The Salem Witch Society

by K. N. Shields

  “Keeping that burly woman in high leather boots waiting isn’t going to improve her mood any. Or is that the whole point?”

  Helen’s face turned a violent shade of red reserved for occasions of deep personal embarrassment. Lean bit his lip to keep from laughing as Grey followed the nervous man to the exit and shut the doors behind him.

  After Grey rejoined them, no one spoke for several moments until a stunned Helen uttered, “Was that really called for?”

  “I certainly hope so,” Grey said. “It depends on how rewarding your research has been.”

  “Yes, well …” was all that Helen managed as she led them into the back room of the historical society. The space, used for storage and organization of archived documents and material, was an eruption of books and stacks of papers. Small wooden crates dotted the floor, some with lids off, revealing their cargoes of texts like recently unearthed treasure chests left by long-dead, and strangely erudite, pirates. Stuffed bookshelves lined the walls, and a few pitiful tables sagged under their loads.

  Lean surveyed the random stacks of bound and loose pages. “Looks like the devil’s been holding a rummage sale. This isn’t all for us, I trust.”

  “No, we’re just a bit behind in our cataloging. I’ve set aside a work area for materials from the two hundred years since the witch trials.”

  Helen stepped toward a small desk that held her notes. “I assume you know the basic facts from 1692. Salem was rife with factions and long-running disputes over land, religious matters, and anything else they could think of. Not exactly the type of great city on a hill envisioned by the Puritans. In the winter some of the village girls had gathered together and done a bit of fortune-telling. Shortly afterward some of them started having spasms and writhing in agony, contorting into unnatural postures, uttering all sorts of nonsense. The village physician examined them and concluded they were ‘under an evil hand.’ Salem’s minister, the Reverend Parris, called the neighboring ministers to his house, and they all agreed the devil was conducting an unholy assault upon their community.

  “You must bear in mind,” Helen said, “it was an established doctrine that the devil could not interfere directly against humans, except through other human beings acting in confederacy with him—that is, witches. The question on everyone’s mind was, who were the agents of the devil that were afflicting the girls? I call them girls, though some adult women soon joined their ranks. Anyway, the constant pressure to identify their tormentors finally became too great. One after another, the girls cried out the names of the Reverend Parris’s Caribbean servant, Tituba, along with Sarah Good and Sarah Osborne.”

  “What about the accused men?” Lean asked.

  “It was popularly known that women were much more likely than men to be witches. But it was also thought that people closely related to witches were themselves in danger of becoming witches. So, soon after the next group of women was accused, two of their husbands, John Proctor and the very elderly Giles Corey, were also named. The afflicted girls would normally be at the bottom of the legal and social hierarchy. Some of them were servants in others’ households. The fact that they became such important and powerful figures in the witchcraft crisis was a remarkable event. It turned the social order on its head. Despite the afflicted girls’ newfound influence, they were not always able to formally bring charges against accused witches. Often that task would fall upon the male head of the household.

  “Some men, such as John Proctor, were openly skeptical of the accusing girls’ fits and their claims of being tormented by witches’ specters. His servant was among the afflicted girls, but he refused to support charges made by her, instead threatening to beat the fits out of her. Not surprisingly, John Proctor’s defense of his own wife’s innocence and his hostile attitude toward the accusers soon earned him a place among the accused witches.

  “As for Giles Corey, he was called up for trial, pleaded not guilty, then refused to answer the required question of whether he would be tried by God and country. The traditional punishment for failure to agree to trial was to lay the prisoner down with a wooden board atop his chest. He would be pressed with stones until he either agreed to a trial or died. Despite the mounting weight, the eighty-year-old only uttered, ‘More weight,’ when his compliance was demanded. It was a slow death, with one witness recalling that Corey’s tongue was forced out of his mouth from the pressure, only to have the sheriff push it back in with his cane.”

  “Just so you know,” Lean said with mock sincerity, “I’d do you the same favor. If it ever came to that.”

  Grey nodded. “Thank you. It had been preying on my mind.”

  Helen cleared her throat. “The old and infirm George Jacobs was accused by a servant as well as by his own granddaughter. His body was searched and revealed several apparent witch’s tits. The servant had accused Jacobs of wickedness and failing to pray. Jacobs responded that this was because he could not read. When instructed to recite the Lord’s Prayer, he made several errors and could not repeat it correctly despite numerous attempts. This inability to recite the Lord’s Prayer perfectly was considered a sure sign of guilt.”

  Lean started to fidget as his old questions on the subject resurfaced. “Our man is quoting the Lord’s Prayer as well, only in Abenaki. There must be a connection. Hardly anyone alive, other than an Abenaki, knows that tongue today.”

  Helen nodded. “The same was true back then. English colonists typically considered the Indian language, as well as their culture, to be crude and savage, even satanic.”

  “Is that it?” Lean gave Grey an elbow nudge. “Is he conducting some sham ritual? Reciting the prayer in the devilish language of Satan’s Indian allies?”

  Grey refused to match Lean’s outburst of enthusiasm. “It’s a plausible theory.” He eased a step further from the deputy and addressed Helen again. “There were other accused male witches?”

  “Yes. John Willard was one. Accused by Ann Putnam as well as Susannah Sheldon, who had been a young child in Maine during the first Indian war when several of her relatives were killed. Susannah reported visions of four dead people who claimed Willard had murdered them. She also saw his specter suckling two black pigs at his breast and kneeling in prayer before the black man.

  “Another was George Burroughs, a minister who’d lived here in Portland and was suspected of working in league with the Abenakis. After successfully accusing such a prominent man, the girls became bolder, and the number of accusations increased dramatically. Documents don’t survive for all of them. Many of the newly accused were men, though some were never formally charged due to a lack of credible evidence. Others, such as John Alden, simply fled the area or escaped from jail rather than await trial. Like Burroughs, Alden seems to have been named due to the belief that he had allied himself with the Abenakis and the French, and so was in league with the devil. Alden was a wealthy shipowner and merchant who was active in trading along the Maine coast. He was well known as an Indian trader, and there were rumors of his supplying provisions to the French and Indians in return for lucrative beaver pelts, even during periods of hostilities.” Helen set her notes down on the table. “I’m afraid that’s about the sum of my investigation.”

  “Don’t be disappointed, Mrs. Prescott,” Grey said. “It’s all very informative. You’ve unearthed connections between Portland and some of the accused men, as well as the past use of the Lord’s Prayer. But the link to the present remains uncertain, which returns us to your other generous offer of research: the status of witchcraft today.”

  “Yes,” said Lean, eagerly taking up the scent again, “are there people here in Portland today who are practicing witches?”

  “Certainly some who claim to be,” Helen said.

  “Did any of them know Maggie Keene?” Grey asked.

  “I don’t think so. Once I steered conversations in that direction, they were all very eager to talk about her, but none of it struck me as genuine.”

  “Did you hear, during
your talks, that there had been acts of violence against any of these occult mediums?” Lean asked.

  “Just minor incidents from time to time,” Helen answered.

  Lean thought for a moment. “Did any of them mention a supposed witch called something like … Old Stitches? She’s one that may have had some troubles.”

  “I don’t recall hearing her name,” Helen answered.

  “She’s the woman mentioned by the Abenakis. Does it mean something to you?” Grey asked Lean. “Did she die here in Portland?”

  “No. East Deering, across Tukey’s Bridge, out along Back Cove. So it wasn’t our case. I never heard any details.”

  Grey thought for a moment. “Perhaps you should canvass some of these spiritualists, Lean. Our man’s interests lie within their sphere. He may have been making the rounds with them, seeking information about occult matters, witches and such. Maybe one will remember something that will help us identify him.”

  31

  “This is probably a waste of time,” Lean said over the noise of the carriage wheels as they rumbled across the wooden planks of Tukey’s Bridge, leaving Portland behind. Red, white, and blue streamers, left over from the Independence Day celebrations several days earlier, still hung from the posts along the bridge. “Fake mediums and spirits and dead witches.”

  “Not necessarily. The belief that a charlatan, preying upon desperate people, can reveal the secrets of the dead is utter foolishness.” Grey raised his index finger. “This, however, involves an actual dead body. That fact alone makes it of interest. And while I don’t believe in any aspect of witchcraft, I accept that our killer appears to. This Old Stitch character, by virtue of her reputation and her recent death, warrants at least a cursory review.”

  They left the bridge and turned onto Main Street. A half mile farther and Grey rapped at the roof with his walking stick. The driver deposited them by the side of the road, and Grey made arrangements for the man to collect them in an hour. Lean looked around. The side of the street away from Back Cove was sparsely populated with houses, while the area closer to the water was wooded.

  “Our guide will be along shortly,” Grey said. “Tell me again about the police report.”

  “The body was found by a customer on February fifth. The coroner ruled she’d been dead a few days. No external injuries, but traces of vomit in her mouth and blood in her nostrils.”

  Grey nodded. “Nothing was taken. No signs of robbery.”

  “The customer had been there before. She didn’t notice anything missing, but then there wasn’t much of value in the place to begin with.”

  “And the constable reported signs of some séance?” Grey said.

  “A deck of fortune-telling cards on the table, spread out, as if the woman was in the middle of a reading. It was thought she died from a sort of seizure.”

  “Brought on by the shocking appearance of some otherworldly specter, no doubt.”

  “Do you really not believe in spirits?” Lean asked. “The possibility of communicating with some eternal soul in the afterlife?”

  Grey looked at him with one eyebrow pointing up to heaven. “The overwhelming majority of people in the world are unimaginative dullards who, in their three score and ten allotted years, manage to divine no purpose for their being other than to chase money, seize what moments of physical pleasure they can, and to create new, largely unimproved versions of themselves, whom they raise with the same mindless disregard they have applied to their own lives. Tell me, please, what use would such beings have for an afterlife? Whatever would they do with an eternity?” Grey motioned down the street. “Ah, here we are.”

  Lean turned to see their guide approaching. The scrawny boy couldn’t have been more than thirteen, though he tried squinting and affecting a slight sneer in an effort to look serious. The boy tipped his cap and addressed Mr. Grey with a tone of respect before leading the men along the edge of the woods. At some inconspicuous landmark, the boy turned and led them into the trees. Fifty paces in, he stopped and pointed.

  “Path picks up again right ahead. Just keep on there and you can’t miss it.” The words shot out of the boy’s mouth. Lean could tell he was spooked to be so close to what must have been a cursed place in the lore of the local children. He handed over some coins, and the boy vanished into the brush, scurrying uphill, back toward his idea of civilization. Looking toward the dim, murky woods, Lean felt less than enthusiastic. He drew his revolver and rechecked that it was fully loaded.

  “I assume the Deering police report noted that the woman is already dead,” Grey said.

  “It’s not her that worries me. Who knows what else is slithering around in there?” Lean holstered his weapon again. “I don’t see anything resembling a path here.”

  “Well, I guess we just push on, then. I’ll take the flank.” Grey moved off to the right as Lean pushed forward, shouldering aside low-hanging branches and plowing through the underbrush that had overtaken any old path. The land sloped down, and the ground became increasingly damp. He picked his way along several small stepping-stones across a miniature creek and sank a half inch deep with each step across the boglike ground, so that the water seeped in at the seams of his shoes.

  The overhead foliage was sparse enough to let in patches of light. Lean saw an angular shape looming about twenty yards ahead, and he recognized it as a slanted roof. He let out three quick, sharp whistle bursts, then continued forward slowly, giving Grey time to find him.

  “What was that supposed to be?”

  “That was a legitimate bird call,” Lean said.

  “Ah, the elusive Presbyterian warbler.”

  Lean chuckled. “Fine, I’ll send up smoke signals next time.” He motioned with his head. “There—straight through.”

  The two detectives pushed by the last bit of brush and emerged into a soggy clearing. A small structure, which could not honestly claim any title grander than hovel, squatted before them. At one time it had a window on the front side, but the glass was broken out, and the primitive plank door had come off its hinges. The roof was made of loosely fitted wooden boards of various sizes, through which a rusty stovepipe protruded. Lean stood silent for a moment searching for the words he needed, then recited:

  “There, in a gloomy hollow glen, she found

  A little cottage built of sticks and reeds,

  In homely wise, and walled with sods around,

  In which a witch did dwell in loathly weeds.”

  Lean glanced to his side to see Grey standing nearby, peering at him with an arched eyebrow. “Spenser,” announced the deputy. “You’re not the only bloke around here who’s ever opened a book.”

  They stepped over the rotting door and entered the shack. At their approach, several small things scurried. Crooked beams of daylight sifted down through cracks and holes in the bare roof, displaying thin pillars of swirling dust. The smell of decaying plants outside the hovel had been replaced by a more putrid smell, smoke combined with the stale odor of human presence and waste. Lingering above it all, Lean thought he could detect the scent of death, though perhaps, knowing that the woman’s body had lain there undiscovered for some time, his mind simply expected the smell.

  The shack seemed even smaller inside. A dingy, stained blanket had been strung up to cordon off a third of the room. It hung half off its line now, revealing a flimsy, tattered mattress on the floor, well stained with every shade of human usage. The larger portion of the room held a rickety bench, a small circular table, and a thick chair painted black and covered with etchings and strange designs. From an exposed beam above hung a series of strings on which dangled a variety of small animal bones. There was a second window on the south side of the shack that still held its grimy pane of glass. Set there, upon a wooden crate, were four potted plants, only one of which clung to life.

  While Lean knocked about the small room, Grey went over to peer at the plants. He plucked something from the last living one. After a few moments, he moved across the r
oom to a shelf near the fireplace that held a variety of glass and earthenware jars. He began to examine the contents of each container and sniffed at a few of the selections, one of which turned his head. He dumped the offending brown powder onto the floor.

  “Anything interesting?” Lean asked.

  Grey pointed to the surviving potted plant. Lean examined the specimen, a woody, prickly, twining, herblike plant with numerous slender, smooth-textured branches. A few of the branches had sprouted a dozen pairs of leaflets, which looked to be dying before having reached their peak. Pinkish flowers that had faded to near white were on the branches’ swollen nodes or else had dropped off and withered in the pot. Many of the branches had been snipped.

  “Looks bare, like it’s dead. But it’s really been trimmed down to nothing.”

  “Exactly,” Grey said.

  “So?”

  “So where are the rest of the seeds? There’s not a single specimen in all these jars. They’re all gone except for this single bit, which, judging from the small size, may have sprouted after the plant was trimmed.” Grey held up a sprig whose tip bore a cluster of pods, which had opened and curled back to reveal small, oval-shaped seeds of a glossy scarlet.

  Lean looked a bit closer and saw that the bright red only covered the bottom two-thirds of each of the quarter-inch-long seeds. The top third of each was black.

  “So she trimmed them and sold them all to her customers.”

  “Perhaps. Odd, though—every container here but one holding something. One jar emptied. And just this one plant that she valued highly enough to care for more than the others. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who valued this plant.”

  Lean shrugged. It was a long bit of speculation about some old plant seeds when what they were there to investigate was a question of murder. “There were no signs of violence. No struggle, if it’s a robbery and murder you’re getting at. There was just her body sprawled out there by the hearth.”

  Lean went and stood before the chimney, which was of a crude design: wood, plastered over with a heavy clay-based mud mixed with hay and twigs that had then been baked hard. He looked down between his feet. For all the other aesthetic and structural failings of the dismal little dwelling, the hearth actually showed some signs of skilled workmanship. A rough area of about four by six feet had been covered with large, irregular fieldstones. The mortar between the stones had gone black with age but was still set firmly in place to fashion a solid hearth of bluish gray rock.