The Fressingfield Witch

by Jacqueline Beard

  “And did everyone believe in this gift?”

  “Not at first,” said Hannah. “But the second year after the death of her husband, she predicted Harriet Corbyn would die, and so it came to pass.”

  “Harriet Corbyn died?”

  “Yes. She was over seventy years old and suffered from heart problems so there was no reason to suppose it was anything more than a fortunate guess. But Mary spoke of it with such satisfaction that people began to wonder. They did not like her manner and thought she may have wished the death upon Harriet rather than predicted it.”

  “Who would think such a silly thing?”

  “George Corbyn’s family,” said Hannah. “None of them liked Mary, particularly his daughter Sarah. Mary could not understand their resentment. It saddened her to begin with, then she provoked it. She was not a great judge of character and did not appreciate that her own behaviour was inappropriate. I cautioned her to be more understanding and she tried at first but to no avail. Then, to everyone's astonishment, George Corbyn married her.”

  “That must have come as a shock to his daughter,” said Lawrence.

  “It did,” agreed Hannah. “She could never have envisaged it. I was fortunate myself. Mary confided in me before they wed, so I was in the know, but Sarah was not. She disliked Mary enough before the marriage, but afterwards, she detested her.”

  “Did the rest of the family feel the same?”

  “They tried to like her. George’s brother William did not mind her so much as the others. He was kind to her when they were not. He was the only one who did not actively hate her in the end.”

  “Mary sounds a little odd,” said Lawrence, “but I have heard nothing to think her wicked and certainly not a witch. The hostility seems far greater than the crime.”

  “As I said, her behaviour changed. It grew increasingly more provocative,” said Hannah. “When she married George Corbyn, men would mock him, telling him that he had been bewitched. It was a bit of fun, to begin with, but his family hated the ridicule. The harder Mary tried to fit in, the less the family liked her which was difficult as they all lived under one roof. Then not long after they married, one of the farm worker’s wives sought Mary’s help with a sore on her leg that would not heal. Mary gave her a salve, but within days her leg had swollen and the wound began to suppurate. By the end of the week, her leg had gone black, the flesh rotten.”

  Lawrence shuddered. “What became of her?”

  “She died,” said Hannah, “died in agony. Her leg should have come off but she would not see a doctor. Her husband blamed Mary. He said it was her filthy potion that caused his wife’s death. Mary did not respond sympathetically. She told him that if his wife had kept the wound clean, the salve would have worked very well.”

  “No doubt true,” said Lawrence, “but not terribly tactful.”

  “No,” replied Hannah. “The husband was beside himself with grief and rage. He called her a witch and told everyone who listened that she had done it on purpose.”

  “Poor Mary,” said Lawrence, “it sounds like she was only trying to help.”

  “Not entirely,” said Hannah. “Her services were not free, which was another reason the husband was angry. They were a poor family who could ill-afford medical care, even the small amount Mary charged. “He asked Mary to return the money that his wife had paid, but Mary refused. When Sarah came to hear of it, she would not have Mary back in the house. It took many months for her to relent, but by then her relationship with Mary was ruined beyond repair.”

  “Why?” asked Lawrence.

  “Because of the crow.”

  “A crow?”

  “Mary kept a crow in a cage,” explained Hannah. “A poor thing she found with a broken wing. She cared for it until she was sure it would live, but the wing would not mend and it could not fend for itself. Anyone else would have wrung its neck, but Mary did not. She fed it and cared for it.”

  “She sounds like a compassionate woman,” said Lawrence.

  “It was ill-judged,” said Hannah. She poured more tea into the cups without asking whether Lawrence wanted another. Lawrence sipped the now tepid tea, then pushed the cup away.

  “How so?”

  “Have you heard about the death of Jonathan Carter?”

  “I have, and I know about the crows that were found near his body.”

  “Yes, they tried to keep it quiet but some of us heard about the crows,” said Hannah, “so you will understand why taming one was reviled. Jonathan Carter had only been dead for three years. Although the talk of bewitchment had faded, it had never completely vanished. It was all brought back when they heard about her crow and she was viewed with even greater mistrust. I implored her to give up the crow, but she would not hear of it.”

  “I cannot imagine George Corbyn being in favour of her crow?”

  “He was not. He hated it and believed it an omen of death.”

  “I begin to see the problem,” said Lawrence, “a well-meaning woman with an unfortunate way of offending without intending to.”

  Hannah sighed. She scraped back the chair and began clearing the cups from the table. “She was not completely without blame,” she said. “As I have told you, she was my friend - perhaps my closest friend, but I would not want you to leave with the wrong impression. By the time Mary died, she had convinced herself that she had powers ordinary people lacked. The reason they thought her a witch, is because she believed it herself.”

  Chapter 9

  Inquest

  Lawrence emerged from the Post Office deep in thought. Everything he had been told about Mary inferred that she was in the grip of a self-created delusion. It gave him room for hope. If Mary was the cause of the outbreak of hysteria, then it should die of its own accord now she was no longer around to perpetuate the myth. But leaving it to chance and hoping the rumours would fade away might not be enough. He should, at the very least, speak with the Corbyn family. If there were no surprises from them, his stay in Fressingfield might be swiftly concluded and to the satisfaction of all.

  He was considering whether to return directly to Bury Saint Edmunds if he finished early or visit his sister in Warwick when he heard a voice call his name. He turned around to see Violet Smith walking towards him. Her wicker basket was full and she carried a brown paper parcel beneath her arm.

  “You have been busy,” he said amiably. “May I carry your parcel.”

  “I would be grateful,” she smiled, handing it over. “Have you finished your business yet?”

  “I have for the moment,” Lawrence replied. “There are other people that I need to talk to but it can wait. Are you returning to the Vicarage?”

  “I am,” she said.

  “Good. I will walk with you while I interrogate you if you have no objection”

  She laughed. “I do not know what use I may be but I promised to cooperate, and I will.”

  “Do you know Hannah Roper?”

  “From the Post Office?”

  “Yes. Do you know her well?”

  “I do not know anyone well, but I have passed time with her and she is always pleasant.”

  “She seems very sensible. I am inclined to trust her. Do you think her honest?”

  “I do,” said Violet, “I have no reason not to trust her judgement. Why do you ask?”

  “She gives a very different account of Mary Corbyn to any other I have heard.”

  “A difference in the account is no reason to suppose it cannot be accurate.”

  “That is what I thought,” said Lawrence. “We are in agreement.”

  They continued walking and had almost reached the Vicarage when Loveday emerged from the top of Church Street. She waved and walked swiftly towards them.

  “I have succeeded,” she smiled. “Three dresses are on order and will be ready in a fortnight.”

  “I am pleased you had a fruitful visit,” said Lawrence.

  “Are you going to speak to Michael now?” she asked without acknowledging
Violet.

  Lawrence reddened. “Yes, I will,” he said.

  Violet raised an eyebrow.

  “Goodness, there is Emily,” said Loveday. “I had better tell her where I have been.”

  She put her hand on her hat and hurried across the road.

  “An unusual young lady,” said Lawrence awkwardly.

  “Indeed.” The expression on Violet’s face was unreadable.

  They entered the Vicarage and Violet left to attend Mrs Harris while Lawrence sought Michael. He found him in the upper part of the garden, sitting at a wrought-iron table next to a stout, older man. They were engaged in earnest discussion.

  “Ah, Lawrence.” Michael sprang to his feet. “What excellent timing. This is our parish clerk, Elijah Scoggins. We have been discussing church matters. If you want to talk to him, now would be an opportune time.”

  “Good afternoon,” said Lawrence, offering his hand.

  Mr Scoggins stood and gave a firm shake. He appeared stouter and shorter than when he was sitting. His greying hair was thick with no sign of balding, though a deep-lined face gave the impression of a man approaching his sixth decade.

  “Glad to meet you,” he said gruffly.

  Lawrence pulled out a chair and sat with them. The metal was cold against his back.

  “Have you discussed our concerns with Mr Scoggins?” asked Lawrence.

  “No,” said Michael. “It has all been about parish matters today. We have concluded for now. Would you like me to remain while you talk?”

  “Not if you have something you would rather attend to,” said Lawrence.

  “I do,” said Michael, “my sermon remains incomplete.” He grimaced.

  “I quite understand,” smiled Lawrence. He turned to face Elijah Scoggins. “I will not take up much of your valuable time,” he said. “I understand you were present at the inquest into the death of the little Hammond girl?”

  “Then I fear you have been misled,” said Scoggins. “I was not there at all”

  “My misunderstanding,” Lawrence apologised. “Michael said I should consult you about parish records. I may have wrongly assumed you were at the inquest. If you were not there, then I will not keep you from your duties.”

  “Why do you want to know?” asked Scoggins. “I may yet be able to assist. I have seen all the accounts of the inquest.”

  “I too,” said Lawrence. “I wanted to confirm the accuracy of the detail contained in the press clippings.”

  “Do you have the press clippings to hand?”

  Lawrence reached into his pocket and peeled the clippings from his notepad. “Here,” he said, thrusting them towards Elijah.

  They sat in silence for some moments while the Parish Clerk digested the contents of the papers. “Have you read these?” he asked.

  “Not all,” confessed Lawrence. “I scanned the first two when they were handed to me, but I have not read them through.”

  “I cannot say whether the inquest into the baby was reported accurately,” said Scoggins, “for as I said, I was not there. But I was at the first inquest.”

  Lawrence reached for the cutting offered by Elijah. The article, clipped from the Ipswich Journal, was dated 1884. It reported the inquest of Jonathan Carter.

  “Then you certainly can help,” said Lawrence. “I have it on good authority that some of the matters raised at the inquest, were not reported upon.”

  Elijah nodded in agreement. “They were not,” he confirmed., “but it was not with the intent to deceive. There were matters raised at the inquest which were not fit for public consumption.”

  “You mean accusations of witchcraft?”

  Elijah sighed. He stroked rough, stubby fingers against his wiry sideburns as he considered his response. “Yes,” he said, finally. “There has been much talk of witchcraft in this village for some time. I was involved in the Carter inquest. Having heard the accusations once, I was in full agreement that the later allegations should be concealed from the press.”

  “What do you mean when you say you were involved?”

  Elijah pursed his lips, “I will tell you, but first you should understand why I decided to act in that manner.”

  Lawrence nodded. “Continue,” he said.

  “Jonathan Carter was an old man, long past his best. He was not educated and lacked a certain amount of rationality,” said Elijah. “I have known him a long time and when he first spoke of curses and crows, I thought his mind befuddled.”

  “Exactly what anyone would think,” agreed Lawrence.

  “They did, to begin with,” Elijah continued, “but Jonathan was in the grip of such terror that the fear began to spread. By the time he came to see me, the man was broken and careless in his talk. Others began to believe his stories.”

  “He spoke to you about it?” asked Lawrence.

  “He did,” said Elijah. “He told me that there was a particular place that he used to break his journey when he ventured to the village. It was a tree stump and he got into the habit of sitting there to rest. I saw him on the stump many times, and other people did too. It became something of a routine. He found the first dead crow when he settled there a few months before he died.”

  “And how did he know that the crow was meant for him?”

  “I will get on to that,” said Scoggins. “But you should know that it was not the only crow. There were several others. One instance was particularly nasty.”

  Lawrence wrinkled his nose. He did not want to hear the details but was duty-bound.

  Elijah Scoggins continued. “He lodged with George and Harriet Corbyn. Harriet was George’s first wife and Jonathan’s sister. One day, Jonathan woke early and it so happened that he was the first to leave the cottage. As he opened the door, he found a pile of decomposing crows on the front door step. They were rancid; several weeks old and infested with maggots. He was disgusted and afraid in equal measures. This continued for several weeks. Piles of crows were left in varying locations and different degrees of putrefaction for him to find.”

  “And they were definitely intended for him?” asked Lawrence.

  “Without a doubt,” said Elijah.

  “And how do you know?”

  “Because there was a note accompanying the first of the crows. A sharpened stick had been thrust into the crow’s breast and cleaved at the other end to accommodate a slip of paper. Jonathan could not read, but he kept the note. He grew more afraid as he found each crow's corpse until he was at his wit's end. When he could take no more, he brought the note to me.”

  Lawrence leaned forward. “What did it say?” he asked.

  “It said, “I curse you, Jonathan Carter. Death stalks you.”

  “Good Lord,” exclaimed Lawrence. “There is no doubt at all.”

  “It gave me a nasty turn,” said Elijah. His fingers trembled as he rubbed his face.

  “Someone must have wished him ill,” said Lawrence, “it was a spiteful thing to do to an old man.”

  “Somebody tried to terrify him,” said Elijah, “and they succeeded.”

  “Do you truly believe he was frightened to death?” asked Lawrence incredulously.

  “I think it possible,” said Elijah. “He had a weak heart which was widely known. Several other members of his family suffered from the same condition.”

  “Was this suppressed at the inquest?” asked Lawrence.

  “No, it was not.”

  “I have not read about it?”

  “No,” repeated Elijah. “You did not for I never said it.”

  “Why not? It was pertinent.”

  “I did not reveal it for several reasons, the foremost of which was my reluctance to add any more credence to the rumours of witchcraft. I am a parish clerk and conduct my business with the Godly. This talk of the supernatural goes against everything I believe in. And there is another reason; a reason I have not shared with anyone but which preys upon my conscience.”

  “Will you tell me?” asked Lawrence.

  Elij
ah nodded. “I will. I did not read the whole of the note to Carter. Following the curse was a further sentence. It said, ‘For Faith Mills and all like her.”

  “Who was Faith Mills?” asked Lawrence.

  “Faith Mills was the original Fressingfield Witch.”

  Chapter 10

  Honor – Subjugation

  We arrived in Fressingfield in 1639 when I was eleven years of age, journeying on the back of an old cart with all our worldly goods beside us. We travelled most of the way in silence, full of trepidation. I held the hands of my two younger siblings while Patience rocked and gurned in silent anguish. Mother stared fixedly ahead, lost in her thoughts. We ceased our travels when the moon was high in the sky. Darkness fell heavily around us. The pale moon cast shadows across the fields and the stillness was punctuated by the calls of a lone owl.

  Mother had not sent word of our impending arrival to her aunt, fearful of a refusal. As soon as we stopped, she begged the driver to wait outside my Aunt’s cottage until daybreak to avoid upsetting her with a midnight call. The Carter, in need of rest himself, was easily persuaded to break for a nap. Though his presence mitigated our fear of the dark, we rested but could not sleep. It was the first and last time that we had food aplenty. Though grateful for the generosity of mother’s friends in Lavenham, we were too disturbed and disorientated to be hungry. We waited until darkness broke then we saw our Aunt Bennett’s cottage for the first time.

  It was a poorly-constructed property in the middle of a terrace of three, far smaller than our smart home in Lavenham. It had one tiny window to the front and a crooked door set into irregular grey stone walls. Above was a low tiled roof with a hole and a large swathe of moss. My spirits fell still further at the sight.

  We dismounted from the carriage and the Carter placed our meagre belongings on the track at the front of the house. Mother wiped the dust away from our faces and patted down our clothing in a bid to make us presentable. Then she knocked at the door, unhooked the latch and let herself in.