentence. They had all observed Margaret’s condition since her husband’s strange death. She who had once commanded in her house with a sharp tongue and strong will now had been reduced through her suffering to a weak, helpless creature starting at every footfall, her head full of visions and memories, some of which had no more substance than a vain wish.

  “This is a most wondrous thing, if it be true,” said Jane, her doubtful tone suggesting that she shared her husband’s fear that her sister was near mad for grief.

  “My understanding of our Lord’s teaching permits no such manifestation,” said the tanner, shaking his head. “Although it is my dearest hope that Philip Goodin’s spirit resides with God, my knowledge that it does must remain a matter of faith. No apparition can put it on surer grounds than that. Since the Apostles’ time visions have ceased, save those which are illusory or of the Devil.”