The Fressingfield Witch

by Jacqueline Beard

  Sarah’s lip wobbled. She appeared on the verge of tears.

  “Sarah, you do not have to speak to me, if it is difficult and your grief is still too raw. I understand.”

  “No doubt you do,” she sighed. “It hurts. It hurts because I loved her, and it hurts because I knew it would happen, and it hurts to have been right all along. At least I am not afraid, now she is dead.”

  “There is nothing to fear,” said Lawrence gently.

  “Not now, but there was.”

  “I formed the impression from your father, that you hated rather than feared her.”

  “I hated and feared her equally,” said Sarah. “She was not right in the head, but I hated her because she took pleasure in frightening people. I do not doubt that she had power but some people misunderstand the nature of that power. My father thinks she was a witch, plain and simple. He thinks of witches as supernatural; flying through the air on broomsticks with their devil and imp familiars. That was not it. Mary was a witch, but in the manner of a wise woman, versed in the art of divination. She understood how to use herbs and poisons.”

  “Poisons?” asked Lawrence. “You suspect poison?”

  “Why not poison?” whispered Sarah. “what is the alternative? That the devil walked among us and destroyed a tiny life?”

  “I agree, that is preposterous,” said Lawrence. “But was she capable of such a thing?”

  “She was hateful enough,” said Sarah, “unkind and not unintelligent. She knew the lore, knew where to pick things and what was dangerous to use but she did not know how to keep her mouth shut. She was not clever enough to hide her true feelings and she loved to boast.”

  “But what grievance had she towards your young child?” asked Lawrence.

  “She liked the child well enough,” said Sarah. “It was me she detested. Look, you had better sit down. I cannot talk about this standing by the doorstep as if we were having a pleasant chat.”

  She slumped on a wooden chair to the left of the fireplace and gestured at Lawrence to do the same. He sat straight-backed watching her wipe some imagined dirt from her hands, clenched as if full of untapped energy.

  “What had you done to incur her wrath?”

  “I knew her for what she was,” said Sarah, “and I did not bow down to it. My father tolerated her nonsense because he was afraid. I was never afraid - but look at me now. Unhappy, bereft.”

  Lawrence wanted to reach out and touch her, pat her hand and tell her she would come to terms with her loss in time. But how could he tell her a lie? The pain had never left him. Sometimes he forgot for a moment. He might see a rainbow, or feel the sun upon his skin and for a second the sadness slipped away, but it always returned, and just as viciously.

  Sarah continued, “it turns out my father was right. He lost a woman he had grown to despise and I lost a child I loved. Had I not angered her, she might not have taken Edith.”

  “I still cannot comprehend the reason for the dislike between you. If you believe she hated you enough to destroy your child, there must have been a great deal of animosity.”

  “She killed my mother,” said Sarah.

  “What makes you think that?” asked Lawrence, taken aback.

  “She told me.”

  “Told, you,” repeated Lawrence, “calmly or in the heat of an argument?”

  “As calmly as we are talking now,” said Sarah, “as unemotionally if she was talking about the weather.”

  “What did she say?”

  “It happened one Sunday," said Sarah. "We were at the christening of Chester Calver’s child and one of the guests drank too much cider and was much the worse for wear. She tripped over an empty jug and broke her wrist. Father accused Mary of wishing it upon her as they recently had words. Mary said it was true and that was the way of things. Whenever someone crossed her, they always suffered."

  "She sounds delusional," said Lawrence.

  "There is more," Sarah continued. "Hannah Roper was standing with us at the christening. Mary Corbyn turned to her with a face shining with satisfaction. "See Hannah, the spirits avenge me, just like they did with Harriet Corbyn."

  My jaw dropped to the floor and Hannah seemed mortified. Mary continued to gloat over her achievement as if she was gossiping to a stranger and not in the presence of the dead woman’s own daughter.”

  “Did she say anything else?” asked Lawrence.

  “She said she had words with my mother a few days before she died. Apparently, Mother looked at her in a funny manner and Mary took affront. Mary said she would pay for it, and then she died."

  “That is not exactly a confession,” said Lawrence.

  “It sounds like a confession to me.” Sarah crossed her arms and looked at him defiantly.

  “It is strange behaviour,” said Lawrence, “but it is not compelling. From your account, she did not actually confess to killing your mother. In any case, how could she?”

  “My sister, Martha, was living with Mother when she died,” said Sarah. “She found her in bed, not restful like she was sleeping, but with eyes that stared out of her face in fright. Her mouth was agape as if she died in terror and she had been sick with fear. Martha was in the house the whole time so I cannot think what she could have been frightened of when help was so close by. She only had to cry out for Martha and Martha would have come."

  “But how could Mary have caused this terror?” asked Lawrence.

  “I do not know how she works her evil,” said Sarah angrily. “If I knew, I would have stopped her killing my baby. But she did something. It was her doing.”

  Sarah was shaking. A crease beneath her eye twitched uncontrollably.

  “I am sorry,” said Lawrence gently, reaching towards her.

  She allowed him to pat her hand and, biting her lip, she managed to staunch the tears that threatened. “What happened to your hand?”

  Lawrence started. The words came from nowhere, frank, pointed and cutting through common courtesy. Most people were too polite to ask. He rubbed his gloved left hand.

  “It is burned,” he answered. “I cannot bear to look at it, so I do not.”

  Sarah touched the tips of his gloved finger. He wanted to recoil away, but she was being kind and he needed her cooperation.

  “You know loss too,” she sighed, “I can see it in you.”

  Lawrence swallowed. Goosebumps prickled his arms. He would not be distracted from his questions nor would he allow a stranger to intrude into his own nightmare.

  “Why was Eliza Clay afraid of Mary?” It was his turn to parry. The question cut through his discomfort, slicing her kindly interference away."

  “That was Mary at her most wicked,” said Sarah. “She frightened that poor girl to her wit's end. She truly believed Mary had the power to destroy her.”

  "What did Mary do?"

  “She made a wax doll and put some of Eliza’s hair into it. At least she said it was Eliza’s hair. It could have belonged to anybody.”

  “That is a parlour trick,” said Lawrence. “The woman must have been simple-minded to think anything of it.”

  “She did not think anything of it, to begin with,” said Sarah.

  “Why did Mary make the doll at all?”

  “They fell out,” said Sarah, “over money. Mary had made a cough tincture for one of Eliza’s children. She made things all the time. There was nothing unusual in it except that Eliza already owed her money for other things. Mary asked for her usual fee which was not very much, but she could not afford to make things for free. Eliza said that she did not have any money now, but she would pay Mary's fee as soon as she could.”

  “Reasonable,” said Lawrence.

  “It happens all the time,” agreed Sarah. “So, she owed Mary for several things and Mary let it go for a few months. Then Eliza’s brother died and he was a member of the Friendly Society. They gave money to his mother to pay for his funeral and there was a little left over so she gave some to Eliza.

  “So, Eliza could p
ay her debts,” said Lawrence.

  “She had the means,” confirmed Sarah, “but she did not do it. She ordered a new dress instead and Mary came to hear of it. She was furious.”

  “So furious that she made a wax doll?”

  “Exactly,” Sarah nodded. “She took it to Eliza’s house one day and showed her. Eliza laughed, but Mary pulled a pin from her hat and stuck it into the doll’s leg. Eliza taunted her saying that her leg was already wounded and she was in pain so Mary was too late with her dolls and her pins. Then Mary left and came home.”

  “Came home here?”

  “No, we lived with father and Mary on and off for some time. We were in Wingfield then.”

  “It must have been difficult living with Mary when you disliked her so much.”

  “It was, “agreed Sarah. “I tried to stay out of her way, but it was a small cottage and there was not much chance of avoiding her, so we tolerated each other. And that is why I heard her wish Eliza ill.”

  “How did she do it?”

  “She was in the house before I returned from my errands, cackling in the corner with Hannah Roper. You have met her, have you not?”

  Lawrence nodded.

  “Hannah was not like Mary. She was pleasant and did not have much truck with Mary’s foolishness, but she was her friend and ignored her faults when she ought to have chastised her. I cannot imagine what she saw in Mary for she was far more intelligent but they became as thick as thieves after Harry Roper died in ’84. Anyway, they were together as they often were and Mary smiled at me as soon as I came through the door. Well, she rarely smiled at me. We did not like each other, so I knew it was nothing good. She showed me the doll and pointed to the pin in its leg. She told me Eliza would suffer for her treachery, gloating as she said it. She thought she was so clever but even Hannah stood behind her, shaking her head in disbelief.”

  “Well, evidently she did not harm Eliza as Eliza still lived until yesterday.”

  “Oh, but she did,” said Sarah. “Two days after she put the pin in the doll, Eliza suffered an infection in her leg that nearly killed her. The flesh rotted almost to the bone. Were it not for the skill of Mr Smart, she would have lost her leg. He cut the rotten flesh away and saved the leg. It left her with a scar, but she could walk.”

  “That is another coincidence,” said Lawrence. “She had an injury already. It could have become infected with or without the wax doll.”

  “Probably,” agreed Sarah, “but it put the fear of God into Eliza and she never crossed Mary again. She borrowed the money from her mother and paid it to Mary as soon as she could walk.”

  “That is extraordinary,” said Lawrence. “This whole matter seems to be one coincidence after another joined to make a fantasy that rational people foolishly believe.”

  “Do you not believe in evil?” asked Sarah.

  “I believe in evil, but not in the devil,” said Lawrence. “There is a difference.”

  “You have suffered loss and so have I,” said Sarah. “My loss was an innocent child. I do not know what your heart grieves but I can see that you feel the injustice of it. How do some people lead wicked lives and never come to harm while good people suffer? If that is not evil, then what is?”

  Lawrence considered her words. She was heading into uncomfortable territory again. “I have one more question for you, Sarah,” he said.

  “Feel free to ask it.”

  “Did Jonathan Carter die a natural death?”

  “Now, there is a question,” said Sarah. “The medical men thought so, the inquest said so but my mother knew better.”

  “She was his sister?” asked Lawrence, cautiously.

  “Yes, she was. He lived with her for a while and she knew all about the crows.”

  “I have heard of them myself,” said Lawrence. “Some say he was plagued by them.”

  “He was,” said Sarah. “But mother did not believe in witchcraft. She said it was caused by spite. She was quite cross with Uncle Jonathan, to begin with. She used to say the accident had made him weak in the head.”

  “What accident?” asked Lawrence.

  “He was kicked by a horse,” said Sarah. “Nasty business. He was steadying the horse while a cart was loaded and it reared up and kicked him in the ribs. Poor Jonathan was never quite the same after that, though he fared better than the other man who was killed outright in the fall.”

  “Dangerous things, horses,” said Lawrence. “I have never been fond of them.”

  “Well, Jonathan stayed clear of them after that, I can tell you. But he seemed better after a week in bed, though he appeared to have aged, become frailer, you know.”

  “Commonplace for an older person after an accident,” mused Lawrence.

  “Yes, but we wondered if he over-reacted to the crows because he was still not himself after the accident. He might have responded more rationally if he was in full health.”

  “I see,” said Lawrence. “He reacted particularly badly.”

  “Dreadfully,” agreed Sarah, “He….”

  Her voice trailed away as the door slammed open. A boy of about eleven ran into the room. He pulled up on seeing Lawrence. “Hello, sir,” he said, removing his cap.

  Sarah smiled, “my eldest son,” she said, “Charles.”

  Lawrence offered his hand. The boy cautiously accepted a handshake, then pulled a chair to the corner of the room and sat down.

  Sarah shrugged her shoulders. Lawrence interpreted it as a reluctance to speak in front of her boy.

  “I should go now,” he said. “Can we talk another time.”

  Sarah nodded. “You know where to find me."

  Lawrence emerged from the cottage, blinking. He had not realised the inside was so dark, and the daylight hurt his eyes. He considered who to speak to next. There were very few people left who could offer any insight. The investigation felt like a waste of time. What had he actually discovered? Nothing new. Some people thought the deaths were natural, others did not. There was no evidence, either way, only anecdotal accounts that amounted to nothing. On the plus side, he was pleased with the cooperation he had encountered. Everyone had behaved decently. He had feared that the village would be seething with rumour and speculation. It was less than that. If it had been the case a few weeks ago, the worst of the rumours had dissipated. He was confident that things would return to normal soon. In fact, his own presence was probably inviting speculation. He should finish as soon as possible and return to Bury.

  The only outstanding matter was Faith Mills. He was on the right track, he was sure, but he had still not found the link that connected her with Jonathan Carter. He decided to return to the Vicarage and locate the other journal.

  Chapter 19

  Discord

  Lawrence arrived at the Vicarage, feeling tired and a little shaky. Sitting down was fine, but walking even a short distance made him feel unwell again. He had talked too much and his throat burned. He walked through the door and straight upstairs to his room which had been cleaned in his absence. His breakfast tray had been tidied away. He picked up one of his powders and reached for the water decanter, but it was not there. The glass, decanter and his wash bowl were gone. He sighed. He wanted to rest but he would most likely be interrupted by the servant returning to complete her unfinished task.

  He picked up the journal again and sat on the bed, re-reading the last entry. He must have fallen asleep as he read for he woke, bleary eyed and fully dressed on the bed, the notebook splayed open on the floor where it had fallen. He reached for his pocket watch. He had been asleep for two hours and it was past lunch time.

  He sighed and rose from the bed. He was hungry, which was encouraging, as the illness had depressed his appetite up to now. He went downstairs and peered into the drawing room. It was empty. He tried the morning room. Emily Raven was sitting alone sewing.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked when she saw him.

  “A little better,” he said. “The house seems very empty. Wher
e is everyone?”

  Emily smiled. “Mother has joined father in Norwich. Violet has taken Mrs Harris to Eye and Loveday has gone for a walk with Doctor Taylor.”

  “Has she now,” said Lawrence.

  “Yes,” said Emily, “and it is extremely inconvenient. Poor Anna is very unwell. I am quite worried about her. She has taken to her bed and cannot keep a thing down.”

  “I hope she has not contracted my illness,” said Lawrence.

  “No, she has stomach cramps,” said Emily, “It is different.”

  “Tell me where they went,” said Lawrence, “and I will fetch the Doctor.”

  “Thank you,” said Emily, but she was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening.

  “Perhaps that is Loveday now,” she said.

  They walked into the hallway. Loveday was standing inside the open door, waving.

  “Ask him to return?” said Emily.

  “Why?”

  “Just call him.”

  Loveday beckoned the doctor back and Emily explained the situation. The three of them disappeared upstairs and Lawrence found himself alone again.

  He decided to re-visit the basement room for more reading material and strode to the back of the house where the passage turned into the orangery. Lawrence collected the lamp from a cabinet by the inside door. A box of matches had been thoughtfully left beside it. He picked them up and put them in his breast pocket.

  Lawrence walked across the lawn to the screened area. He unlatched the door and entered the room. It was still dark, still musty. He lit the lamp and descended the steps, turning the wick so the lamp was at its maximum brightness.

  Lawrence gazed towards the parish chest and almost dropped the lamp in shock. The lid was closed but the contents of the box were spread haphazardly across the floor. Papers and journals were everywhere, covered in debris from the damp ground. With a shaky hand, he placed the lamp on the steps and gathered up the books. He picked through them, searching until he found three in the familiar hand of the transcriber. He stacked them together, took them upstairs and placed them on the table.