He turned to the notebook he had not found time to read the previous day. Once again, the book appeared modern compared to the parish records. It was seventy or eighty years old, written in the same hand as the other notebooks and was entitled, ‘Miscellaneous’. The contents of the book were recorded in neat handwriting on the inside cover. Below, the author inscribed a further explanation of the reason for the transcription. He noted that the book was a handwritten record made from fragile parchments too degraded to last. The Vicar’s notes read ‘Recorded for posterity.’ Lawrence nodded appreciating a fellow historian’s attempt to preserve the past.
He flicked through the notebook comprising several chapters of information, proceeded by a heading and date. The dates did not run in sequence and the records were written in the order that they were read. The ink had not faded with time and the writing was tidy. Each record was easy to read.
Lawrence turned the front page to an account dated February 1810 which listed the many donors for a repair to the interior of the church. Next after, was an account of the tragic death of a young boy, apprenticed to the village Thatcher. He had fallen to his death from the roof of a house at the young age of 13. Lawrence continued reading. Most of the accounts were personal and only indirectly related to the church which made them more interesting than the paper records. Lawrence assumed they had been selected because they were of interest to the author. They were not historical documents of public concern.
Lawrence yawned. Reading was making him tired which was ideal. He might sleep better now. He decided to read one last chapter to be sure he was sufficiently drowsy to guarantee sleep. He turned several pages at once to assess how much more he had to read to complete the chapter. The account was huge; much bigger than the previous chapters. It continued to the end of the book, so he decided to take it back to bed and read the first few pages until he dropped off to sleep.
He carried the candle to his bedside table for extra reading light and turned the page.
Chapter 16
Honor - Betrayed
Call yourself a man of God do you, Vicar? You, who have abandoned us to the paranoia of fools. You, who cast us out of your congregation by your own failure to lead your flock as a parish priest ought. You are no better than your predecessor, the useless Fale. Can you imagine what you have done? I thought not, so I will tell you. Hang your head in shame, Vicar. Know that if you had done the right thing, we would not be here facing this evil. Pray for forgiveness while I pray for revenge. Save your soul, for mine is lost forever.
Do you remember that day in church when we came to pray? We were two poor women, threatened and harried by grown men. You stood by and did nothing while they all but forced us from the church. And why? Because a boy child died of fever and some livestock were savaged by a wild animal.
You must remember burying my mother’s aunt. You were the one who gave the reading at the funeral and prayed for her soul. But when Mother returned to church, laid off from work for some imagined wrong-doing, where were you to comfort her? She turned to another vicar, one unprejudiced by the hate fermenting in the village. He consoled her; gave her peace while you stood by and did nothing.
In the end, Laxfield Church was her only place of refuge, the only place she was made welcome. Welcomed by the vicar and his churchwardens at least, if not by the parishioners. Day after day, she walked long miles there and back, occupying her time in worship for no one would give her work. Then the soldiers came, destroyed her sanctuary and she never returned.
How unfair that you who did nothing for her, suffered less damage to your church than the kindly Vicar of Laxfield. He was never the same man again. My mother’s heart, already damaged, was broken beyond repair at the sight of the desecration wrought upon her beloved church. And however bad it was upon that sorry day, fate brought far worse.
Did you know how I came to be full of child? Would you have treated us any differently if you had known Page’s bastard child was forced upon me? Not only was my mother unemployable, but I was too. They judged me harshly for my pregnancy, assuming I was a harlot with no morals, but I was a virgin until Page had his evil way. Nobody would take us, though we were willing to work; though we needed to work. They would not even take Alice or little Walter for stone picking. You could have influenced them, but you chose not to. You chose to do nothing.
How do you think my mother felt having to beg the overseers for parish relief? Imagine the humiliation of a once prosperous merchant’s wife making an inventory of her worldly goods to prove she needed charity? Do you think they found everything she owned? They did not, which is why I have parchment and paper to write this upon.
They granted her a small sum and it broke her to take it. They called me before the Parish Constable and made me say who had impregnated me. Do you know what they did when I answered them? They jeered and said I was a liar. They did not attempt to pursue Page for his bastard and they gave me next to nothing for its upkeep. Did you help us then? Was the Church not obliged to provide charity? Perhaps for some, but not for us.
We lived off our chickens until they died, then we had no meat and no eggs. We grew what we could in our yard but it was not enough to feed a family of four with one on the way. We scavenged the forests for fungus and berries and anything that might feed us. We grew weak and thin. The seasons changed and our house grew colder. My mother was forced to beg for wood so we did not freeze to death.
One by one everyone in the village turned against us. At the beginning, only some were convinced of our crimes, but not all. Occasionally we were shown charity and given food or fuel, but whoever showed kindness to us, was vilified by the rest of the village. Eventually, nobody would help or even look in our direction.
One day my mother was walking the lanes, looking for sticks to burn, when Thomas Aldous came by in his cart. As he approached, his horse bolted for no good reason, and he was unseated and the cart was overturned. Mother watched in silence, but Aldous rose from the ground and confronted her, waving his fists. Like John Brame before him, he accused her of bewitching his cart and horse. The murmurings of witchcraft, which had begun to subside, grew to a crescendo again. After the cart, they said she caused cattle to ail and gave James Smith’s son the pox. Then they decided that the summer’s poor harvest had been caused by magic and declared it to be her doing.
Wherever she went, they cried witch. Nobody had a kind word for her or for any of us. We were utterly abandoned and in the depth of the winter of 1644 in a freezing cold house, my bastard son was born. Nobody came and nobody helped and how he stayed alive, I do not know for I had scant milk to give and I did not care if he lived or died. As you know, Vicar, he lived…
Lawrence turned the page. The account stopped and at the bottom of the page, was an ellipse followed by the words ‘Journal 3’. Only then did he realise that he had read far more than he intended. Frustratingly, the journal finished half way through the account. He wanted to know more. The account had mentioned bewitchment. Was this about Faith Mills? Her name was not mentioned, but he felt sure it must be her.
Lawrence was intrigued, almost to the point of taking the lamp and going back to the outbuilding. His sore throat and lethargy caused him to stop short, but he resolved to visit the basement as soon as possible next day.
He turned off the lamp and attempted sleep. It did not come easily, but eventually, he felt his eyes grow heavy and darkness descended.
Chapter 17
On the Mend
Lawrence awoke late morning. He felt as if he was over the worst of the fever but his throat was still damnably sore and he needed a tonic. He reached for the prescription left by Doctor Taylor, but it was not there. He rose and padded over to the dressing table to see if it was mixed up with the parchments and journals but despite his best efforts, he could not find it. The prescription had vanished. He was debating whether to get dressed or stay in bed a little longer when there was a knock at the door. Mary entered carrying a tray containing tea, to
ast and a boiled egg. Next to the food were several brown packets balanced against the side of the tea cup. They were marked ‘take twice daily after meals.’
“Is this my prescription?” he asked.
“I believe so, Sir,” said Mary. “Miss Smith dropped it into the Chemist yesterday.”
“That was good of her,” said Lawrence. He had not noticed her take it the day before and she had not asked if she ought. “Please thank her, Mary,” he said.
Mary bobbed and left the room. Lawrence took the decanter from his bedside table and poured a glass of water. He emptied one of the powders and gave the mixture a vigorous stir. He sipped a few mouthfuls of tea while waiting for the powders to settle. Lawrence had hardly eaten the previous day. Breakfast was welcome and quickly disposed of. He reclined in bed until he had finished eating and watched the tops of the trees move in the slight breeze. He decided he was well enough to get up and do something useful so he rose, dressed and exited the room, leaving his breakfast dishes on the side.
He went downstairs to the morning room as usual, but found it empty and relocated to the drawing room. Violet was sitting in an armchair deep in conversation with her charge, Mrs Harris.
“Sorry to intrude,” said Lawrence, “I hoped I would find you here, Violet. I wanted to thank you for the breakfast tray.”
“It was no trouble,” smiled Violet. “How are you feeling today?”
“Much better,” said Lawrence, “Apart from a sore throat. I dare say those powders will do the trick.” He grimaced, “dash it, I’ve left one dissolving upstairs. I had better go and fetch it.”
He left the room, and almost bumped into Michael in the hallway. Michael was still holding the door he had opened to admit Doctor Taylor.
“Hello again,” said Lawrence, surprised.
“Just passing and thought I would look in on you,” explained the young doctor.
“I am much better,” said Lawrence, “as you can see.”
“Good,” agreed Dr Taylor, “You seem somewhat improved but I will check your temperature to be sure. Is there somewhere we can go?”
Lawrence nodded and showed him to the empty morning room, while Michael discretely disappeared to the study.
“I hear you were busy yesterday,” said Lawrence.
“News travels fast,” said Dr Taylor grimly. It was the first time Lawrence had seen him without a smile.
“It does,” said Lawrence. “I am supposed to be conducting a discreet investigation myself. It turns out that a great many people were aware of my mission long before I set foot in the place.”
“I certainly was,” said the doctor, opening his Gladstone bag and retrieving a thermometer.
“Open.” He popped the thermometer under Lawrence’s tongue.
“Yes, I was told that you are here to hunt a witch.”
Lawrence’s eyes widened.
“Only joking, not that it is anything to joke about. I am a man of facts as I am sure you can imagine,” he said, “but certain people in this village are convinced there are witches afoot. They are afraid.”
He removed the thermometer. “That is better,” he said. “Back to a normal reading.”
“Did you see the body of the child that died?” asked Lawrence.
“I did not,” said Andrew Taylor. “I am a locum here and only usually present when holidays and sickness demand it. I did not view the body but I have seen medical accounts of it.”
“What do you think happened?”
“I do not know. I have never read anything like it. The child’s body was covered in pustules, the skin thick and horny. It was red as if it had been burned, but it was not scalded. I cannot account for it and neither could the surgeon. There was no residue of any substance that might have been applied to the skin.”
“And the young woman who died yesterday,” said Lawrence. “Did you see her?”
Doctor Taylor nodded. “I saw her, but I will not participate in the autopsy.”
“There will be an autopsy then?”
“There will. We cannot account for the death by natural means.”
“How so?”
“Her eyes were dilated, particularly so. And she had vomited. Her face was contorted as if she died in pain. It could be nothing unusual, of course, but we are obliged to check. I trust you will not discuss this.”
“Of course not,” said Lawrence. “Could the two things be connected?”
“No,” said Andrew. “There are no similarities at all. Why do you ask?”
“I was going to visit Eliza Clay this week,” said Lawrence. “There was some kind of disagreement between her and Mary Corbyn. She was very much afraid of Mrs Corbyn and I wanted to know why.”
“I am surprised,” said Doctor Taylor, “Mary Corbyn was an odd woman but she was not a witch, of course, no such thing. She had a lay person’s knowledge of medicine and though her tinctures would not have been much help, neither would they have caused any harm.”
“She was very much disliked,” said Lawrence, “most of all by her own husband.”
“Yes, she was strong-willed,” said Doctor Taylor. “He did as he was told while she was alive. Now that she has gone, he has grown bolder.”
“He grieves for the loss of his grandchild,” said Lawrence, “and regrets his marriage to Mary. He would still be with his first wife if she had not died.”
“Now that was a less straightforward death,” said Doctor Taylor. “It was one of my first visits to Fressingfield. I was newly-qualified and assisting Doctor Anderson when we were called to the Corbyn house. The first Mrs Corbyn lay dead in the bed when I arrived. She had suffered from heart problems for a long time but was strong in all other regards.”
“It does not sound like an odd death.”
“Only a little odd,” he admitted. “I recall it because she had also vomited on her death bed. It is not common place in heart cases, but equally not unheard of. In the end, Doctor Anderson felt justified in citing the cause of death as heart disease, but he considered an autopsy.”
“Did you know that George Corbyn believes his second wife bewitched his first?”
“I have heard talk of it but it is complete nonsense. Granted the vomiting was unexpected, but there is no connection whatever with witchcraft.”
“You cannot entirely rule out foul play of some kind?” asked Lawrence.
“Doctor Anderson is a far more experienced doctor that than I and he said the cause of death was heart disease alone.”
“That is not what I asked,” said Lawrence, firmly.
Andrew Taylor sighed, “I cannot rule it out entirely,” he conceded.
“And when will they autopsy Eliza Clay?”
“The surgeon lives locally and is readily available. I dare say Mr Smart will have it finished in the next few days.”
“I would be glad of anything you can tell me,” said Lawrence.
Doctor Taylor snapped his bag shut and replaced his hat. He shook Lawrence’s hand.
“Come and see me at the surgery in two days’ time,” he said, “I will share everything I know.”
Lawrence escorted Andrew Taylor to the front door. Emily and Loveday were coming downstairs.
“Hello doctor,” said Loveday.
Doctor Taylor tipped his hat. “Good morning ladies,” he smiled.
“We are walking into the village,” said Loveday. Emily opened her mouth as if to speak but Loveday glared and Emily remained silent. “We will keep you company.”
They exited the door leaving Lawrence standing in the hallway. Loveday had not even acknowledged his presence. He turned to find Violet watching him from the door of the drawing room. She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Lawrence pursed his lips, feeling a little hurt, then decided to do something productive. He would defy the doctor and visit George Corbyn’s daughter. Time to get to the heart of the matter, but he would have to tread carefully. The poor woman had only recently been bereaved.
Chapter 18
It was not a long walk to Sarah’s cottage, which was just as well. Lawrence had not realised how ill he still felt until he left the confines of the warm Vicarage. It was spring and though the weather was mild Lawrence could not stop shivering. He was not sure whether Sarah would agree to see him and wondered whether the journey would be a futile waste of time. He asked a passer-by for directions to her house. She pointed to a stone cottage further down the street. Lawrence approached the cottage and knocked at the shabby wooden door. After a few moments, it opened to reveal a woman in her late thirties. It was Sarah Hammond. She looked Lawrence up and down and waited for him to say something.
“I am Lawrence Harpham,” he said, “your father sent me.”
She pursed her lips. Her face was heart-shaped with high cheek bones but her eyes were dark and sunk into her face. Her full lips fell into a frown, not natural but circumstantial. In another life, she would have been pretty. “You had better come in,” she said.
Lawrence stooped as he entered the low door of the cottage. The door led into the front parlour where four wooden chairs were clustered around an empty fireplace. There was a large gap between the bottom of the door and the stone floor. The cottage was drafty and cold. He regretted leaving his bed.
“What do you want,” she asked abruptly.
“Your help," he said, " but I do not want to cause you pain and I am very sorry for your loss. Will you consider answering some questions for me?”
She grimaced. “I am sorry too,” she said, “I loved that child, and she knew it.”
“She? You mean Mary Corbyn?”
“Yes, I mean the witch, Mary Corbyn. I hope she is spinning in her grave.”
The Fressingfield Witch Page 11