“You have not told me what you are investigating yet,” she said.
“Nor will I.”
“That is not much fun,” she said. “I want to know everything about you.”
“There is not much to know.”
“Then tell it anyway.”
“Another time,” said Lawrence. “We cannot be far away from your friend and I must go to the farm.”
Loveday wrinkled her nose. “I would skip my visit and come with you if you were going somewhere worthwhile,” she said, “but I do not want to go near a smelly old farm, not even for you, Laurie.”
Lawrence swallowed, thrilled by the intimacy at the shortening of his name. Only one person had ever called him Laurie. He should be disturbed at the familiarity, but it pleased him. He gazed at Loveday, his interest aroused.
She smiled, then stopped by a red brick house. “This is it,” she said, “Will you return and collect me later?”
Lawrence nodded. She put her hands to her lips as if to blow a kiss, but did not. Then she turned away.
He waited until she gained admittance, then walked past lost in thought. He picked up his pace as he stepped out towards Elm Tree farm where George Corbyn worked. The farm was located about a mile up the road but in his improved mood, the distance seemed minimal, and he was on the outskirts of the farm before he knew it. As he walked up the track, he spied a small group of men in the distance. They had broken from their labour and were sitting on the ground, talking. He approached them and asked if George Corbyn was nearby.
“I am George Corbyn,” said a man in his sixties. He was short and stout, with a flat cap over greying hair. Deep lines furrowed tanned skin. He seemed too old to be a labourer.
Lawrence approached him. “I am Lawrence Harpham…”
“I know who you are,” said George. “You have been two days in the village already.”
“Then you must know why I am here,” continued Lawrence. “Will you speak with me?”
“Yes, I will speak with you, but only to put you right,” George said. “Happen you need to speak to somebody who knows what they are talking about.”
The other men laughed. “You tell him, George,” said one.
“And you mind your own business, Henry Harper,” snapped George. “Over there,” he said, pointing to an area in the lee of a barn. He strode ahead and Lawrence followed.
George Corbyn perched on a short stone wall. “Sit down,” he said,” unless you would rather stand.”
Lawrence elected to sit. “Before we start, allow me to extend my condolences,” said Lawrence. “I am sorry for your loss.”
“Are you?” asked George. “I am a good deal less sorry than you.”
“Oh,” Lawrence was at a loss over what to say. Whatever he may have expected, he did not anticipate such coldness from a newly widowed man.
“You might well look shocked,” said George. “You will not meet many men glad of such a death. I am glad though and unrepentant.”
“It is not, as you say, usual,” repeated Lawrence. “May I ask why you were so glad of it?”
“The woman was evil made flesh,” said George. “She killed my own kin. She could have gone to the devil alone but she took my granddaughter with her.” He spat the words through narrowed lips. “Evil whore of Satan.”
Lawrence paused, trying to remain impassive. “How could a dying woman harm a child?” he asked.
“Cursed the girl, she did,” said George. “Rubbed the Devil’s spittle on her poor little body until it broke with sores. She burned from the inside out like the old woman said.”
“Come now,” said Lawrence. “I understood your wife was bed-bound and could not stand.”
“Yes, she was bedridden,” admitted George, “had been for three months, but she had the power to deliver the devil’s work. We cannot know how his wishes were fulfilled.”
“There are no witches and no devils, George,” said Lawrence reasonably. “If your wife could not walk, she could not harm your grandchild.”
“If my wife did not harm my grandchild, why did she say she had?” countered George.
“That I do not know,” said Lawrence. “What did she say to you to make you think she had harmed the child.”
“We argued,” he said. “Nobody could get along with Mary. She upset everyone, most especially my daughter. Sarah did not like her before we were wed and hated her after. My first wife, Harriet, disliked Mary and Sarah saw no reason to disagree. She blamed Mary for Harriet's death.”
“I thought your first wife died naturally,” said Lawrence.
“Did you?” replied George.
“Did she not?”
“I thought so at the time. Now I am not so sure.”
“But what did Mary say about the child?”
“She said, ‘I am not long for this world but neither is the child. I will die today and she will burn in hell.”
“That is not so much a threat as wishful thinking,” said Lawrence, “though God alone knows who would wish that upon a child.”
“It was a curse,” said George, darkly.
“I have heard it said that your wife was a herbalist, a medicine maker. That she helped people.”
“If you say so,” said George sullenly. “She made tinctures which some said helped with their ailments, and she made charms for the girls. I did not mind at first. I thought she was like a quack doctor, but harmless. If poor people wanted to waste their money on her balms and cordials, then why should I care?”
“Why did you marry her?” asked Lawrence. “Your children were grown. There was no need.”
“A man should have a wife,” said George, “besides, she chose me. I was bewitched.” He stared at the floor, embarrassed.
“Did you always fear her?” asked Lawrence.
“No, as I said, she was mostly harmless. She changed. It was Hannah Roper that first noticed. Said she was worried that Mary was taking herself too seriously and had frightened one of the other women. Eliza Clay, it was. You should speak to her. She was scared senseless and if she has recovered her senses by now she might tell you about it. And our Sarah never liked Mary either, and the more she showed her dislike, the more Mary played up to it. Then it eased again, and people forgot.”
“I cannot see where witchcraft comes into it,” said Lawrence.
“I do not know where it came from either,” said George, “But not long after Harriet died, whispers started. People said that Mary had over-looked her. Then someone said she had bewitched her dead husband, and that she had bewitched me, for I never cared for her until I married her. Then she was accused of causing the death of poor Jonathan Carter. He was scared to death, tormented by crows.”
“What is this story of crows?” said Lawrence. “I have never heard of crows being unlucky before I came to this village.”
“I suppose you grew up in a town, did you?” asked George.
“I did, as it happens.”
George looked him up and down. “Not much of a surprise,” he said. “You do not need to hear stories in the countryside. You use your eyes. Where there is death, so there are crows. Human death or animal. It is all the same to them. They even feast off their own dead.” He shuddered.
“Your wife had a tame crow, did she not?”
“There was nothing tame about that feathered imp,” said George, closing his eyes, as if to block a memory. “She fed it with a spoon and it talked to her.”
“Talked to her?”
“She spoke to it and the thing would crow back at her. Like two people chatting. It was unnatural; wrong in every way.”
“Where is the crow now?”
“It has gone,” said George, evasively.
“You released it?”
“No, I wrung its evil neck.”
Lawrence shook his head, disgusted. It was one thing harbouring a fear of witchcraft, but another to use it as an excuse to kill a living creature.
“Was that necessary?” he asked, “surely it behaved
no differently to a caged canary?”
George scowled, but did not answer.
“Let us suppose that witches exist,” said Lawrence. “Do you really believe your wife hated your grandchild so much that she deliberately caused her death?”
“I believe it with my whole heart,” said George, firmly. “Everything my wife predicted came to pass. Everything. Her and I getting wed, the baby dying and Harriet dying.”
“You did not tell me she foretold Harriet’s death.”
“It was why Sarah hated her.”
“And you heard her say this?”
“I did not. Perhaps Sarah did. If not her, she would know who. You should talk to her anyway. Then you would find out how much Mary Corbyn was disliked.”
“I will talk to her,” said Lawrence. “Today, if I can.”
“If you see her before I am home, tell her I sent you,” said George. “She will not speak to you else wise.”
Lawrence opened his mouth to ask another question, but George had already turned away. He shuffled slowly back towards the farm hands as if all his energy was depleted. Lawrence returned to the centre of Wingfield, mulling over the conversation. George was fanciful but sincere and his fear of Mary was real. But their conversation had not helped the investigation. If Lawrence hoped to understand the mood of the village, he would have to speak to George Corbyn’s daughter as soon as possible.
Chapter 15
An Ill Wind
Lawrence did not return in time to speak Sarah. It was dusk before they arrived in Fressingfield and the journey had not gone to plan. He had collected Loveday, as promised, before meeting Michael and Violet and they boarded the waiting carriage. A few moments into the journey, the carriage hit a hole in the road. It lurched forward then tipped to one side. They calmed themselves and stumbled down the steps to find the wheel buckled and beyond repair. The cabman apologised and said he would need to find a new wheel before they could go any further and there was little choice but to walk. As they set off, it began to drizzle with rain.
Loveday linked her arm through Lawrence’s and they walked ahead of the other two. Lawrence's mood had darkened again and he felt self-conscious at the public display of intimacy. Michael and Violet maintained a respectable distance behind, sensing his discomfort. At first, Loveday regaled him with stories of her time in Cheltenham, but as the rain fell harder, she grew quieter and began to shiver. Lawrence offered her his jacket, which she accepted but by the time they arrived in Fressingfield, they were soaked to the skin. The greater part of the journey had been travelled in an unnatural silence. It had not been a happy day.
Lawrence woke the next morning, burning hot and with a swollen neck. He tried to rise but the room swam and as the sweat trickled from his brow, he realised he had a fever. He struggled to his feet, fighting the light-headedness that threatened to overwhelm him. He reached the washstand and vomited.
Though Lawrence felt dreadful he was too considerate to leave a mess for the maids. He dressed slowly fighting the urge to return to bed. He collected the soiled basin and carried it downstairs to the water closet with its newly-installed piped water. The room was not in use so he entered, emptied the basin into the sink and swilled it, shivering throughout. He left the basin to drain on the side and returned to the hallway with the intention of going back to his room with a cup of tea. He contemplated breakfast but was unable to face the thought of eating.
As he passed the morning room, Michael looked up from his paper. “Good morning,” he said, then noticed Lawrence’s pale face. “You look awful,” he continued.
“I feel awful,” croaked Lawrence. His throat was aflame. Beads of perspiration mottled his brow.
“Go back to bed, old man,” said Michael sympathetically. “I will ask Anna to fetch the doctor.”
Lawrence did not argue. He returned to his room, undressed and got back into bed. He woke several hours later to a sharp rapping at the bedroom door.
Anna McElliott opened the door and showed a smartly dressed young man into the room. “Doctor Taylor,” she announced.
Lawrence opened bleary eyes. The young man standing before him did not look old enough to have graduated, much less completed medical training.
“Good morning,” grinned the young man, offering his hand. “Andrew Taylor, locum doctor of this parish, for my sins.”
Lawrence coughed. “Lawrence Harpham,” he said, “Private Investigator and carrier of germs.”
“Ah, you still have a sense of humour,” smiled Andrew, “that is a good sign and means you cannot be too unwell. Now, sit up please and let me examine you.”
The doctor located Lawrence’s pulse, keeping time on a silver fob watch. “Nice healthy beat,” he said, before opening his medical bag and extracting a thermometer and a flat wooden stick.
“Open,” he said.
Lawrence opened his mouth obediently. The doctor placed the stick on his tongue and looked down his throat. He made a clicking sound, then inserted the thermometer in Lawrence's mouth. He noted the reading, wiped the instrument and returned it to his bag.
“You have a temperature,” he said. “Your throat is inflamed and there are some nasty, white spots down there. A touch of tonsillitis, I suspect”.
Lawrence groaned. “I do not have the time to be ill,” he complained.
“Well, ill is what you are,” said the doctor, “and a week’s bed rest is what you need to make it better”.
He searched his bag again and produced two envelopes of powder. “Take these twice a day. I will write you a prescription for some more. Have it dropped with Henry Lait at the Chemist and we will fix you in no time.”
Lawrence sighed. “I suppose I ought to thank you,” he said. “But the prospect of a week’s bed rest when I am well on the way to finishing my investigation is not a welcome prospect.”
“Split the difference, then,” said Doctor Taylor jovially. “Stay in bed today, then see how you feel tomorrow. If you feel better, then you may go out a short distance if you take it easy.”
“I will settle for that,” said Lawrence. “Thank you, doctor.”
Andrew Taylor nodded and left the room. Lawrence closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.
He slept soundly and would have slept through the night had he not been roused by a tapping at his door. He woke with a start, eyes drawn to the uncovered window where the curtains remained pulled apart. It was early evening and the light was starting to dim. He rubbed his eyes. There was another knock at the door, this time softer.
“Come in,” he said, straining his voice. He was no longer faint, but his throat felt like barbed wire had been scraped down the sides. The door clicked open. He half expected Loveday and was disappointed when Violet Smith emerged carrying a tray with a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches. She was dressed in a plain, unflattering gown and her dark hair tumbled from an unruly bun.
“You do not need to wait upon me,” said Lawrence, sitting up, “but thank you anyway.”
Violet placed the tray on his lap. “I volunteered to,” she said. “Mrs Raven insisted you must eat so I offered to bring your tray upstairs. Something has happened in the village. I thought you would want to know about it straight away.”
“What is it?” he asked, intrigued.
“There has been a death,” she said, “a sudden death, quite unexpected. I do not know the woman but she is young and was in good health.”
“Go on,” croaked Lawrence.
“Her name is Eliza. Her mother found her dead on the floor in her parlour.”
“Do you know anything more?”
“I know that she lived alone. She had two young children but she worked, so her mother minded them during the day. Eliza failed to bring her children to her mother’s house this morning and her mother was concerned, so she set off to find her. When she arrived at Eliza’s house, the two children were crying beside Eliza's body which lay prone upon the floor. She was cold to the touch so her mother summoned the surgeon wh
o lived nearby. Both Mr Smart and Doctor Taylor attended the body. I have heard that neither men were prepared to write a death certificate and she has been taken away for an autopsy.”
“Extraordinary,” exclaimed Lawrence. “I am shocked. Still, it may yet turn out to be a natural death. Who was the young lady?”
“Her name was Eliza Clay.”
“But I only heard that name yesterday,” said Lawrence. “In fact, I was told to seek her out.”
“There is no point now,” said Violet practically. “But why would you have called upon her?”
“I am not sure,” said Lawrence, shaking his head. “I was told that she was afraid of Mary Corbyn and thought it would be useful to find out why. George Corbyn suggested speaking to her, but I got the impression that he did not know much about it either.”
“It is hard to believe her death is anything more than a coincidence,” said Violet watching Lawrence drain his cup. She poured him another tea.
“Agreed,” said Lawrence, “and we must wait until the autopsy is complete to know if there is anything suspicious about the death. It may be entirely natural.”
“In that case, I will leave you to your thoughts,” said Violet.
Lawrence smiled. “Thank you for bringing me the news,” he said. “You did the right thing.”
Violet returned the smile revealing perfectly straight teeth. “Sleep well,” she said, and left the room, shutting the door behind her.
Lawrence did not sleep well, he barely slept at all. At first, he slid beneath the covers expecting to drop off quickly, but having slept the best part of the day, his mind was too active. After a futile hour attempting to get comfortable, he gave up, lit his bedside lamp and walked over to the dressing table. He lit a candle from the lamp and flicked through the untouched sheaf of papers he had placed with the journals the previous day. The papers were loose but at one time they had been bound together in a book whose binding had long since perished. He scanned each paper disappointed at their content. Most contained records of the parish overseers. Pages of outstanding accounts were notated, each sum of money ascribed with the name of the payee and the date payment fell due. His cursory look did not reveal any mention of Faith Mills or witchcraft in general.
The Fressingfield Witch Page 10