The Fressingfield Witch

by Jacqueline Beard

  I attempted to comprehend what she was saying, Vicar. You cannot imagine how it felt to hear such a thing, to know that my good, kind mother would be on trial for her life. Her only crime was to have met with ignorance and superstition in the village. Her only sin to be unable to extricate herself from the cynical money-making ruse of Hopkins and his entourage. There was nothing that my honest, God-fearing mother would have done that could possibly require a confession.

  Dorothy watched my pale face and started to cry again. She composed herself for long enough to give me more details. She said that she could see the gaol cell from the front room while she swept. When she first entered, my mother was being dragged up and down the cell, held upright by a man and a woman. My poor sister was slouched in the corner moaning to herself. Another man directed the charade. From the description Dorothy gave, it must have been Hopkins. He grew impatient with my mother, commanding her to confess, accusing her of acts of witchcraft in a voice that rose and grew angrier by the moment. My mother was exhausted, hardly able to put one foot in front of the other, but was determined not to succumb to his wishes. Finally, he lost his temper and directed the woman to strip search Patience. My mother fell to the floor screaming and flung herself towards my sister, trying to protect her. At this moment, Dorothy stopped sweeping. She watched as a triumphant smile played across Matthew Hopkins’ face. He had found my mother’s weakness.

  Hopkins approached Mother and forced her away from Patience. He stood above her, gloating and said that if she confessed to witchcraft, he would leave Patience alone. Mother acquiesced in an instant.

  By then, Dorothy had finished her chores and was making for the door. Hopkins saw her leave and coaxed her into the cell, where he induced her to join John Gooding as a second independent witness to Mother’s confession. Dorothy heard every word my mother uttered. She witnessed her entire confession. It was not like the confessions that you hear in church, Vicar, for none of it was true. Even Dorothy, young and impressionable as she was, did not believe it had any basis in fact. But my poor mother, drained and fatigued, drew upon her last ounce of strength to protect her child, her eldest, special daughter. She spun tales of witchcraft and Satanic worship. She made preposterous claims of familiars and spell-making. She said that she owned three pet birds going by the names of Tom, Robert and John that she kept as familiars. They suckled from the teat on her thigh. She owned to covenanting with Satan by setting her imps to make mischief in exchange for money. She confessed that she instructed them to make a cow jump over a stile thereby breaking James Aldus’ cart.

  Ridiculous as it was, that satisfied them for a confession. They had their witch and that should have been the end of it, but there was much worse to come. They reneged on their promise, Vicar. No sooner had the confession escaped my mother’s lips than they placed irons upon her. They set her on the floor and left her to watch while they tore the clothes from my sister’s body and started to search.

  Dorothy stalled, unable to tell me what happened next. I am ashamed of how I bullied her, Vicar, but I needed to know and made her say it. Dorothy sobbed so hard her voice broke as she told me how my mother struggled against her restraints. She scraped her arms and legs until they were bleeding and raw as she tried in vain to reach her daughter to offer comfort. Patience screamed, kicking out like the child that she was, terrified and uncomprehending. Though impaired, she was strong and not easy to subdue, so the women spread-eagled her on the floor and stuffed a gag into her mouth. The searchers worked quickly, identifying warts upon her skin which they called teats.

  Then they removed the gag and accused her of devilry. They spoke of things she could not understand, demanding that she confess herself a witch. In her distress, she repeated the words like a child. The searchers smirked and pronounced another confession. When Hopkins was satisfied, one of the men produced a set of irons and clamped them around Patience. Hopkins dismissed Dorothy and she left. Dorothy had one further piece of news to impart. She said that Hopkins intends to submit my mother and sister to Bury Saint Edmunds for the Witch Trials. So that is what it has come to, Vicar, and still, there is not a man of God in sight.

  Chapter 27

  Poison

  Lawrence sat alone in the drawing room, mulling the day’s events and trying to work out what he was still doing in Fressingfield. On the one hand, some of the villagers were behaving more rationally. They appeared to be free from the superstitious fears that had caused such worry within the church. But a greater number still, remained convinced that witchcraft was alive within the village. Lawrence did not believe in witches, but the terror of finding the Curse Crow was undeniable. Even the memory almost paralysed him with fear and he found himself more sympathetic to those beliefs he had formerly dismissed out of hand.

  He remained concerned about Anna McElliott who was confined to her attic room, still hovering between life and death. Her mother had not left her side, sleeping in a chair beside her daughter through the night. Lawrence visited Michael first thing that morning to talk through his fears. Having discussed the matter, both men convinced each other that Anna had contracted food poisoning. The consumption of Lawrence’s powders was entirely coincidental.

  “And on that basis, what is the point of me being here?” he said out loud, as Loveday entered the room.

  “Are you going then?” she asked. “I have hardly seen you these last two days.”

  “We have both been otherwise occupied,” said Lawrence.

  “You spend all your time reading,” she pouted, “when you are not bedridden, that is.”

  “And you spend all your time walking with Doctor Taylor,” Lawrence smiled.

  “He has more time for me than you do,” said Loveday. “Are you jealous?”

  Lawrence considered her question. She was a beautiful creature, he thought. But the spectre of Catherine still haunted him and he was certain that she would disapprove. Dead or alive, her perceived opinion mattered. “Should I be jealous?” he asked.

  “He is very handsome,” said Loveday, “but so are you.”

  Lawrence blushed. She was so outspoken. He had no experience of young ladies who conducted themselves so brazenly.

  “You should not be thinking about either one of us,” he said, straightening his tie. “You are leaving England soon.”

  She raised an eyebrow and looked into his eyes. “I would not leave if I had something to stay for.”

  Lawrence opened his mouth to reply, but could not think of a suitable response. He was nearly forty years old, but in thrall to this young, self-assured woman. He was saved from further awkwardness by the rattle of the door handle. Violet entered the room pushing Mrs Harris in her bath chair.

  “Good morning,” said Violet cheerfully. “I do hope we are not disturbing you.”

  “Not at all,” said Lawrence. “I was about to leave.”

  “Please do not go on our account.”

  Lawrence did not have the opportunity to reply. The front door bell chimed. Loveday walked to the window and peered through the curtains.

  “It is Doctor Taylor,” she said, rushing from the room.

  Emily was already in the hallway and had opened the door. Doctor Taylor was standing on the doorstep accompanied by a police officer. His face was pinched and solemn.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I believe you are acquainted with Constable Chapman, Emily.”

  Emily nodded. “Good morning,” she replied.

  “Is the Reverend at home,” asked the policeman.

  “He is not,” said Emily. “He is away in Norwich with my mother and will not be back until next week.”

  Lawrence stepped forward. “I am a private investigator, appointed by Reverend Raven,” he said. “Can I be of help?”

  The policeman nodded. “Is there somewhere we can speak?”

  Lawrence turned to Emily. “Do you mind?”

  She shook her head. “Please feel free to use my father’s study.”

  Lawrence knocke
d on the study door. Michael was in his usual place, scribbling at the side desk by the window. He stood to greet them.

  “Can I help?” he asked.

  “I am here to bring you news,” said the Doctor. “You will stay, Michael?”

  “Of course.” He gestured to two wooden chairs in front of the Reverend’s desk. Lawrence waited for the men to be seated before settling on the Vicar’s chair.

  “I will come straight to the point,” said Andrew Taylor. “We have analysed young Anna’s vomit and it contains traces of poison. The same substance was also found in your medication.”

  Lawrence exchanged glances with Michael. For all their speculation, they had convinced themselves that poison was unlikely. They were almost as shocked as if they had not considered it in the first place.

  Police Constable Allen Chapman spoke. “This is a serious crime,” he said. “Too serious for a village bobby to deal with. Inspector Draper will be arriving from Eye later today. He will want to question you. Please do not leave the village.”

  “Are you suggesting that I have been the target of a poisoner?” said Lawrence, still trying to digest the news.

  “Without a doubt,” said Doctor Taylor. “The contents of your medication were only partially as I prescribed. A substantial quantity of Taxine was added to the preparation at some stage.”

  “Taxine?” asked Lawrence.

  “Yes, Taxine. From the yew tree. In this case, ground yew tree seeds. Someone had taken great care to acquire the seeds, dry them and grind them to a powder, at some risk to themselves. This was a deliberate act and you were the target.”

  “What I need to know,” said Constable Chapman, “is why.”

  Lawrence took a deep breath and looked towards Michael. His investigation was always intended to be discretely conducted but there were so many people who knew, that it had become a badly kept secret. Even so, he was reluctant to divulge the full details without authority.

  Michael correctly interpreted his hesitancy. “Reverend Raven asked Mr Harpham to investigate some rumours regarding the Hammond baby’s death,” he said.

  “What has that got to do with this?” asked the Constable.

  “Probably nothing,” said Lawrence. “I am far from convinced that there is anything to investigate about that particular death.”

  “Does Eliza Clay have anything to do with your enquiry?” asked Doctor Taylor.

  “Possibly,” said Lawrence. “I was advised to speak with her and would have done so, had she not died.”

  “Then you should know that she was poisoned with the same substance,” said Doctor Taylor.

  A brief silence descended, then Lawrence spoke.

  “Then it seems it has more of a bearing than I realised,” he said.

  “Have you been threatened?” asked the Constable.

  “Not directly,” said Lawrence. His voice trailed away.

  “You sound uncertain?” asked the Constable.

  Lawrence rubbed his face. “A decomposing crow was left in a place where I would be the person most likely to find it,” he said. “Although there would have been no certainty that I would be the finder or that it would be found at all.”

  “More certainty than you think,” Michael interjected. “It was in a basement storage room away from the Vicarage which had not been used for several years before Lawrence availed himself.”

  “Could the crow have flown in the room and died naturally?” asked the Constable.

  “No,” said Lawrence. “It had been placed there. It was in a trunk and the lid was shut. Papers and books had been strewn around.”

  “Was anything taken?”

  “I could not say,” said Lawrence. “I was unfamiliar with the contents of the trunk. I noticed that there was more damage to the older documents, though many had been moved and discarded. The more recent papers were hardly disturbed. A good thing as it turned out, as unexpectedly, my interest turned out to be with the latter.”

  “None of this seems relevant,” grumbled the Constable. “It does not explain why somebody wants to poison you.”

  “I cannot explain it either,” said Lawrence.

  The Constable scraped the chair back and stood up. “Well you had better consider it,” he said. I do not believe you have been entirely frank with me. Inspector Draper will be along later and he will not be satisfied. You must tell him everything.”

  They left the room and Michael showed them to the front door. Lawrence wandered back into the drawing room. Mrs Harris was snoring gently while Violet read beside her.

  “Good book?” he asked.

  “Very good,” she replied. “It is Wilkie Collins, The Woman in White.”

  “Do you not find it rather gloomy?” Lawrence continued.

  “I do,” Violet replied. “It is one of the reasons I like it so much. I do not frighten easily.”

  “That is as well,” said Lawrence, frowning. “I have news, and it is not pretty. There is definitely a poisoner here in the village.”

  Violet snorted, “nonsense,” she said.

  “I mean it said Lawrence, pulling up a chair and sitting in front of her. “Miss Smith, there is no longer any doubt that Anna McElliott was poisoned and the poison was intended for me.”

  Violet’s smile faded. “You are serious,” she said, “and do not call me Miss Smith. It sounds so terribly formal.”

  “Sorry,” said Lawrence. “But please listen. I am trying to tell you that we must all be careful. Anyone could come to harm. Anna is suffering because she drank from my glass.”

  “Poor Anna,” said Violet. “I hope they can save her.”

  “The fact that she is still alive is encouraging,” said Lawrence. “Poison tends to be fast-acting, so the longer she lives, the greater her chances of survival. As far as we know, she only drank a small quantity.”

  “Will they make the poisoning common knowledge?” asked Violet.

  “If they do not, I will,” said Lawrence. “It is too dangerous to bury this news, but neither of our medical friends has asked for discretion. Doctor Taylor is on his way to see Anna and I expect him to tell her what she is suffering from. In the meantime, I will inform Miss Emily. Before I do, I must ask you something?”

  “Anything, how can I help?”

  “Where did you put my powders when you returned from the Chemist?”

  “I left them on the table in the hallway. They were there all night as we did not want to disturb you.”

  “So, anyone could have tampered with them.”

  “Anyone,” Violet admitted. “I wish I had never collected them in the first place.”

  “You were only trying to help, said Lawrence. “Do not blame yourself.”

  “I do not,” said Violet, “but in hindsight, I should have left them somewhere safe.”

  “Did you see anyone touch the envelopes?”

  “No, but I did not exactly stand guard over them. My time is precious.”

  “I know,” said Lawrence, “It was just a thought. You are always fetching and carrying for Mrs Harris and could have seen something and not remembered.”

  “I did not,” Violet repeated. “Now I have a question for you.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Why would someone want to poison you?”

  “I have no idea,” said Lawrence. “I can only imagine that I have inadvertently uncovered something during the course of my investigation. The trouble is I do not know what it is.”

  “Call yourself a detective,” she laughed. “You do not sound at all like Sherlock Holmes.”

  “He is a work of fiction,” said Lawrence affronted. “I have never met a detective in or out of uniform who thinks like Conan-Doyle’s creation.”

  “I was teasing you,” said Violet, “but the point I am making is serious. There must be a reason why someone wants to harm you and it must have come about since you have been at the Vicarage. Unless, of course, you have an existing enemy who has followed you to Fressingfield
.”

  “Most unlikely,” said Lawrence. “But you are quite right. I have been here a short amount of time. I should be able to work it out. A good starting point would be to find out whether it is connected to the crow.”

  “What crow?”

  Lawrence hesitated. Michael had cautioned him not to mention the crow and he was not sure that he trusted Violet. But she was so rational, so clear-minded, he valued her opinion.

  He took a deep breath and told her what had happened. He recounted finding the crow in the bottom of the trunk. He told her about the note sticking out of its breast and the piles of disturbed papers on the floor. He omitted to mention his irrational terror when he realised he was alone in the dark with the stench of death around him.

  “What did the note say?” she asked.

  He told her verbatim. “I curse you, Lawrence Harpham, death stalks you. For Honor Mills.”

  “Who is Honor Mills?”

  “She is the daughter of Faith Mills,” said Lawrence, “the Fressingfield Witch.”

  “That is an easy puzzle, then,” said Violet. “You came to Fressingfield to investigate Mary Corbyn who was accused of witchcraft. Your only clue directs you to Faith Mills who was also a witch. All you need to do is find the connection between them.”

  “It cannot be that easy,” said Lawrence. “Assuming there is a connection, how would I find it? Mary is dead and Faith Mills must have been dead for several centuries.”

  Violet laughed. “What is kept in the basement?” she asked.

  “Parish records, papers, removal orders and diaries,” said Lawrence.

  “Precisely,” said Violet. “Parish records. Mary and Faith may be connected by lineage.”

  “They might be,” said Lawrence. “Though how that will help, I am not sure. I suppose it could be useful to know if they are related.”

  “Indeed,” said Violet. “You should locate the birth records and see what you can find.”

  “I had better do it now,” said Lawrence, scowling. “I am being interrogated by Inspector Draper later.”

  He walked towards the door, then turned. “Would you like to help?”