‘Clemency!’
And she pointed down the street to the small white gate. ‘She is … she is dead! She is hanged!’
Then the truth overwhelmed her and she collapsed on her knees, stricken by the terror and the loss.
There was a sensation in her left hand, she was sure of it. Gradually she focused on the feeling: yes, she could feel it, something familiar, something warm. She lowered her gaze to see a hand encompassing her own, and then she raised her eyes, slowly, to a face she knew, Nathan, looking at her in great concern. His familiarity brought all around him into focus, and she awoke from her waking sleep to see the sitting room in their cottage, Nicholas standing against the fireside, looking down in shared anxiety.
‘Mercia,’ said Nathan. ‘Mercia, my God. How are you feeling?’
She shook her head. A deep, wrenching hollowness burst into her chest; she had to push the torrent back, refuse to accept it, or it would have destroyed her. ‘I do not know.’ She swallowed. ‘I do not feel anything.’
‘Why wasn’t I there?’ Nathan lowered his head, his stubbled face white. ‘I am sorry. I should have been there.’
She stared at him blankly. ‘How could you have known?’ And then her control wavered, and the mixture of violent emotions erupted once more. She gasped, as if struggling for breath. ‘Oh God. Clemency!’
Nathan reached over to hug her tight. She accepted the comfort; there was nothing else to do. It helped her regain herself, for now at least: her breathing slowed, but her heart still beat fast in her chest.
‘She was my friend, Nat.’ She stared past his face into nothingness. ‘I never have friends. But she was.’ She sniffed. ‘She was.’
He stroked down her arm. ‘I know.’
She half closed her eyes, blinking away the moisture, and her blurred vision coalesced on Nicholas: like Nathan, there was something consoling in his presence, something of home, but there was utter futility in the reassurance. Her mind kept drifting to Clemency, but as soon as she thought of the dreadful scene in the cottage she forced it away. To avoid the mental confrontation, she searched for some other thought, some other place. Anything but that rope, please God.
‘I remember being in the street, at the meeting house.’ She fixed on the green of Nicholas’s eyes. Yes, that was better. ‘But getting here – I recall nothing of that.’
Nathan leant back, rubbing her hands in his own. ‘I heard a commotion in the street, people running past the window. I came outside and found you on your knees. You had your hands out in prayer. We could not prise them apart.’
‘I do not remember.’
‘No. I stayed with you while Nicholas ran up with Amery. They went after the other men into the—’
Her jaw began to shake; she tried to focus on Nicholas again, but tears were welling up and she could barely see him.
‘Did you—?’ With one hand she scratched at the tears. ‘Did you see?’
His eyes swam wide with sorrow. ‘She is lying down now. Amery and Vic have made her comfortable. She is warm, and covered.’ He bit his lip. ‘Oh, Mercia. I am so sorry.’
A faint and impossible ray of hope struck her. ‘She is not … alive, somehow?’
Gently, he shook his head. ‘I’m afraid … no.’
A chill passed through her. She gulped in deep breaths, forcing herself to master her emotions. A moment passed – a moment, or for ever? – but when the chill had settled, nestling beside her heart, her tears had vanished and a hardness had set in. Suddenly all around was in sharp clarity.
‘Do not be sorry for me.’ She straightened herself in her chair, withdrawing from Nathan’s touch. ‘Be sorry for Clemency, by God, but do not be sorry for me. Neither of you.’ Her eyes burnt. ‘Nor for the demon who has done this. For I promise that he will suffer for what he has done.’
Nathan reached to stroke her hair. ‘Mercia, I know you are upset, but you cannot know if—’
‘Upset?’ She thrust his hand aside. ‘Someone has killed my friend. Killed her, do you hear? And you say I am upset?’
A knock sounded at the door but she barely remarked it, closing her eyes as she once again struggled to retain her control, refusing to acknowledge the pain. In the distance – was it far off? – she heard Nathan clear his throat. Footsteps – Nicholas – strode past, the walker’s boots heavy on the echoing floor. When she opened her eyes, Amery and Percy were standing behind Nathan. How they had appeared she could not say, and nor did she care.
‘Mrs Blakewood.’ Amery’s face was ashen pale, his hat tilted askew. ‘We wanted to see how you were. At the crossroads you were quite unwell.’
She took deep breaths: in, out, in, out. Next to Amery, Percy was staring, shuffling from side to side, sucking at his lip. ‘’Tis not me you should be concerned with,’ she said. ‘Rather you should find whoever did this.’
‘Did this?’ Amery glanced at Percy. ‘Then you think—?’
‘Of course I think.’ She rose to her feet to stand beside the fireplace, her eyes fixed in front. ‘What else could it be? Can you, who claim to know Clemency, believe a woman like that capable of her own murder?’
In the corner of her vision Percy pulled at his fingers. ‘But what you are suggesting—’
‘I suggest nothing. I state it as a truth. Somebody killed Clemency and left her – hanging like a slaughtered pig ready for the butcher!’ She screwed up her hands. ‘Someone killed her, and I swear before God and you all that I will not leave this place until I find out who.’ She banged her fist against the wall; Amery stepped back although Percy kept his place, tilting his head as he took in her fury with undisguised interest. ‘And when I do,’ she continued, ‘I will see that bastard hang if I must do it myself.’
Nathan put a hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off. ‘Mercia,’ he said. ‘Please. Come back and sit.’
‘I will not sit.’ The calmness she had tried to foster fled as her fingers trembled. ‘I will have no more deaths. No more! How many people died on our voyage here, Nathan? How many in New York? And now here, where I was beginning to find peace!’ She took a sudden deep breath. ‘Here, where I had found a good and dear friend.’ As quickly as the anger had risen it fell away again, and tears came to her eyes. ‘No.’ She rubbed at her watering eyelids. ‘No! There will be no peace, not for anyone until I find this devil out!’
A moment’s silence. Amery scratched at his cheek.
‘What do you intend to do?’ he said.
‘Think. I need to think.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘Speak to the constable, to Mr Lavington. Make sure something is done.’
‘And you will.’ Nathan tried another hand on her arm; this time she did not throw it off. ‘But Mercia, for now, will you rest?’ He looked into her eyes: his were deep, full of her own heartbreak. ‘Please. For me?’
Finally, she gave in. ‘You are right. I am so tired.’ She fell back into her chair, snatching at her temples as she became aware of a fierce headache spreading down her face. ‘I need to rest.’
But rest was elusive. Acknowledging her tiredness had opened a chink in the armour of her mind, and she could hold back the awful image no more. All she could see was Clemency and the rope, Clemency hanging, Clemency alone. She sat in the rigid seat, oblivious to the men’s pity, crying silent, unseen sobs.
‘She was a witch.’
Mercia stared at the constable. He was reclining on a high stool, his booted feet dirtying the narrow window ledge in his sitting room, looking out at the town. The cottage was centrally located on one of the choicest plots: it had ample land.
‘How can you say that?’ Disgusted, she shook her head.
He sighed, lowering one leg at a time before brushing down his breeches and standing, his back against the window.
‘Mrs … Blakewood, isn’t it?’ He folded his arms. ‘I should ask how you can say she was not.’
Mercia blinked. ‘Well, Constable, aside from avowing that witches do not exist, it would seem evident Mrs
Carter was not. She helped people, for one. At least she tried to.’
‘What folk think in England and what folk think here are different things.’ Godsgift scowled. ‘You cannot make assumptions. Least of all a woman, a stranger to this town.’
‘I mean no offence. All I am asking is what you propose to do about finding who did this.’ She sucked in her cheeks. ‘You have been obstructive since I came through your door.’
‘I do not have to tell you what I plan to do.’
She held up her hands in exasperation. ‘Then what about last night? You walk a patrol each evening for some length of time. I have seen you myself. Was there anyone else in the streets?’
For an instant, his eyes darted to the floor. ‘I say again, this is not your concern.’
‘Very well. I will go to Hartford to speak with the governor. He is a friend of my family, but of course you knew that.’
She had no idea whether he did. Still, she was prepared to venture any tactic, even name-dropping. But he only narrowed his eyes.
‘Do not think to threaten me, Mrs Blakewood.’ He glanced at his rapier, stored on a splintering shelf half way up the wall. ‘I do not stand to be toyed with.’
A swift rap on the door cut off her response. She turned to see John Lavington coming in, the constable’s maid peering from the hall until the magistrate shut the door on her curiosity. Seeing Mercia he paused, recovering himself with an unsteady smile.
‘Mrs Blakewood. I did not know – is Godsgift behind you?’
She moved to one side. ‘Please.’
He brushed past. ‘Thank you. I—such a tragedy. I am overcome.’
‘I hope not so overcome you will be as incredulous as he is.’
He frowned. ‘Godsgift?’
The constable shrugged. ‘Mrs Blakewood was leaving.’
The edges of her lips curved into a slow smile of her own. ‘I was leaving, and now I am not. Perhaps Mr Lavington will be of more help.’
Godsgift growled, pushing himself from the wall with a heavy boot. ‘The magistrate and I are more than capable of seeing to one of our own. We do not need any meddling woman who arrived with the King’s own fleet to harry us.’
‘The King’s fleet be damned. All I care for is bringing a killer to justice.’
Taking his time, Lavington removed his silk gloves. ‘You seem to be speaking of murder, Mrs Blakewood. When none has taken place.’
She stared. ‘I suppose you are about to tell me that Clemency, a woman full of life, who but yesterday spoke to me with such pride of what this town has accomplished – that woman would take her own life?’
‘It is possible.’ Lavington set down his gloves. ‘Probable, even. Think, Mrs Blakewood. Clemency was distraught about Praise-God’s passing. And you do not know her, in spite of the friendship you have clearly convinced yourself that you formed.’
Her chest rose in indignation. ‘Convinced?’
‘Clemency Carter was a troubled woman. Troublesome. She was a widow, childless, living alone. Despite her … appearances … it was hard for her here.’
‘She did not seem to find it so.’
‘She spoke out on issues she should not have been concerned with, matters of government and conduct that—’
‘Why? Because she was a woman?’
He sighed. ‘What I am trying to say is that the matter is not so simple as you imply.’
‘Suicide is a sin, Magistrate. Clemency knew that.’
‘Sin was not anything Clemency ever let bother her,’ scoffed Godsgift. ‘She was not the most saintly woman.’
‘Indeed not,’ agreed Lavington. ‘And now really, Mrs Blakewood, I should like to talk with my constable here.’ He inclined his head. ‘Alone?’
She looked between the two men, uncertain how she should react. Then Godsgift raised his left hand, jerking a dirty finger towards the door. She stared at his dismissive gesture, the chipped fingernails, the scratched back of his hand, before turning away to grab hold of the door, thinking to slam it as she left. But she stayed herself from the childish act. Instead she eased the door shut and walked out into the dark.
Back in her lodgings she could no longer restrain her contempt. She paced around the tiny sitting room, circling the small table at its centre.
‘He is an arsworm.’ Her pacing increased. ‘An incompetent fool.’
‘Who is?’ said Nathan, glancing at Nicholas.
‘Both of them. The constable and the magistrate. They are both inept.’ She looked up. ‘Or duplicitous. Someone in this town is a murderer. Why not one of them?’
Nathan put himself in her way, forcing her to stop. Laying his hands on her shoulders he looked into her eyes.
‘Mercia, I think we should leave.’
His abrupt words caught her off guard. ‘I do not … earlier you agreed we should stay.’
‘I know. But I have thought about this.’ He lowered his hands to take hers in a light grip. ‘I do not think you should become involved.’
‘But—’
‘Listen.’ He gripped more firmly, stroking her palm with his thumb. ‘I think you should go to Winthrop and tell him your suspicions, and then let Nicholas and me take you back to New York. We can wait for the next ship to return home. There is still your manor house, after all.’
‘He is right, Mercia,’ said Nicholas. ‘The only thing that matters is you.’
‘What?’ Mercia pulled her hands away, looking over Nathan’s shoulder. ‘Since when were the two of you in such agreement?’ She nodded as Nicholas glanced down. ‘I see. The menfolk joining together to protect the delicate woman, is it?’ Her jaw clenched. ‘What men were there to help Clemency? Not one! And now I am to allow men like Lavington to take charge?’ She let out a bitter laugh. ‘All he cares for is the reputation of his precious town. For that is all it is with him, I can tell. Justice means nothing, magistrate or no.’
‘Then it is the same here as in London,’ said Nathan, his voice calm and steady. ‘But Mercia, this need not be your concern.’ His pleading eyes softened. ‘I am sorry this has happened. You know I am. But you have suffered enough lately. Please. Think of yourself.’
Mercia stared at him, at Nicholas, at the space by the fire where Clemency had brushed away a cobweb the day after their arrival, come to make sure they had settled in. It was strange: a shadow seemed to hang there still.
‘No.’ She walked to the window. ‘Clemency gave me something. She gave me friendship. And I will not abandon her now.’ She looked out onto the damp street, longing to see Clemency stroll past, but knowing now she never would. The unfairness was overwhelming; as much for herself as for her friend, she had to make sense of the loss, somehow. She rested her palm on the cold wall. ‘You both leave if you want. I am going to stay.’
Chapter Eleven
She could not leave. She had come to New England hoping for peace and instead she had found death. But no – it was death that had found her. It had pursued her, that awful spectre, that feared tyrant of time not even the most favoured of God’s children could defeat. No matter that death welcomed you to God; it swooped its unsharpened talons low too often, taking too many innocents too soon, as she and all the scarred souls who had survived the bitterness of the civil wars could lament. But lately, death seemed to relish those around Mercia most eagerly. Her husband. Her father.
Clemency Carter.
And those it did not take, upon whom perhaps it should have feasted? She knew enough of those, the crowded brigade that she, a mortal, had no right to judge, but whom she turned from all the same. Who was it could decide when a life was at its end? Who was worthy of making that choice? God certainly, but surely no man or woman had the right to destroy a fellow life, to cause the pain and the grief for those still living. It was a forbidden step, and anyone taking it had to be revenged upon. Clemency had left no children, no husband, but for that brief, happy time, she had known Mercia. And Mercia, her friend still, her revenger for ever: Mercia would not leave.
If death was following her, taunting her, it was her task to turn around to face it, however repugnant its countenance, to stand in its way and to say no more. But – it? Was death, that infernal betrayer, that constant certainty, more a man, more a woman indeed? Mercia did not much care. She could not defeat death, but she could expose its agent, the murderer who had taken Clemency from her world.
It was the day after the evil event. Mercia had awoken with a black pit in her stomach of an intensity she had not experienced since the days following her father’s execution. She felt bare, as though she should be taking out her mourning dress, but the well-worn garment was in a trunk in New York and Clemency had not been family. Nor did she think her friend would have appreciated the gesture, so she was content to stay in the browns and greys she was wearing in semi-mourning still for her father. Aching within yet resolute, it was now afternoon; she leant a sleeved arm against the best-room wall, listening to Nathan, yet not really caring he was there.
‘I still think we should leave,’ he was protesting. ‘I know. You want to stay awhile yet. But we are bound by when ships depart New York for England. Before we set out for Connecticut, Governor Nicolls there told me the Elias would be returning home soon. We need to be on it.’
She looked at him unblinking. ‘I will stay here as long as it takes.’
He sighed, a gentle lament, but she could divine his thoughts. ‘Mercia,’ he said kindly, ‘if we miss that ship, we may be trapped in America all winter.’
‘It will not come to that. Meltwater is not London. If one of the townsfolk killed Clemency, it should be an easy matter to find them out.’
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