The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits Volume 3 (The Mammoth Book Series)

by Mike Ashley

  And Frevisse, her eyes on the stone-carved angels smiling as they gazed into eternity, said, “You’re very welcome.” And smiled, too, and said, “You’ll have your eighteen angels now, anyway.”

  “And thank you for that, too,” said Alice.

  Lady Alice’s tomb still stands in Ewelme Church, Oxfordshire, with her stone-carved angels above, below, and all around it, still smiling as they gaze into eternity.

  The Witching Hour

  Martin Edwards

  Martin Edwards is a solicitor in Liverpool, just like the main character in his noted series of books starring Harry Devlin which began with All the Lonely People (1991). Edwards is constantly busy. When not writing new novels, he is producing many reference works or editing anthologies, let alone being a partner in his firm of solicitors. In the following story Edwards looks back at what might have been the judicial or prejudicial process in a witch trial in the 1600s.

  Tomorrow she dies

  Richard Norley laid down his pen. For hour after long hour, its scratching had been the only sound in this musty attic at the top of the Judges’ Lodgings. He had wanted to write, needed to write. Anything to distract his thoughts from the image haunting his brain. The tallow candle still burned, but it was past midnight. His writing arm was weary, the old wooden chair was uncomfortable, and he ought to be asleep. But no man could sleep when his heart was full of dread. He feared the approach of daybreak. For it would be Martha Beeston’s last dawn.

  Had he dreamed the beseeching look when her gaze fell upon him, as she was taken so roughly out of the courtroom? She had looked over her shoulder and their eyes had met. No, there was no mistaking it: for all her terror, she was a young woman of spirit. For all her poverty and degradation, her eyes – so strange and lustrous! – shone with a challenge.

  You believe me and I have no-one else to turn to. I am innocent, and I see from your face that you know this is so. So why do you sit there, mute and head bowed? Will you not try to save me from an agonising death?

  The night was cool, but Richard’s skin was clammy, as though he had become feverish with apprehension. Better than most, he understood that often it is no straightforward matter to determine whether a person’s testimony is true or perjured. Experience had taught him that even the most apparently decent folk may spin a web of lies, even a cruel malefactor is capable of intermittent honesty. Yet he counted himself a student of his fellow man and flattered himself that he could interpret Martha’s character from her demeanour when on trial for her life. She had undergone so many indignities that it would surely have been tempting for her to yield to Fate and make a confession – but she had remained defiant. Notwithstanding his long apprenticeship in the discipline of logic, Richard was certain that Martha Beeston was innocent.

  An absurd notion, of course. How bitterly he reproached himself! He was Clerk of Assize, a most responsible office for one so young, behaving as foolishly as a mawkish old maid. Evidence is all that matters, any man steeped in the ways of the law knows that. Without evidence, there is nothing, and the declaration of evidence in these proceedings under King James’s Witchcraft Act was as compelling as any Richard had ever heard. A courtroom is no place for idle fancies, far less for unsuitable attractions. The young woman, poorly dressed with black hair that descended to her shoulders, impenitent and sardonic, was scarcely a proper match for an ambitious fellow who pursued his calling with a single-minded zeal. And yet he could not help himself. Hot with self-disgust, he told himself that she must indeed be a witch, so effectively had she entranced him.

  In law, Martha had no cause to complain. Justice had been seen to be done. First, the case had come before one of his Majesty’s justices, John Hankelow, a local squire with a good name for vigilance. The Magistrate, a deeply religious man, was aghast when he learned about the hellish practices of Annie Beeston and Martha, her granddaughter. The women came from a remote corner of rural Cheshire, close to the border with Salop. Richard, born and bred within Chester’s Roman walls, had never had cause to travel to Clough, the lonely hamlet where they dwelt. The place was not so many miles away from the old city, but the baneful happenings in Clough might have taken place in a different world.

  John Hankelow took lengthy depositions and committed the two prisoners for trial at the next Assizes. Annie, a withered, worn and decrepit old crone, was confused in her speech but so contrite and repentant that but for the damnable nature of her crimes an onlooker might have been moved to pity. Martha, in contrast, remained aloof and steadfast in her denial of guilt. Annie’s husband, Mungo, was four score years and seven. For years he had been ailing and his mind was even more of a muddle than his wife’s. He was not even aware that Annie and their granddaughter had been imprisoned in poky cells at Chester Castle, far less that Annie had died from a seizure of the brain a week before the trial was due to commence.

  Thus it was Martha alone who came before Baron Elbourne’s court and a jury of gentlemen of understanding. The indictment cited the felonious practice of divers wicked and devilish arts called witchcraft and enchantments upon one William Stubbings, farmer in the parish of Clough, and by force of the same witchcraft, the killing of him contra pacem. For the trial of her life, Martha insisted upon her innocence and put herself upon God and her Country, but the facts left no room for uncertainty as to the verdict. Annie’s deposition was read out to a hushed courtroom and the prosecution adduced consistent evidence. The witnesses included persons of standing, two landowners and a distinguished antiquary. Martha’s wickedness had been proven beyond a reasonable doubt and the judge’s solemn task was to condemn her to death.

  In the aftermath of the trial, Baron Elbourne concluded that it would be necessary and profitable to publish to the world the proceedings of the court and he deputed Richard to the sober task. Decent God-fearing folk need to know, His Lordship pronounced, the means whereby witches work their mischief, their wicked charms and sorceries, the better to prevent and avoid the dangers that may ensue if their evil acts remain unchecked. For Richard, this was an opportunity to serve the most distinguished judge on the Northern Circuit and to earn a small place in history by chronicling the workings of justice in an extraordinary case. He had dreamed of receiving such a commission. Yet upon his wish being granted, he was more deeply troubled than at any time before in his twenty-nine years. No matter how he fought his sinister infatuation, he could not bring himself to believe that Martha Beeston was a witch.

  Or was it simply, he asked himself as he sat alone in the flickering candlelight, that he could not accept the consequences of the verdict? His head told him that this was closer to the mark. He trembled at the thought of the agonising fate that awaited the young woman and therefore had persuaded himself that she was pure and not a creature of the Devil.

  He had believed he was mature enough to conquer the uncertainties that had beset him in youth. Absurd as it might seem today, there had been times when he had questioned whether witchcraft should be a crime. Some pamphleteers argued that witches were no more than poor and foolish creatures who preyed upon the superstitious by way of elementary conjuring tricks, but His Royal Highness had no doubts and the Scriptures supported him. Sensible men recognised that it was unwise to quarrel with the King, whatever private reservations they might entertain, and Richard was nothing if not sensible. Besides, His Majesty’s arguments were sound. Lewd priests exploited witches in the most sinister fashion to incline the ignorant towards blind Papistry. Women claiming to be possessed with unclean spirits would concoct strange illusions to draw people together and extract promises of loyalty and devotion. Their misdeeds must be punished and the Act was fair. Those who cast a spell to find a love-potion or to damage property were punished merely by the pillory and a year in gaol. The penalty of death was reserved only for those who conjured up evil spirits or used spells to harm a fellow human being.

  Richard wiped his brow. The proof of Martha Beeston’s sins reached beyond her ailing grandmother’s confessi
on that the two of them practised witchcraft, far beyond the testimony of a simple thirteen-year-old girl. The pinched face of Dorothy Losh swam into his mind. The daughter of a labourer who worked in William Stubbings’ fields, she had dirty red hair and wore a frayed cotton dress. Richard could hear her whining voice now, see the pretty little bracelet shining on her wrist as she stabbed a grubby finger towards the dock.

  “I heard the two of them whilst I was walking in the wood. The old woman has always frightened me and so I hid behind an elm tree. I listened to them talking, I was afraid that they might be plotting against my poor widowed mother. Mungo Beeston’s family has always hated mine, for as long as they have been our neighbours. I believe they are jealous of our land. And so I know that they would be glad to do me an injury, for it would cause my mother such distress. I could hear the old woman telling Martha that she might have and do what she would, if only she would give herself to the Devil. If she surrendered her soul to him, she would want for nothing. Martha refused, saying she feared God, and I could hear her crying, but the old woman said she soon would change her opinion.”

  The judge was stern, but not inhuman. He questioned the child with patience. To Richard, her expression seemed shifty, but she swallowed hard and held her head up high. For all her tender years and malicious smirks at the prisoner, she impressed Baron Elbourne as a credible witness. Her account scarcely differed from the contents of her original deposition to the Magistrate.

  “After that, I kept watch on Martha whenever I could. Our cottage was only a furlong distant from hers. The old woman was a witch, of that I was sure. But she was infirm and seldom left home. Her powers were failing, but Martha was different. She was seventeen years old and ever since her mother’s death, she did whatever she liked. Her grandmother was feeble, but I knew that Martha might inflict upon us terrible harm if she agreed to serve the Evil One.”

  In the still of the courtroom, Dorothy’s story cast its own spell upon those present. Even Baron Elbourne seemed to hold his breath as the girl continued.

  “One evening, I was going home after a visit to my aunt. It was late, but there was a full moon to guide me. I was hurrying back, lest my mother worry about what might have happened to me, although I had been too fearful to tell her what old Mad Annie Beeston had said to her granddaughter. As I passed along our little lane, close to where the Beestons lived, I heard a strange and mournful barking and shrank into the shadows. Through the hedge I saw a huge black dog with fierce yellow eyes, bounding towards the cottage.”

  At this point, the girl’s whole body began to shake, but the judge allowed her time to compose herself.

  “As the dog howled outside the front door, I saw Martha open her window. She listened to the creature for what seemed to be an eternity. I had a painful cramp in my legs, but I dared not move. At last she disappeared from sight, but a few moments later, I saw the door open. Martha was there. She was wearing a loose white shift, as though the dog had roused her from sleep. She seemed to hesitate and then she stepped over the threshold. The dog did not move as she went toward it. Then, with a single movement, she lifted the shift over her head and stood before the creature as it slavered for her. I could see everything clearly in the moonlight. I wanted to weep for her shame, but I knew that if I made a noise, my fate would be sealed. Then she bent forward and – and I saw the black dog sucking greedily at her breast.”

  The judge leaned forward. His face was a mask, his voice as cold as the draught in the courtroom.

  “At the pap?”

  “Yes, my Lord. After a few moments, Martha – Martha let out a cry. It was a most horrid sound.

  “What sort of cry?”

  “My Lord, it was a cry of joy.”

  “No! No! She lies!”

  Martha was crying out again, but now she was protesting against the girl’s evidence. Her face was ashen and she trembled with emotion beyond her power to control. In his sternest tone, the judge insisted that she should not interrupt the witness. If such intolerable conduct were to be repeated, he would have no hesitation in having her punished severely for contempt of court. His wrath was all the more menacing for being articulated in such a chill tone. Martha shrank back, and it seemed to Richard that if her slight figure became any smaller, it might disappear. There was no hatred in her expression, merely horror at the girl’s relentless accusations.

  “I could bear it no longer, and so I fled. But a week later, I was walking down the lane again, watching out for them, so that I might run away if either of them were about and saw me. Through a gap in the hedge I could see the pair of them. The old hag and the young, next to the ditch that runs close to their cottage. They had a mound of marl and Annie Beeston was telling her granddaughter what to do. She was describing the way that William Stubbings’s face and body were shaped while Martha made something out of the clay.”

  Tears were running down Martha Beeston’s cheeks, but she dried them with the back of her hand, brushed a stray hair off her face and made not another sound. Her coltish frame was stiff with fear, but she did not lack pride. She would not give in. At that instant, Martha resembled not a witch, but a girl much younger than her years, a girl less wise in the ways of the world even than her child-accuser. She could not, Richard told himself, ever have contemplated selling her soul to Satan.

  Unable to sit still any longer, Richard strode across the room and threw himself upon the bed. The floorboards creaked in protest under his feet, but he was sure that Baron Elbourne, slumbering in his chamber below, would not stir. The judge always slept the sleep of the just. If one walked past his door, one could hear his thunderous snoring. Richard closed his eyes, praying to the Lord that the mercy of sleep might be granted to him as well, but it was no good. The attic room was furnished simply, for a Clerk of Assize was expected to have plainer tastes than a justice. But near the door stood a long case clock made of yew and already it was chiming one o’clock. Dawn was creeping nearer all the time.

  Tomorrow she dies.

  Richard clambered off the bed and returned to his desk. He wanted to check his record of the trial and refresh his memory of the evidence given by Hugo Frandley. Other than William Stubbings deceased, Frandley was the principal landowner in Clough. He was bald and fat, with dark little eyes sunk deep into the fleshy, sweat-caked recesses of his face. A widower aged fifty, he wheezed unpleasantly whenever he spoke. It seemed to Richard that the man’s pompous speech was in keeping with his self-regard. As if bestowing a kindness, he had proposed marriage to Martha not three months before. The girl swiftly declined his offer, offering the excuse (as it seemed to Richard) that she was too young. Fiddling with the jewelled ring that adorned his chubby forefinger, Frandley damned her with his jealous words.

  “She seemed angry with me, though I could not understand it. Had she accepted my hand, she would have bettered herself. I count myself a man of some consequence in the neighbourhood and for such a slip of a girl to refuse my hand caused me no little dismay and embarrassment. Having only wished to assist her, I asked for her assurance that she would not mention the matter to a soul. She gave her assent, but it was as if I had offended her and she made me pay a price. As I walked home that very night, my Lord, a hare spat fire at me. Within a fortnight, one of my cows went mad. Within six weeks, five of them were dead. I know they were not afflicted by any disease. She bewitched them, I have no doubt of it.”

  A spiteful child and a rejected suitor. Neither of them troubled to conceal their hostility towards Martha. One might contend that they were partial witnesses, and that no human being, far less a young woman, should be put to death by reason of their unsubstantiated allegations. But the same could not be said of Joshua Carrington and George Stubbings, far less Martha’s own grandmother. Annie Beeston was an infirm old woman, hunch-backed and disfigured by many warts. Her deposition to John Hankelow was rambling to the point of incoherence, but there was no uncertainty concerning the one fact that mattered to the Magistrate and he ensured t
hat the record of it was clear as crystal. Speaking, as it seemed to Richard, with a wild and reckless determination to air the truth, Annie Beeston was quite prepared to admit indulgence in witchcraft.

  “An evil spirit came for me, in the shape of a boy. He wore a coat, half black, half brown. He told me that if I wanted to be revenged of anything, I should call on him and he would be ready. All he asked was for my soul.”

  Crimson-faced, she confessed that the Devil had made her kiss his buttocks and swear eternal allegiance. In return for this act of infamy, he granted her uncanny powers. She could bewitch ale and turn milk into butter and cast spells upon those who misused her. She and her sick husband were in the twilight of their days and she seldom had occasion to utilise her extraordinary gifts, but Martha’s whole life was ahead of her. That was why she implored Martha to become a witch. Annie’s only wish was for her grand-daughter to have everything she desired.

  “Revenge is sweet, I told her. I have been wronged many times in my life and I did not wish Martha to suffer as I have done. If any man mistreated her, there is a speedy way to make him ill or take his life. I taught her that all she needed was to make a picture of clay. The art is to make it like unto the shape of the person you mean to kill.”

  The picture should be dried thoroughly, she explained to the grim Magistrate. When a witch intended to do any man harm, she would take a thorn or pin and prick it in that part of the picture where she would have him be sick. If she wanted any part of the body consumed away, she should take away that part of the picture. If she wanted the whole body consumed away, she should take the remnant of the picture and burn it. By that means, the body should die.