“Never mind the trip.” It was Violet’s turn to be short. “Something has happened.” Her eyes widened and she chewed her lip. Lawrence wondered if he should reach for her hand, but decided against it.
“What has happened?”
“It is Anna,” said Violet. “She has taken a turn for the worse.”
“Have you seen her?”
“No, Mr Smart arrived not long after I returned. I showed him to Anna’s room but did not go in myself. Instead, I settled Mrs Harris and unpacked for her. As soon as I finished my duties, I encountered Mr Smart on the landing. He was speaking to Michael. He is terribly concerned."
"Why?"
"It is Anna. She is dreadfully poorly, Lawrence. Much worse than we thought. She cannot stop vomiting.”
“Poor thing,” murmured Lawrence.
“Her heart is weak, her breathing shallow and they have taken some of her vomit away in a bowl.”
“That sounds serious,” said Lawrence.
“It is,” said Violet. “She is still conscious even though she is very ill so Mr Smart asked her what she had eaten. He suspects food poisoning.”
“That seems reasonable,” said Lawrence. “It would explain her symptoms.”
“It would except she has barely eaten or drunk today,” said Violet. “Apart from some dry toast, a mug of tea and a few sips of water from the glass in your room, she has had next to nothing.”
“None of that is likely to cause food poisoning,” said Lawrence. “It is the sort of meal you could safely give to an invalid.”
“I know,” said Violet, “As a paid companion, I do have a little medical knowledge.”
Lawrence raised an eyebrow at her tone, wondering if he ought to apologise, then decided against it. He suspected that she was bitter about her occupation but that was not his problem and he had not intended to cause offence. He searched her face for further signs of displeasure but found none.
“Well, let us hope she recovers soon,” he continued, gazing towards the wash stand. “Dash it, she must have taken ill before she finished cleaning,” he said. “My wash bowl and decanter have not been returned.”
“I will make sure she is admonished as soon as she is out of bed,” said Violet, with the barest trace of a smile.
“I did not mean it like that,” Lawrence protested.
“I know you did not,” said Violet.
“No, but now I come to think of it, her presence in my bedchamber could be important,” said Lawrence. “The decanter was almost empty because I have been unwell and keeping myself hydrated. I used the last of the water to dissolve my medicine this morning, but I did not drink it, do you see? I was interrupted and I left it.”
“You think she drank your powders?” Violet asked.
“It is a possibility. The mixture was left for a long time. It may have settled until the residue was at the bottom and looked like water.”
“And they caused her stomach upset?”
“They were not prescribed for her. She might have an allergy to something in the preparation.”
“Where are they now?” asked Violet.
“Here,” said Lawrence. He picked the small brown envelopes from the chest of drawers where they had been placed. “Do you think I should show Dr Taylor?”
Violet nodded. “Yes, he is in Anna’s room with Dr Smart. Wait for them to come down & ask them what they think.”
They left Lawrence’s bedroom and proceeded downstairs. Michael met them at the entrance of the drawing room. He was staring down the hallway with his hands on his hips. “What an awful day,” he said.
“I’ve had better,” agreed Lawrence.
“Will it take her long to recover?” asked Michael.
“It is hard to tell,” replied Violet. “We are worried that she might have taken Lawrence’s medicine by mistake and suffered an allergic reaction.”
Michael started to speak but was interrupted by footsteps on the stairs. “How is she?” he asked, as Dr Taylor came down followed by Mr Smart.
Dr Taylor shook his head. “She is gravely ill,” he said. “There has been no improvement.”
Mr Smart pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat. “Has her mother been fetched?” he asked.
“She has,” said Michael. “She should be here by now. I do not know what is keeping them.”
“I must go,” said Mr Smart, snapping his watch shut. “Taylor, you inform her mother.” Dr Taylor nodded.
“What is wrong with her?” asked Violet.
“She is a very sick young lady,” Mr Smart responded. “Aside from the vomiting, her pupils are dilated and she has bradycardia with mild ventricular arrhythmia. In layman’s terms, she has a slow and irregular heartbeat. These are not symptoms of food poisoning.”
Lawrence spoke. “Could she be suffering from an allergy to un-prescribed medicine? I have reason to think that she may have drunk some of my powders.”
“What do they contain?”
“Nothing uncommon,” answered Doctor Taylor, “It is one of my own preparations. Just a dose of opiate powder, with syrup to taste.”
“We can rule that out,” said Mr Smart. “There is nothing untoward in that mixture but show me if you have any left, in case there has been a mix-up.”
Lawrence reached into his breast pocket and withdrew the remaining envelopes. He passed them to the surgeon.
Mr Smart unwrapped the envelope, looked inside and sniffed the contents. He placed a few grains on his tongue. Pursing his lips, he handed it to Andrew Taylor, who did likewise.
“This is not my prescription,” he said, recoiling at the taste. “What the devil is it?”
“I cannot say,” said Mr Smart. “I do not recognise it. Where did it come from?”
Violet stepped forward. “I collected it from the Pharmacy at the Post Office. Mr Harpham was in bed and the housemaids were busy so I thought it would be more efficient to take the prescription myself. I dropped it at the Chemist but no one was there so I left it on the counter. When I had finished my errands, I returned. It was already prepared and in the tray with other prescriptions. Mr Lait was busy with customers so I left a penny and took it.”
Mr Smart turned to Dr Taylor. “I will go to my next appointment via the Druggist,” he said. “This preparation tastes nothing like a cold remedy. We need to find out what is in it without delay.”
He opened his bag and dropped the envelopes inside, then took his coat and hat from the stand before placing his coat over his arm. “You were right to think she drank from your glass,” he said, doffing his hat to Lawrence. “She told me herself when I questioned her earlier. I thought nothing of it, at the time. We must, at the very least, confirm what was in this mixture of Taylor’s.”
“I will go with you as far as the chemist,” said Doctor Taylor. “I feel responsible and must check it was not a misinterpretation of my prescription. You know how bad my writing is.” He smiled, but his poor attempt at a joke fell flat. Both medical men hastened down the path almost bumping into Emily and Loveday. The girls were accompanied by a middle-aged freckle-faced woman.
“Where can I find her?” asked the woman. “Upstairs,” said Emily, “I will show you the way.”
They watched the woman bustle upstairs then Michael spoke. “Have you got a moment?”
Lawrence nodded and followed Michael to the study. “What is it?” he asked.
Michael beckoned him to sit. He placed his elbows on the table and steepled his hands. “What do you make of this, Lawrence?”
Lawrence shrugged, “I do not know,” he said. “The most likely explanation is that a mistake was made with the prescription, as Doctor Taylor says. Or perhaps it is food poisoning, after all.”
“Do not be alarmed,” said Michael, “but after what we found this morning, I think you should be careful. This could be personal.”
“In what way?” asked Lawrence. “I thought we had decided there was nothing in that business with the crow.”
“Th
ere may not be,” said Michael. “One thing alone is not suspicious, but two inexplicable events on the same day makes me nervous. That is all.”
“You think there may have been an intent to cause me harm?” asked Lawrence.
“No,” said Michael, thinking aloud. “But if crows were placed in the basement for your benefit, and there is a possibility that your powders were tampered with, it should be considered. It does not seem quite so far-fetched that someone may want to do you some damage.”
Lawrence flinched. “Surely you cannot think the medication was deliberately altered? Why would it be? I have no quarrel with Mr Lait.”
“No,” said Michael. “Of course not, and he is a professional man, experienced and highly unlikely to make an error.”
“Although according to Miss Smith, there was at least one occasion that the Chemist Shop was empty. Anyone could have entered and tampered with the packet.”
“Now you say it like that, it sounds fanciful,” said Michael. “The Pharmacy door chimes upon entry so nobody could get in without being heard. Far too risky. No, Lawrence, it is my mind conjuring nonsense. Forget I mentioned it.”
“I cannot,” said Lawrence. “Not now. Those powders could have been meddled with at any time if you think about it. The original contents might have been tipped away and replaced with something sinister. It could have happened when they were left unattended in the house. I should speak to Violet. Although Mary brought them on my tray, I do not know where they were left in the interim. A lot of time passed between Violet bringing them from the Chemist and Mary delivering them with breakfast.”
“Well, speak to her then,” said Michael. “It will put our minds at rest and cannot do any harm.”
Lawrence walked towards the door, pushed the brass door plate then stopped. He turned to Michael. “How much do you know about Violet Smith?” he asked.
“Lawrence,” Michael exclaimed. “Steady on.” He delivered the words brusquely.
“I am sorry,” said Lawrence. “I am an investigator, on a case. I do not want to divide your loyalties, you must see that I am obliged to ask.”
“It is not a matter of division of loyalties,” said Michael. “My duty is to Reverend Raven and I will help you with any facet of your investigation but I have known Violet Smith for two years now. She is dependable and kind. Her devotion to the family is exemplary.”
“I do not doubt it,” said Lawrence. “But who is she and where does she come from?”
“You will have to ask her,” said Michael. “I have never heard her speak of a family but she has been with Mrs Harris for a long time and I doubt she has suddenly decided to poison her employer’s guests.”
“I am sure she has not,” agreed Lawrence. “And for all we know, young Anna is suffering from nothing more than a spot of food poisoning.”
“Exactly,” said Michael, smiling. “It will all look very different tomorrow.”
Lawrence re-entered the hallway, intent on returning to his room. His progress was impeded by Anna McElliott’s mother descending the stairs at a pace.
“Excuse me,” he said, waving her through. “How is Anna?”
Mrs McElliott shook her head. Her face was flushed and she looked as if she had been crying. “Not good,” she whispered. “The doctors gave her an emetic earlier and she is exhausted from vomiting. What a colour it is too.”
“Is there anything I can do?” asked Lawrence.
“You are kind, sir,” said Anna’s mother, “but there is nothing to be done. Anna is asking for Alice Etheridge. She is her best friend and they are as close as sisters. I am going to fetch her at once.”
“Tell me where she is and I will go,” offered Lawrence. “I am sure you would rather be with Anna.”
“I would,” said Mrs McElliott. “You are very kind. You will find her at the tailor’s shop.”
“I will return as soon as I can.” Lawrence took his hat from the hat stand and strode towards the centre of the village. He located Alice and explained what had happened. She dropped her sweeping brush and accompanied him straight back to the Vicarage.
She was young, close in age to Anna so about fifteen, he surmised, but she was very different in character. Anna went quietly about her business blending into the background as a good servant should. Alice was brash and showed no self-consciousness. She conversed with Lawrence as if they were of equal age and status.
“Is she going to die?” she asked, as they left the shop.
“No, I do not think so,” said Lawrence, “but she is very poorly.”
“I could not bear another death,” said Alice passionately. “This village is damned.” Anger flashed in her eyes.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“It is cursed. We are all cursed,” she said.
“There is no curse,” said Lawrence, gently.
“You would not think so if you if you had seen what I did. You have no idea,” she said, coldly.
“What was it?” he asked. “What makes you think such a thing?”
“I saw it,” she said. “I saw the smoking baby.”
“Sarah Hammond’s child?”
She nodded and stopped walking. “Yes.”
“You saw it the day it died?”
“I did, and I will never forget it.”
“Tell me,” he said.
She nodded again and resumed walking. Her head was lowered and she watched the ground as she spoke. “I was in the village running an errand for Mr Borrett. It was in the afternoon but the weather was unsettled, drizzling and misty. I watched the Hammond’s walk towards me, pushing the perambulator. All seemed well at first, but as they neared I noticed faint wisps of smoke coming from the top of the pram near the baby’s head. I thought I was imagining it, but then it became clear that the baby’s parents had not noticed. They were arguing and fully engrossed with one another. When they were so close there could be no doubt, I stopped them and told them that there was something wrong with the child.”
“What happened?” asked Lawrence.
“Sarah Hammond screamed,” said Alice. “She pulled the child from the pram and unwrapped the swaddling, sobbing fit to burst. The poor wee babe was red raw and blistered. It laid there, in a torpor, eyes rolling back in its head and too weak to cry out.”
“Did you see anything on the child’s skin?” asked Lawrence. “Was there a substance, an irritant of some kind?”
“I saw nothing,” said Alice. “But I will never forget the smell of it.”
“The smell?” repeated Lawrence.
“Yes, an acrid, evil burning odour, like Sulphur. It was Brimstone, I am sure. There is no doubt in my mind that Edith Hammond was bewitched.”
Chapter 26
Honor - Deception
We rose the next morning, Vicar, deprived of sleep and desolate, yearning for the new day to bring fresh hope. It did not and our torment continued. I left the children and trudged to the Gaol House again but I was refused entry and I waited outside until it was well past noon. Matthew Hopkin’s creatures came and went, working in shifts to ensure they enjoyed a constant supply of sleep and sustenance. These things were both cruelly denied to my mother. As each person left, I implored them for news of her, but they walked by, either ignoring me or sneering. Just when I feared I would never know how she fared, Dorothy Webb passed by, carrying a pitcher. Dorothy was a young relation of Thomas, my friend at Page’s farm and we knew each other a little, although she owed me nothing. I did not know if she had turned against me as so many people had but I was desperate for news so I approached her. I begged her to help me and asked her to find out whether conditions had worsened for my mother in the gaol. Fate offered a rare moment of kindness when she agreed.
She dallied in the Gaol House for a long time. I had assumed that she was only delivering water, but she must have been given other tasks to occupy her time. I paced the yard in turmoil waiting for her to appear. When the door eventually opened, I rushed headlong towards it before rea
lising it was Priscilla Briggs. She saw me and barked orders to ‘move along’ muttering under her breath that I did not belong among decent people as I was the child of a witch. I glared at her, willing her heart to stop still in her chest, but it did not and she shambled towards the Inn, clay pipe in hand.
Trepidation rendered me immobile and by the time Dorothy left the building, my limbs were stiff with lack of movement. She exited the Gaol House with her head lowered and tried to scurry away. Whether she was trying to avoid me, or whether she was desperate to leave the prison, I could not be sure. I did not give her the opportunity to evade me and stumbled towards her, weak from hunger.
She blanched at the sight of me, sorrowful green eyes welling with tears. Her hair was matted and her clothes covered in dust. I do not know why and I did not ask. Instead, I addressed her and insisted she tell me how my mother was coping.
She started to cry, opening her mouth to speak but forming no intelligible words. I pleaded with her to try harder, insisting she told me without delay. I could wait no longer. Whatever she had to say could be no worse than the horrors conjured up in my own imagination.
She clasped her hands to her face as if in prayer, then told me to prepare myself for news so dreadful I could not have contemplated it in my worst nightmare. She said that she hoped God would show mercy to my family.
I did not repeat my blasphemous opinion of God and his lack of compassion as I needed her help. So, I took her hands and led her to the rear of the gaol house, then lifting my skirts I settled on the grass and bade her join me.
She sat down, and still trembling, took a deep breath and said it was all over. Mother had confessed to every accusation made. My heart lurched. Bile rose in my throat. I asked her to repeat herself, demanding every detail. Had my mother gone mad? What had she confessed to? Had they tortured her? Dorothy struggled to find the words. She put her head in her hands, covering her face as she told me that my mother would be tried as a witch.
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