“Hello again,” he said, as he approached. “How are you?"
“Busy,” she replied, warmly. “There is a wedding at the church tomorrow and we are dressing it up for the occasion.”
“It looks very nice already,” said Lawrence running his hand along a carved figure at the end of the wooden bench.
“Would you like me to show you around?” offered Hannah.
“I would, but not today,” he said.” I must speak with the Reverend before he leaves for Norwich. A guided tour will be very welcome when I have more time.”
“She smiled, “it will be my pleasure. Let me know when you are free. Reverend Raven is over there.”
She pointed towards the back of the church where the Reverend was poring over a book of text behind a screen.
Lawrence walked down the aisle towards him and the Reverend raised his head.
“How are you, Lawrence?” he asked, extending a hand. “Our paths have not crossed much since yesterday, but I hear you have been busy.”
“I have,” replied Lawrence, “but I will not trouble you with a report of my progress, knowing you are about to make a journey. A name has been brought to my attention. I regret the interruption but I need to know more about her before you go.”
“What is her name?” asked the Reverend.
“Faith Mills.”
A frown passed over the Reverend’s face. “I am surprised you have ever heard of Faith Mills. It all happened so long ago. There is no cause to bring her name into recent events. Reason and logic seem to have absented themselves from the village these last months.”
“The man who mentioned Faith Mills is well-educated,” said Lawrence. “He does not believe in witchcraft and holds superstition in contempt.”
“Regardless, I would rather not speak of her here,” said the Reverend, “and I do not need to. It is better that you consult the records directly. You will find a stone store room in the grounds of the Vicarage. It has a basement beneath. The old parish chest was moved from the church many years ago and is now stored underground. It contains registers and records, many of which I have used for historical research. You will find information about Faith Mills there.”
Lawrence thanked the Reverend and walked back through the church feeling somewhat unnerved. He sensed he had been gently admonished.
Hannah had completed her flower arrangement and was making her way towards the porch. She smiled at Lawrence as he passed. “Have you met Annie Riches?” she asked, nodding towards her companion.
Lawrence offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said.
They loitered outside the church, passing time. “Annie is, or rather was, Mary Corbyn’s daughter-in-law,” Hannah continued. “She is married to William Riches.”
Lawrence smiled, resisting the temptation to ask questions about Annie’s deceased mother-in-law while in company. He appreciated Hannah’s introduction but decided that it would be better to question Annie Riches alone another time. He elected to return to the Vicarage without delay, made his excuses to the two women and retraced his steps.
Lawrence avoided the front door of the Vicarage and unlatched the side gate instead. He walked down the edge of the building and past the stone-built orangery towards the rear of the garden which was laid to well-mown lawn. He surveyed the area trying to decide where the store room might be located. After a little searching, he found it at the rear, screened from view by a wooden, ivy-clad trellis covered in climbing roses. Lawrence walked past the newly budded plants towards a timber door which appeared to lead to the storage room. He tried the handle and found it unlocked, but stiff, the latch distorted by swollen wood. Lawrence gripped the handle again and forced it open. Metal ground against metal as it came free.
He entered a room which was small, dark and square, lit only by a tiny cobweb covered window on the left-hand side. A dust covered trestle table and bench stood centrally. Upon the table were a tarnished metal candle holder and a wooden box containing spare candles, matches and an empty inkwell. Lawrence blew and a film of dust and particles rose above the desk. He raised his hand to his mouth to avoid inhaling and reached towards the window to let in some air. It was firmly stuck. He surveyed the small space. It held all the materials necessary for writing or research but had evidently not been occupied in a long time.
Opposite the window, stairs descended into darkness. Though moderately mild outside, the store room was cold and the closer Lawrence moved towards the steps, the colder it became. He peered into the blackness but without illumination, it was impossible to see beyond the middle steps. He returned to the desk and reached for the bundle of candles, blowing more dust away. He flinched as the powdery particles settled on his skin.
Lawrence shone the candle over the top of the steps. Its meagre light was barely enough to detect where the shallow flight of steps ended before petering away into inky blackness. He took a further step down and shivered, listening to his faltering breath. It was the only sound he could hear. The silence from below was deafening. An irrational fear gripped hold of him and he stood at the top of the steps, rooted to the spot. He closed his eyes and prepared to move, then the latched doorway creaked and his heart lurched. He turned his head slowly towards the sound. It was Violet Smith. Relief coursed through his body.
“What are you doing here?” he snapped.
“Following, you,” said Violet, ignoring his tone. She carried an oil lamp in her hand.
“How did you know I was here?”
“I watched you from the dining room,” she said. “I saw you walk towards the store room and when you did not return, I assumed you had gone to the basement. I thought it might be helpful if I bought you a light.”
She handed him the oil lamp. He set the candle on the stairs and reached for it.
“The Reverend used this room when he first arrived in the parish,” said Violet. It is rarely occupied now, but when he was writing his first book, he came here often.”
Lawrence smiled. His heartbeat was beginning to return to normal and he was relieved to be in company.”
“Did I startle you?” she asked.
“A little,” said Lawrence, “but I am grateful you bought me the lamp. It is unnaturally dark in the basement room. Have you ever been there?”
“No,” said Violet, “I have never needed to and cannot imagine ever choosing to.”
“Too dark?” asked Lawrence.
“No, too poorly built,” replied Violet pointing to the crumbling stone walls by the side of the top two steps.
“I did not notice the damage,” said Lawrence. “It was the dark that bothered me, but now you are here and I have a proper source of light, I will have another go. You are welcome to join me.”
He held the oil lamp aloft. It provided a greater arc of light than the candle and he descended the steps with confidence. The short stairway led to a compact cellar with an arched roof in which he could not stand without bowing his head. Not only was the stairway in a bad state of repair, but bricks were crumbling at the lower part of the roof and towards the back wall. The structure seemed to be the remains of a wine cellar or ice house. It was damp and Lawrence recoiled at the smell of mould. “I cannot imagine how any papers survive here,” he said.
The parish chest was squashed against the back wall only feet away from where he stood by the steps. “I will not come any further,” said Violet. “This tiny room will not comfortably fit two people at once.”
“Will you hold the lamp?” asked Lawrence passing it to her. He knelt before the long oak chest, wiping dust away with his hands. Three iron hasps were set along the ancient box, punctuating the wood at intervals. Further ornate ironwork decorated the lid.
“This box is very old,” said Lawrence. “It is exquisitely crafted and far too beautiful to be languishing down here in the dark. Why is it not kept in the church?”
“I do not know,” said Violet, “but there is a newer parish chest there. Perhaps it replaced this one.”
/> “Perhaps,” agreed Lawrence unhooking the hasps from their iron counterparts. They unlatched with a satisfying crunch. “No padlocks,” he said heaving the lid open. “It is very heavy”.
He braced himself for another onslaught of damp and mildew smells but the inside reminded him of the aroma in his old school library. He brushed his fingers across the lumpy leaden lined lid and looked at the perfectly preserved contents. Books, papers and parchments littered the floor of the chest in no discernible order. He reached for a burgundy leather-bound ledger and flicked the pages open. Spidery writing recorded parish births, deaths and banns until the late 1600’s. “These are very old indeed,” he said.
“Why do you want them?” asked Violet shifting the lamp from one hand to another in an attempt to redistribute the weight.
“A name has cropped up during my investigation,” said Lawrence. “I am hoping to find mention of her in some of these papers.”
“That will take some time,” said Violet gazing at the mound of books and papers within the chest. “Which records do you need.”
“I have no idea," said Lawrence. “The Reverend did not tell me which records to use. I suppose I must look through each of them a few at a time, but not here. I feel safe to assume the Reverend’s tacit consent to read them anywhere. They can come into the Vicarage where I can deal with them in more comfortable surroundings.”
Lawrence shivered. He was emboldened now Violet was close by with an effective means of light. Even so, the underground room with its hidden chest felt secretive and menacing.
“Will you be much longer?” asked Violet, adjusting her shawl over her shoulders with her free hand. “I did not expect to be away for so long. Mrs Harris may need me.”
“No, I am leaving now,” he said, “give me one more moment.”
Lawrence picked through the contents of the chest. He selected two small leather-bound books, a pile of papers and several scrolls of parchment. Clasping them to his chest, he followed Violet up the stairs.
She turned the wick of the lamp to its lowest setting. Cupping her hand around the glass, she extinguished the flame. “I will leave this in the orangery in case you need it again,” she said.
“Thank you,” replied Lawrence, as they left the store room and walked towards the rear of the Vicarage. “I hope I have chosen well with these records. I have no wish to return to this basement if it is in any way avoidable.”
“And you cannot come here tomorrow until we have been to Wingfield,” said Violet.
“Ah, Michael has spoken to you?” asked Lawrence, fidgeting with the papers. He was discomforted by the prospect of travelling in the same confined space as Loveday and Violet Smith. Loveday was frank, disarming and beautiful; Violet Smith a plain Jane, aloof and practical. She would not approve of Loveday, he was sure. Did her approval, or lack of it, matter?
“Yes,” she said, “Michael has arranged the carriage for two o’clock. Meet us outside the front of the Vicarage and do not be late.” She disappeared through the morning room doors.
Lawrence returned to his room and spread the registers and papers on his dressing table. He unfurled one of the scrolls and cast an eye over the entries. They related to the resettlement of poor people to and from the parish. A second scroll was dated 1632 and entitled ‘Bastardy Bonds’. A third was inscribed in Latin. Lawrence deciphered a few words using school boy Latin, but his knowledge was insufficient to translate the whole document and he gave up.
He found the first mention of her name in a small, brown book, which was noticeably more modern than the parchments and scrolls. The ink was darker, fresher; the paper newer, pages almost pristine beneath the heavy cover. He read the front page. ‘An account of the desecration of local Suffolk churches by William Dowsing’.
He read on, fascinated. Lawrence's father had been a historian, not by qualification but by inclination. Lawrence had been greedy for his accounts of English history when he was a boy. He remembered a little of William Dowsing, who was not admired by his father. Dowsing was a Puritan soldier. He had been appointed to remove items of superstition and idolatry from Cambridgeshire and Suffolk churches. Lawrence remembered a heated discussion with his father many years before. Mr Harpham senior expressed his disgust at the desecration. It was not because he was a religious man, but because the idea of destroying irreplaceable historical items was abhorrent.
The brown book was a journal set out in two parts. The first part contained a transcript of William Dowsing’s own account of the churches he defiled. Lawrence read a few pages detailing the defacement of crosses in Offton. More followed describing the removal of a font in Flowton and the ruin of superstitious pictures in Barking. The account continued in the same vein, bearing cold, factual reports. Items removed from each church were recorded including details of and how and where they had been destroyed.
Dowsing’s account was broken by a single blank page in the middle of the book. The next page was thicker and a heavy parchment had been attached. It contained an account by Thomas Eley, churchwarden of Wetheringsett. Eley lamented the dreadful damage caused to their church. He wrote in detail of his attempts to right the damage, referencing all the costs required to make the repairs.
It was a dull account so Lawrence turned several pages at once and read on. The next chapter covered the destruction to Laxfield parish church. Reverend Adamson was the rector there. His account, like Eley’s, was pasted into the journal. But Adamson's account was personal, capturing his fears for the church and congregation. It must have been written soon after he received notice that soldiers would be arriving within twenty days. Adamson recorded his thoughts about the intended desecration. He had been warned that all crosses, brasses and superstitious paintings would be destroyed, but he prayed for leniency. Laxfield was William Dowsing's place of birth and the Reverend Adamson hoped he might spare the church out of sentimentality. The journal recorded his prayers for restraint. He fervently wished that Laxfield would fare better than the other churches.
When ten days passed and the soldiers had not arrived, the Reverend thought his prayers had been answered and that Dowsing had relented. But on the eleventh day, they came while he was absent from the church. They ravaged the holy place in an orgy of destruction. The remains of the paintings and statues were dumped in the graveyard, too ruined for restoration. But it was the last paragraph of Adamson’s account that Lawrence took note of. The Vicar had recorded his return in detail. He wrote of a woman he encountered praying in the graveyard on her hands and knees. She was sobbing over the damaged items and had borne witness to the entire defilement. Her name was Faith Mills and she dwelt in the parish of Fressingfield.
Lawrence closed the book. Fressingfield had a perfectly good church of its own. Why had Faith Mills worshipped in Laxfield?
Chapter 12
Nemesis
So, there is one in the village come to spy on us. I have heard talk of him from several sources. He is indiscrete, his futile intentions all too clear. He wants to know what cannot be known, to pry into matters that do not concern him. How dare he try to intervene in our plans.
The Church is behind this, of course. Always interfering in our lives, telling us what to do. But where were they when we needed comfort? They judged us and could not soothe the pain. They can never heal the gaping wound of loss.
I remembered her this morning; a rare occurrence for it is the one who bore new life who intrudes into my thoughts most often. It was she who lived and fanned the flames of hatred the rest of her earthly life. And his. Her hatred lived on through her son.
And so, it was passed to me through the generations. I can recite the lineage as well as my mother and her mother and all the ancestors who came before us. Faith, Honor, Charles, Thomas, Thomas and so it goes on ten generations back. Ten generations who nurtured the tale and conveyed their bittersweet odium to the next.
It was the rope that pre-empted the recall, and not for the first time. I was attending to my duties when
I saw it and stood transfixed as the Carter grunted and laboured while moving his wares. He untied a hemp sack, bound with a heavy rope that dangled from a pulley on his cart. My hands flew instinctively to my neck as I imagined the feel of the rope against my skin, choking me as rough fibres tore into my flesh. How did it feel, Faith, when it happened to you? Were you bathed in the force of the hatred burning in the heart of your offspring as they watched you die?
This stranger, this intruder who moves unwanted among us knows nothing, less than nothing of what he thinks he seeks. He cannot thwart us, and will never know what drives us. The means to find our secrets do not exist, except within my soul; and I will not tell him. Things will calm down and he will go away and it will be as if he never existed. Our enemies are already destroyed. There is no cause to expose our presence again. Life can continue as it ever did, bound in hatred to the ancestors, but with no call to action, only an obligation to remember as I do every day. My daily mantra, Faith, Honor, Charles, Thomas, Thomas, James, Ann…..
Chapter 13
Honor - Accused
I begged her not to do it, but she was unmoved, her desire for justice too fierce to quell. I knew no good would come of it. Who were we, after all? Incomers to a village duty-bound to take us by accident of my mother’s birth. We had no history here, they knew us only from our aunt and ancient memories. They owed us no loyalty by kinship or acquaintance.
She would not let me rise that morning and bade me remain in the truckle bed at rest. She awoke and dressed before the cock crowed, her normally passive face thin-lipped with anger and slammed the door as she left. I cannot say how long she was gone for my mind, dark with vengeance, slipped between fretful sleep and torpor. She returned mid-morning, red-faced and shaking with anger. The door slammed. I pulled a threadbare blanket over my shoulders and sat next to my Aunt Bennett in the parlour waiting for Mother to speak. Aunt Bennett reached for my hand and drew me close. She had not questioned me since my return the previous night, nor mentioned the bruises on my face, but somehow, she knew. She raised her head towards my mother and asked, “how did you fare?”
The Fressingfield Witch Page 8