I took a last look about me. “Time to make our way back, mistress. We’ve been gone longer than we should. And spoken of more than we should, maybes.”
We walked at a snail’s pace, for she was slow and I matched my steps to hers. It was hard to believe she was the same lassie who had frolicked with the childer, running to see the ducklings on Donaldsons’ pond. I noticed that the welts on her face from the barn owl’s attack were starting to heal already. Mary Dunbar was blessed with good skin. She might get away with only a few small scars.
Just before we went indoors, she put another question to me. “You said there was an investigation twelve years after the massacre. What happened to Hamilton Lock and the other soldiers?”
“Aye, well, there were too many dead Magees not to admit somethin’ got out o’ hand. In the end, they left the officers alone, but some of the soldiers were transported to Barbados. Not Lock, though. He escaped from gaol afore the ship sailed, and hid out in Scotland for a while. Years later, he turned up again on Islandmagee like a bad penny. Did some farmin’ up Balloo way, on land his father was given by Minister Haltridge. He always claimed he was’n Hamilton Lock, but his brother Nathaniel. Folk knowed him, though. Hamilton could get a look in his eyes you would’n easy forget, my granda used to say. A look fit to slice a body in two.”
“Was he not afraid of some Magee or other getting even with him?”
“There were no Magees left. They were all wiped out or fled to other parts. But if you ask me, that made no differ. Hamilton Lock was afeared of nothin’ and nobody. He had a mean streak that ran from the crown of his head to the soles of his boots.”
* * *
No sooner was I back indoors, and had the young lady resting in her bedchamber, than a racket came from outside. I took a look through the half-door. Men on horseback were pouring into the yard. Their mounts were whinnying and rearing up, while my master’s greyhounds yowled and snapped, dancing round their hooves. Above it all squawked the rooster, furious at this invasion of his territory. Such a commotion you never heard in all your live-long days. Jamesey and Sarah pelted in through the back door, breathless.
“There’s men coming with muskets,” said Jamesey.
“Their horses are all covered in dust,” put in Sarah.
“And sweat,” added Jamesey.
A dundering came on the front door.
“You sit here and be quiet as mice, till I see what this is about,” I told the childer. Another thump on the wood showed it was an impatient caller.
I opened the door to Brice Blan, riding crop at the ready to knock again. It was the Constable, landing in to question Mary Dunbar. He had caked dung underfoot as though reared in a barn, but at least he had the sense to leave that clatter of deputies riding with him to kick their heels in the yard. Not that the greyhounds appreciated it: they were running about in circles, snapping at the intruders, while the mounted men aimed their boots at them.
“Nice welcome you lay on here,” said the Constable. “If this is how you treat your friends, I feel sorry for your enemies. And from what I hear, you’ve no shortage of them.”
Wee Sarah let a squeak out of her, and his eyes snapped to the bairns, who had followed me out to the hall. He scowled, cracking his riding crop against his boot.
“Go back,” I said, and they didn’t need telling twice.
Constable Blan had the sour breath and pinched face of a man whose meat lay restless in his stomach. It was said he could never keep down more than oatmeal. I heared he took a bloody flux if he tried to eat as much as a slice of black pudding. Looking at him, I felt like squeaking myself.
“I haven’t got all day, lass. Where’s your mistress?”
I brought him through to the parlour, where the mistress was cutting down one of the master’s shirts for Jamesey.
“Good day to you, Mistress Haltridge. I’m not in the habit of beating about the bush. A woman by the name of Becky Carson is in my custody, and I’m making further inquiries about another woman answering to the name of Mistress Anne. Not much to go on – her accuser will have to furnish us with a description. The plaintiff is one Mary Dunbar, spinster, of Armagh. Now, I understand this person is not a native of Islandmagee, but lodges here and you can vouch for her. Is that right?”
“She’s my cousin,” said the mistress, as cowed as we all were, I suspect.
“Good. My task is to ascertain whether there be any substance to the charges laid against this Becky Carson.” He raised his eyebrows to show it was a question, and the mistress nodded again. “She claims she was molested by witches here in Knowehead House in the townland of Kilcoan More. Correct?”
Mistress Haltridge cleared her throat. “There’s no doubt about her being molested by witches, Constable. Only this morning, helping her to dress, I saw her back was scraped red-raw – the skin all worn away in patches. What else could it be but witchcraft?”
“That’s not for you nor me to judge, mistress. But if she’s been injured, the law will avenge her. Kindly bring the afflicted party before me so I can take the measure of her.”
“Should we not send for the minister?”
“This is a matter for the civil authorities now, not the Church. Well, don’t delay, bring her in.” He tapped his riding crop, impatient.
Still, the mistress hesitated. “Constable, I wish the minister was here. He can shed more light on these matters than I can. It’s no bother to send my maid for him. You and your men could have some ale, or a glass of brandy if you prefer, while you wait.”
He twisted his lips into what passed for a smile. “I hope it’s not smuggled brandy you’re offering an officer of the Crown, Mistress Haltridge. A French vessel was spotted hard-by the Gobbins less than a month ago. I have information that a rowboat went out to it.”
“Sir, the brandy comes from my husband’s cellar, ordered from his wine merchant in Belfast. But I will not press you again. I was merely trying to be hospitable.”
“I am here on business, not a junket, mistress.”
“Very well, I’ll have my cousin brought to you now.”
She flapped her hands at me, and I went for the young lady. The door to her bedchamber was ajar, and I could see Mary Dunbar sitting on the window seat. Peggy McGregor was keeping her company, smoking her pipe, the pair of them yarning away. I stood on the landing to listen.
“Do you ever wonder which you’d choose in their place, Peggy? The point of a sword or the point of a rock?”
“I’d jump.”
“Me too. There’s always a chance in the sea. You might miss the rocks and swim to safety. But there’s no chance at all on the end of a sword.”
“It must be a horrible feelin’, mind you, mistress. Fallin’ through the air.”
“Unless you still thought you might be saved. You could hope for just a few seconds more.”
At that, I went in. When I told her the Constable was below, Mary lifted the lid of her sewing box, to check her appearance in a looking-glass inside it. She tweaked a curl, pinched colour into her cheeks, and was ready.
Brice Blan invited her to sit and told her not to be afraid because all he wanted was the truth. I half-expected her to collapse into a fit the minute he started quizzing her, because his manner was stern, but she held herself together tolerably well.
“I understand you’ve been abused by witches since your arrival on Islandmagee. Correct?”
“Yes, sir. Since I untied the knots in the apron and released the spell.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Knots?”
“In an apron belonging to Mistress Haltridge, sir. It was fastened with witches’ knots and I was foolish enough to tamper with them. When I did, a cap fell out belonging to –”
“We kept the apron,” the mistress put in. “In case you need it for evidence.”
“But the knots are no longer in it. Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“Then it looks like any commonplace apron. It cannot be used in evidence. Y
ou were saying something about a cap, Mistress Dunbar?”
“It fell out of the apron. It had the owner’s initials sewn into it and belonged to–”
“We do have some objects vomited up by my cousin, Constable Blan,” said the mistress. “These could be used in evidence. Witnesses saw them appear from Mary’s mouth. They can only have reached her stomach by supernatural means.”
“Not necessarily. She could have swallowed them herself.”
“Waistcoat buttons? A candle stub?”
He pursed his lips. “Fetch those objects, if you please, Mistress Haltridge. I need to examine them.”
“Mister Sinclair took everything away to pray over them. He was here when she brought them up, you see. You should know that my cousin has had a number of fits, observed by various people of good reputation. During some, she loses the power of speech and movement and goes into a trance, her body frozen like a corpse. During others, she is sorely tested and attacked by witches, but is able to tell us how they taunt her. We hear her answer them and call on the Lord to shield her.”
“Kindly stop handing over the evidence to the minister. Now, Mistress Dunbar is the only person able to see and hear the witches. Correct?”
“Yes. You counted eight witches in all, did you not, Mary?” said the mistress.
“There was a ninth but she died lately.”
The mistress gave a start, and I blinked for the same reason she did, but we both of us held our peace.
Mary went on, “I saw a nest of them casting spells in a cave. They delight in wounding me cruelly, sir. Especially if I defy them.”
“Lock’s Cave has been searched, by order of Mister Robert Sinclair, our minister,” said the mistress. “Some suspicious objects were found, suggesting a coven might meet there.”
“Where are those objects?”
“Mister Sinclair has them.”
Crack! Constable Blan’s whip whistled through the air. It touched nobody, but we jumped out of our skins. He glared at the mistress, before turning back to Mary Dunbar.
“Is Becky Carson among those who beset you?”
“She was, but she hasn’t come near me since being gaoled. The others are in a rage because of it. They say I will not know a day’s peace till their sister goes free.”
“Who are the others?”
“There is a mother and daughter I find particularly troublesome. The mother is a scold, only a couple of black teeth left in her head. I heard her called Mistress Janet. The daughter’s name is Lizzie. The mother held me down while her daughter bit me. Forgive me, sir, I don’t mean to be indelicate, but there is something you should see.” She pulled up her skirt almost to the knee, and rolled down her stocking. A crop of bites bloomed along the right calf – the teeth marks clearly visible. “They attacked my leg because one of them is lame.”
“Beauty is often a target for jealousy,” said the mistress.
“And because I refused to blaspheme when they told me I must. They wanted me to say the Devil rewarded his servants more generously than Christ Jesus, but I told them I’d sooner die. They threatened to chop me into pieces and feed my flesh to pigs if I didn’t say it, but I resisted them.”
“Devil’s strumpets, the pair of them. Are they from Islandmagee?”
“Yes, sir.”
He stroked his nose. “A crippled girl with a barge for a mother should be handy tracked down. One of my men might know these women. Now, we need more information on the one you call Mistress Anne – the ringleader. And what of the others, Mistress Dunbar? Can you supply us with names or descriptions?”
Lines appeared on her forehead, and she rubbed at them, her head sinking into her hand. “I’m so tired, Constable. So very tired. I counted eight, but their faces are hazy now . . .”
“Perhaps if my cousin has a chance to rest, she might be in a better position to continue,” said the mistress.
He muttered an oath, but went outside to speak to his men.
The mistress said quickly, “Mary, my dear, pray don’t refer to my mother-in-law’s cap again, unless you feel you must.”
She opened her hazel eyes wide. “Why ever not, Isabel?”
“It’s confusing. It has nothing to do with these other events.”
“There were no witch’s knots in the bonnet strings – they were in the apron ties,” I said.
“Exactly,” agreed the mistress. “It only muddies the waters.”
Blan’s footsteps hushed the three of us. “There’s a woman has a name for rising a row with her neighbours, over by McCrea’s Brae. She’s called Janet Liston. Her husband is William Cellar – he’s been up before the Magistrate on public order offences. A fine pair. They have a daughter of seventeen or eighteen years. Elizabeth Cellar has a stiff leg. I’ll have them brought in to you, Mistress Dunbar, to see if you recognize them as your tormentors.”
I knowed Lizzie Cellar: as quiet as her ma was quarrelsome, she was inclined to be shy because of her leg. There was a problem when she was born because she was such a long babby. During the birth, one of her feet got caught and twisted inside her ma. It made me realize there were worse things than being the tallest lassie on the island. I wouldn’t go so far as to say Lizzie Cellar was a friend of mine, but I suppose there was kinship of sorts. I used to think that there but for the grace of God went I, with a limp to match hers.
Could she really be consorting with the devil? Lizzie Cellar, who played tag with me and Mercy and Ruth Graham when we were childer, and was always the first caught on account of her leg? I was prepared to believe her ma was a witch, with that tongue on her like a stinging nettle. But Lizzie was a gentle girl. Still, Mary Dunbar denouncing both of them was a fact that couldn’t be set aside. It looked powerful bad. My da popped into my head. “Facts can be shaped this way and that, like lumps of wet clay,” he was fond of saying. All the same, it was hard to see how there could be an innocent reason for Lizzie and Janet being named.
I was in swithers. Nobody wants to have any truck with witches. Or even women accused of being witches. But I’d known Lizzie since we were childer. If the Constable surprised them at their cabin, Janet Liston was liable to burst out with anything. She had a temper that was easy riz. It would go better for her and Lizzie if they came of their own accord to Knowehead to face Mary Dunbar. If Janet Liston was brought in by Brice Blan, she’d be fit to be tied, and could give the young lady a tongue-lashing.
“Sir, not wantin’ to jump in ahead of you . . .” I began.
The Constable was taken aback. He hadn’t so much as looked at me since I led him into the parlour.
“But would there be any advantage in me steppin’ down to the Cellars’ house, and askin’ them for to come here of their own free will?”
Brice Blan’s eyes hooked on to mine, waiting.
“It might clear things up handy, instead of makin’ a spectacle out of it,” I said.
“Don’t meddle, Ellen,” said the mistress.
Part of me thought she was right. I might be getting into deep waters. Maybes I was taking too big a risk, trying to have Lizzie seen in a good light. After all, she might be a witch – the Devil was persuasive. He was a master at finding folk’s weak spots, as I knowed to my cost. And if Lizzie was a witch, then her ma might be one, as well. The pair of them could take it into their heads to put a spell on me: I could be turned into a toad, or lose my speech, or my wits. I should have kept my mouth shut.
Too late.
“No, your maid talks sense,” said the Constable. “No good can come of deputies riding from cottage to cottage, making folk fear a witch hunt. It’ll only panic decent citizens. I take it you know this mother and daughter well enough to coax them to come in of their own accord?”
“I know them, sir. But I can’t pretend I have any great sway with them.” Maybes I could still back out.
“Aye, but you can tell them they won’t be the losers by coming.”
“I can say that, sir. I can’t say if they’ll believe me.
”
“It’s worth a try. Stretch your shanks, lass.”
During this exchange, Mary Dunbar was watching me out of the corner of her eye. Here’s an odd thing about her. There were times when all the prettiness was drawn from her face, and I was amazed a body gave her a second look. This was one of those times.
Chapter 9
The Cellar family lived in a wee row of lime-and-stone cottages, each with a porch, on the east side of the island. The houses were thatched with straw and netted down with hay ropes held fast with wooden pegs. One of the houses was a shebeen, and that might have been why Lizzie’s ma had a gob on her the size of Larne Lough. Her man was another one like my da, always spending his shillings before they were earned. That shebeen was too handy by far. If it was anything like the ones where Da went, it had sit-ins – to give folk every chance to sup their last bawbee.
I was nervous going in to the Cellars, and striddled the last few yards to their cottage, trying to gather up the courage. When I took the bull by the horns, Lizzie put on a brave civil welcome, though I fancy she was surprised to see me. Herself and her ma were at their spinning wheels by the window, catching the light, when I put my head in over the half-door. Lizzie said they were just about to have something to eat, and asked if I would join them.
The House Where It Happened Page 17