The House Where It Happened

by Devlin, Martina

  “The Devil delights in any kind of mischief.”

  After all the ministers were done, my master was called. I felt proud of him there, with all eyes upon him. He made a braw show in his new navy double-breasted coat with the braid on the cuffs. He had nothing of the popinjay about him, but there was no doubting he was a man of consequence. Luckily his black eye was scarcely noticeable, or he might have looked less respectable.

  I could see by the set of him he was a wee shade nervous, but he covered it up well and gave his answers with none of the embroidery that went before, describing the fit he witnessed at Knowehead. Then the lawyer thanked him for his help in leading the authorities to Margaret Mitchell, which caused a stir. My jaw dropped.

  Mercy Hunter gave me a dig in the ribs. “You kept thon quiet.”

  “I knowed nothin’ about it.”

  “Pull the other one, Ellen Hill.”

  “Whisht! I want to hear what the lawyer’s sayin’.”

  “Perhaps you could explain to the court, Mister Haltridge, how you came to have your suspicious about the accused.”

  “Mistress Dunbar never named the woman who was causing her so much distress, but just lately she described her closely to me. Naturally I did my duty and passed this information on. Mistress Dunbar said the woman was without a husband, black-haired, heavily freckled, large rather than tall, and had fists like a man. Also, that she did not live in Islandmagee, but was near to Carrickfergus.”

  I was surprised at that, for I never heard the young lady say any such thing about Mistress Anne. She always said she kept her face hidden from her. Everyone turned to stare at Margaret Mitchell. She was, indeed, big, freckled and black-haired, and with those hands of hers she could have earned her keep as a butcher.

  “How do you account for the discrepancy in names, Mister Haltridge?” Judge Upton put in.

  “Mistress Dunbar explained that the accused used a false name to elude discovery. Forgetting, of course, that her victim was able to paint an accurate picture of her.”

  The lawyer continued, “I understand you were present when a conversation took place between the afflicted person and this Mistress Anne. Can you tell the court what you observed on said occasion?”

  “On the first night following my return from Dublin, where I was engaged in business for some weeks, I was woken by a noise from Mistress Dunbar’s bedchamber. When I investigated, she appeared to have an invisible visitor, whom she addressed as Mistress Anne. During the course of their conversation, Mistress Dunbar became agitated, and begged her not to tell lies, but to speak the truth as though the Last Trumpet had sounded.”

  “And what answer was made?”

  “I could not tell, for the intruder was not just invisible but inaudible to me. However, Mistress Dunbar let out a pitiful moan. When I pressed her for the reason, she said Mistress Anne claimed there would be no Judgment Day. The Devil, her master, told her it was an old wives’ tale.”

  A shocked rumble went through the court room.

  “Following this encounter, Mistress Dunbar managed to furnish me with a detailed description of Mistress Anne.”

  My master was given leave to stand down, and congratulated on all sides as he returned to his place. I thought it odd, though, that I wasn’t disturbed by Mistress Mary on the night he mentioned. The truth is, I tossed and turned on my pallet in the attic, thinking of him on the floor below me.

  The lawyer turned to the jury. “Gentlemen, several of the accused were identified by means of descriptions as opposed to names. These descriptions are so detailed as to be beyond doubt. One of the victim’s most vicious bullies had a squint, for example.”

  “Which of the accused is he referring to?” Judge Upton asked the clerk.

  “Jane Miller, your lordship.”

  “Bring Jane Miller forward.”

  A woman was pushed towards the front by the clerk’s assistant, and a ripple went through the crowd. She had a pronounced squint which gave her face an unfortunate cast, as though she was leering like those carvings in papish Mass houses.

  “How came you by this deformity?” asked Judge Macartney.

  She mumbled something.

  “Speak up. What did she say?”

  “She says she was born with it,” said the clerk.

  “The Devil marked her at birth,” said the lawyer.

  At that, a hissing rose up from the viewing benches, and the judges waved away Jane Miller.

  “Where is the afflicted party who claims to have been molested by witches?” asked Judge Upton.

  “She is here in the court,” said the clerk.

  “Swear her in.”

  Mary Dunbar made no move to get up. The clerk beckoned to her, followed by the lawyer, while Mister Sinclair leaned across the mistress and made a flapping motion with his hand. Grey about the chops, as if ready for her coffin, the lass stood up at last. But no sooner was she on her feet than she sat down again with a bump. The clerk minced his way down to fetch her to the stand, muslin ruffles at his chin fluttering. He led her forward, and lifted the Bible for her to take the oath, at which she swayed and fainted against him. Although he caught her most nimbly, he dropped the Good Book, which set the ministers tutting.

  The fainting caused a stir, and even their lordships looked concerned. They sent water to her from their own jug, while the mistress forgot herself entirely and ran forward to fan Mary Dunbar, though she looked as if she could use some air herself in her rabbit-skin cloak. When the young lady came to, she waggled her wee white fingers towards her throat. A gurgle came out, and she rubbed her neck, eyes bulging.

  “Her voice has been robbed off her,” whispered Mercy Hunter.

  Mister Sinclair stood and asked for permission to address the court. “The young lady was in a state of the most prodigious apprehension coming to this courtroom, and begged to be excused. She said menaces had been made against her if she spoke out. I appealed to her not to shirk her duty, and she agreed to attempt to defy these fiends. But their combined might is too much for this courageous young Christian. Surely it is yet more evidence of their base arts.”

  “Very well, the young lady is excused,” said Judge Macartney. “We have her deposition, which can be read into the record. When you’re ready, Mister Crawford.”

  The clerk leafed through a sheaf of papers, cleared his throat and read aloud in a sing-song voice. It was all about the hows and wherefores of Mary Dunbar being tormented by witches.

  “Were any of the accused witnessed attacking the plaintiff, Mister Blair?” Judge Upton asked the lawyer.

  “No, my lord. They sent their spectres to do their monstrous work, which meant they were invisible to all but the afflicted.”

  “Is it possible the Devil could use someone’s spectre without their knowledge?”

  “No, my lord. I have submissions from three learned clerics on the matter. A person must give the Devil permission for his or her shape to be used.”

  “I see. Do any of the prisoners have witnesses for where they were at the time of the alleged bewitching?”

  “Some do, my lord. But the prosecution proposes to the court that these accounts are worthless, since their bodies can be in one place and their apparitions in another.”

  Just then, a child had water spilled on its head by accident, and let out a lusty bawl.

  “An odd place to practise that scriptureless habit of infant-sprinkling,” a voice called out. There was general laughter, which the judges allowed to continue unchecked. I fancy they were ready for some relief themselves.

  But in the midst of the merriment, a young girl leaped to her feet, shrieking words I couldn’t make out. Those closest to her stopped laughing and turned to stare, and soon everybody fell silent.

  “The walls!” she wailed. “What’s happenin’ the walls?”

  The man next to her asked a question. The girl, who was maybe thirteen or fourteen and looked half-starved, shouted, “The walls are covered in blood! It’s pourin’ off
them!” She looked down at her feet, eyes wild. “I’m standin’ in it. It’s lappin’ at me ankles. Oh sweet Saviour, we’ll all be drowneded in blood!”

  The woman nursing her baby let out a squawk. “Aye, I see it! It’s like raindrops. Bloody raindrops. It’s comin’ doon thick and fast. Look at it spillin’ out. This is God’s judgment on us for harbourin’ witches!”

  Everybody turned to one wall, then another. Alarm swept the crowd. “Witchcraft!” went up the cry. As the terror spread, even the prisoners started yammering.

  “I see it too! I see the blood!” screeched an old man, and soon there were five or six folk clamouring about the courthouse running with blood. “The blood of innocents!” yelled one man. “Preyed on by witches!” shouted another. Panic turned to mayhem. Those nearest the doors made a rush to get out, only to find them bolted. They started dundering on the wood, “Open up! Let us out!” A man with a red beard took a run at the prisoners, shaking his fist, and except two of the soldiers stepped forward to oppose his charge, injury surely would have been done.

  Red Heels was getting nowhere banging his staff, but Judge Macartney put an end to the uproar. He beckoned to the sergeant, and spoke to him. The sergeant saluted the judge and stepped over to the drummer boy. A drum roll rang out. The boy’s jaw was stiff with concentration as his sticks rattled above the screams. Meanwhile, the sergeant led away the girl who started the commotion. She went like one in a trance. Four or five more soldiers picked out others in the crowd who were fuelling the panic, removing them too. They were taken away through the door in the panelling from which the judges had come, rather than risk a stampede by opening the main doors.

  Still, the racket continued, as folk tried to climb over one another to escape from the chamber. Mercy and me were nearly parted, pushed this way and that, but we linked arms and held on to one another. One of the ministers climbed onto a table and waved his hands at the crowd, and although his first words were lost in the din, it started to die down as folk turned to listen to him. An officer saw what he was doing and nodded to the drummer boy, whose sticks fell silent.

  Now, the minister could be heard urging folk to be calm. “Do not fear, good people,” he said. “Witchcraft has no power here. You are perfectly safe, I assure you.” He held a Bible above his head. “This Holiest of Books will protect us. Let us sing a hymn together. ‘How glorious is our heavenly king – all together now – Who reigns above the sky!’”

  By and by, folk joined in, and the panic eased off, with those who had left their places returning to them. Even so, it took quite a while for seats to be taken and order fully restored. At last, after what seemed like an age of confusion and noise, all was peaceful again.

  “Such behaviour will not be tolerated in this courtroom,” said Judge Upton. “One more squeak, and I will order it cleared. This is the Queen’s court of law, not a fair-day junket. Standards must be maintained.” He glared round him. “Proceed, Mister Blair.”

  The lawyer said he meant to examine some of the prisoners, and called Bessie Mean. “You are accused of witchcraft, that damnable invention of Satan’s. Who recruited you to this abomination?”

  “I was recruited by nobody.”

  He let out a sigh you could have heard back on Islandmagee. “I repeat, who enticed you into a coven?”

  “I was never enticed. I’m no witch.”

  “Remember you are under oath. I put it to you that you are a practitioner of an accursed art, as ancient as sin.”

  “I belong to no coven. God preserved Daniel in the lion’s den and I trust to his mercy to preserve me the-day. I am innocent, and I pray to Him to prove it before this court. ‘Oh give thanks unto the Lord for he is good, for his mercy endureth for ever.’”

  The lawyer did a jig on the spot, his shoon going clackety-clack on the floor. “You dare to mention God? He is calling upon you to confess, and recant your wickedness.”

  “I confess my sins freely, and with a humble heart, for God has lain on my shoulders far less than I deserve. But I say again, before a higher judge than these two gentlemen: I be no witch.”

  The lawyer dismissed Bessie Mean with a huffy flick of the hand, and called on another of the women. He made scant headway with her, or the one after.

  Margaret Mitchell was next up, and she refused to admit she was a witch either, mocking him to his face when he called her a limb of Satan. He invited her to explain why she was named as a witch. She said the only reason she could offer was because she had helped at the lying-in of a neighbour, but the woman had died, and the child inside her. “I did me best,” she said. “I know I have a tongue like the clapper of a hand-bell, but I would’n hurt a fly.”

  “Would you pray for Mary Dunbar?” he asked, and she couldn’t help herself. She threw the young lady a filthy look and said she’d sooner pray for Old Nick. That went down badly, and the lawyer was cock-a-hoop. He said he was through with examining the prisoners, and ready to do his summing up.

  The judges gave their permission, though Judge Upton noted, “Tensions are high in this courtroom. I urge you to proceed with all speed.”

  Lawyer Blair tucked his hands under his coat tails and paraded before the jury. “Gentlemen, by their enchantments, witches have been known to raise mists and cause crops to fail. It is no stretch of the imagination to see how they might torture an innocent maiden, their malevolence excited by her refusal to be perverted to their loathsome cause. That which is baleful seeks always to contaminate. I put it to you that this is exactly what happened in the case of the unfortunate Mistress Mary Dunbar – victim of this deformed brood.

  “If you exonerate them, you set them free to continue their infernal lord’s work. You must stand sentinel against the Devil. If he had his way, you, your children and your children’s children would boil in never-ending agony in hell’s cauldron. It is clear that demons have established themselves in these women’s bodies. Some of their answers to this court may have sounded plausible. They have even twisted scripture to their own ends. Do not be duped by their cunning, however. The law must show no mercy towards witches. Gentlemen, I call on you, I rely on you, I beseech you: do your Christian duty and find them guilty.”

  He sat down to a chorus of “Hear hear!” and was fawned over by his assistant, who treated him like the sun, moon and stars rolled into one.

  Judge Upton asked, “Do the prisoners have anything to say in their own defence?”

  None did, after the lawyer’s outpouring. It would have taken the wind out of anybody’s sails. They had no lawyer of their own. I heard a minister tell his friend they didn’t need one, because the judges were meant to watch out for the prisoners’ interests.

  “Nothing at all?” repeated Judge Upton.

  One of the eight called out in God’s name that she was wronged.

  “Houl’ your tongue, you hell-hag!” shouted a man in the crowd, and no effort was made to silence him.

  “Do we have any testimonials regarding the prisoners’ characters?” asked Judge Macartney.

  The clerk consulted his papers. “Depositions have been received regarding five of the accused, attesting that nothing criminal is known against them, and they are industrious and honest people. There are also depositions to the court which state that all of the prisoners are members of the Presbyterian Church, and regular in their attendance.” The clerk turned over a page. “I understand a number of them were able to recite the Lord’s Prayer when they were in prison. The captain of the guard has testified to it.’

  The judges put their heads together and exchanged a few words. Judge Upton drank from his glass, straightened his collar and addressed the jury.

  “The question for this court to decide is whether the plaintiff is the victim of witchcraft, or whether the prisoners are falsely accused by her. This is a perplexing business. It is beyond question that the plaintiff has been sorely tormented. This is supported by testimony from witnesses – gentlemen of the highest reputation, including those of the
cloth. We have no reason to doubt her convulsions, or her suffering during them, and the objects she regurgitated have been inspected by this court. Nor is there any reason to suppose the plaintiff denounced the accused for malicious reasons of her own: the prisoners are completely unknown to her. However, proof that acts of witchcraft, contrary to the laws of our land, were carried out by the prisoners standing before this court is –”

  He stopped and drank from his glass of water, Adam’s apple bobbing. I daresay he was enjoying keeping everybody waiting.

  “Thin,” he continued. “It is an omission I cannot overlook. The apparitions described by the plaintiff in her statement are damning, but they were seen only by the afflicted person and there is no corroboration. Therefore, I am unable to advise conviction on the basis of them. Furthermore, a number of the accused can account for their whereabouts on the occasions under consideration. Mistress Mary Dunbar’s visionary images are the sole evidence – everything else is circumstantial, hearsay or her word against theirs.

  “I do not dispute that the whole matter is preternatural. But if the accused were really witches, and in compact with the Devil, they would not be regular churchgoers. Furthermore, confession is of the first order, yet none of the accused has confessed. Taking all this into account, it is my opinion that the jury should not bring in a guilty verdict. I recommend a verdict of ignoramus: no case to answer.”