I arrived at the Abbey ruins, out of breath and perspiring. My heart pumped through my chest fit to burst. It took several minutes to recover, then I lay the stolen items on the ground and surveyed my purloined spoils. There were two dresses, both damp. They were not of great quality but had the advantage of being clean. I hung them behind a bush to dry, then waited until dusk and set off for a trough in which to wash my hair. I returned well past midnight and fell asleep slumped against a small outbuilding to avoid getting grass or straw in my drying tresses.
I rose at dawn and dressed in the smaller of the two garments, before running my fingers through my hair. I looked presentable, as far as I could tell from my reflection in the Abbey pond. Then I set off for court confident that my appearance would not betray me.
On arrival, I realised that I did not know where to go and followed a pair of well-dressed merchants as they made their way into the Shire Hall. I trailed close behind them and was granted access without challenge. A low buzz of chatter came from the court room, which I followed. The dark panelled room was full to capacity, so I squeezed through the crowd and stood at the back waiting for proceedings to begin.
Presently, Justice Edmund Calamy entered the courtroom. He nodded at the gathering, before easing himself onto a carved wooden chair behind a high desk. Once the Justice was comfortable, Sergeant Godbold marched towards the rear of the court. He called out and about forty alleged witches, including my mother, entered the courtroom. Every one of the accused was a woman. Most were elderly, and judging by the state of their clothing, most were poor. I searched for Mother and finally located her squashed at the back of the crowd, looking pale and emaciated. She appeared to have aged since I last saw her less than a week ago. I could not see Patience, though I tried. The women were crushed together and not all were visible.
Sergeant Godbold called for silence and asked for the witnesses to make themselves known. I recognised, at once, the smug form of Matthew Hopkins as he pushed forwards, full of his own self-importance. As the first few women were brought to the stand, Hopkins uttered a monologue of his findings followed by a recommendation for further action. In the initial cases, he suggested an additional trial, this time by water. There was a collective gasp from the crowd at this notion but Sergeant Godbold rose from his seated position and slammed his hand down on the desk. He stared at Hopkins for a moment, then addressed the room. He made it clear that the judiciary had neither the time nor inclination for any trial other than the one in progress. He explained that The Royalists were en route from Peterborough. Too much time and expense had already been taken over the witchcraft problem and there was a war to consider. He declared that only the worst cases of witchcraft would be tried today. The remaining witches would be sent to Ipswich Gaol or returned to their parishes. He remained on his feet facing Hopkins. His face was florid and his fists were clenched. I formed the impression that he did not have much regard for the Witchfinder.
Matthew Hopkins spoke up, defending his position. He warned of the folly of leniency, but his objections were forestalled by Calamy. It was a rare moment of pleasure, Vicar, as I revelled in his discomfort. I stole a brief, but premature, hope that our ordeal might end with this declaration. It did not, and the trial continued for those women in court. Sergeant Godbold continued to address the accused, one at a time. Hopkins reluctantly selected large numbers of women for release and fewer for punishment. How he decided, I do not know for he did not use manuscripts to refresh his memory. He spoke without notes. In the end, I suspect, it was a matter of remembering. He had forgotten details of the earlier confessions while the more recent were fresh in his mind.
It did not end well for us. Not only was my mother the most recent case, but Hopkins produced John Gooding to stand as a witness against her. Gooding had been present at my mother’s alleged confession, which he embellished for benefit of the court. When he spoke of the imps, there were gasps from the crowd. One man stood and shouted, ‘death to the witch’ and a chorus of voices joined him. With the court against her, Mother had no hope of clemency. Nine women in total were condemned to death by hanging. Justice Calamy ordered them to be transferred to Almoner’s Barn on the edge of Bury for execution within the week. The women held hands as they received their sentence, standing meekly before the court, resigned to their fate.
I did not cry, Vicar, for I was numb. I did not rail against it, for I knew it to be pointless. I did not call out, nor did I commit an act of violence. I sat until the court was almost empty and then I left. I could not say whether my mother saw me and I did not know where my sister was.
I rested beneath a tree outside the courtroom overlooking the grave stones, trying to decide what to do next. My mother was to be taken straight to Almoner’s barn, wherever that was. A barn might be less secure than a Gaol house. There could be an opportunity to see her or even speak with her. As I did not know what else to do, or where to go, I decided to look for the barn. At least, this way, I was doing something. So, I returned to the outside of the courthouse and asked passers-by for directions until one of them helped me.
Chapter 31
Honor – Almoner’s Barn
They did not move mother immediately, as it happened. I waited night and day by the Gaol House, watching for signs of movement. Not a carriage, nor cart appeared. I was there more than an entire day, my stomach cramping with hunger, bleary eyed and weak. How I was not moved on, I do not know, for I gave every impression of being a vagrant, though better clothed. Inevitably, sleep stole upon me and I woke on the second day to the sound of hoofbeats against the earthen streets. A covered cart had emerged from the rear of the courthouse. It was half way up the road before I comprehended its purpose and I could not catch it. Over a day without food had rendered me too feeble for speed. I watched it clatter into the distance and yearned to be close to my mother so I could hear her voice one last time. Finding Almoner’s Barn became my sole aim, my only concern. I did not know where to look and darkness was approaching. There were few people on the streets and nobody who appeared trustworthy. I considered returning to the Abbey grounds to beg help from the Jesuit priests, who occupied the least damaged part of the Abbey ruins. It took seconds to dismiss the thought. After our recent rejection by the church, any man of God was abhorrent. My stomach churned at the thought of their pious faces.
I loitered instead, by the door of an ale house, too timid to enter and ask for help in the presence of a crowd. And it was a rough crowd, for I watched through the uneven glass as a man held a knife to the throat of another. It did not result in bloodshed on this occasion but gave me fair warning of the folly of entering the establishment.
I waited outside for a short time, certain that someone would enter or leave. It did not take long. A woman of sixty years or more staggered through the door, well into her cups. I reached for her arm and implored her to tell me where I could find the barn. Her eyes were unfocused and her head swayed from side to side, but she was sufficiently alert to mutter instructions. She waved a gnarled finger towards Westgate Street. I thanked her and set off in that direction.
The town was silent but I was gripped by an uncharacteristic fear as I traipsed the cobbled streets. I slowed my foot fall and tiptoed close to the shadow of the buildings. It felt as important to be invisible in the town as it would be in my intended destination. Eventually, I arrived on the outskirts of Bury and saw the great stone barn loom tall in the distance. It was surrounded by two smaller barns with thatched rooves. The walk had not been long but a fall in temperature combined with my lack of sustenance and sleep, made it feel like an eternity.
I gazed at the heavens as I made my way towards the barn. The night was cloudless. Stars sprinkled across the sky while faint slivers of light glinted from the wooden doors of the barn, fitted not quite flush against the stone. I thought I could hear muffled sounds as I neared the barn, so faint to begin with that I decided it was my imagination, but as I stepped closer, all doubt was removed. The occupants
of the barn were singing. Strains of Psalm twenty-three rang clear in the night.
There was a time when it might have moved me to tears, but not now. I was sickened by their worship of a God who had deserted them; unable to comprehend their need to cling to futile hope. A senseless waste of the final hours of their lives. As I digested this thought, the realisation that my mother had only days left on earth, filled me with dread. I was shivering as I reached the first of the barns.
I anticipated the presence of guards, but could not see a single one, and ran towards the huge wooden doors. They were held together with solid iron chains, secured by a rusty padlock and offered no possibility of access. I walked the perimeter of the great barn, irritated by the singing and my inability to gain entry. There were no reachable doors and the only window was shuttered and so high up that it was inaccessible.
In the narrow wall containing the window, the stone was only built to waist height. The remaining part of that side of the barn was constructed from timbers. Another large doorway appeared high up in the wall, secured by another locked latch. Near the bottom of the doorway, at head height, the timbers were swollen and damaged from damp and wear. There were large gaps between the wooden pieces.
I waited for a lull in the singing and eventually it quietened as voices trickled to a low murmur. I did not know whether there were guards inside the barn, but my only chance was now and I leaned towards the damaged timbers and shouted my mother’s name.
The voices stopped. There was a momentary silence. I called again and a timorous voice replied, asking who I was. I said I was Honor Mills come to speak with Faith Mills. The woman hesitated, and I heard her call out for Faith. My heart leaped in my throat as I heard footsteps coming towards me from the other side of the barn. Joy of all joys, my mother pushed her fingers through the gap in the wood, just far enough for me to touch her fingertips.
First, she chided me for being there, then she told me that she loved me. She thought she would never see any of her children again and no words could express how much it meant to have me near. She implored me to tell Alice and Walter how dearly she cherished them and that she was sorry she would not see them grow.
I stroked her fingers, trying to control my faltering voice and said I would make certain that they knew how much they were loved. I would tell them how brave their mother and sister had been. I asked her if Patience was inside the barn or still at the Gaol. An unsettling silence descended. I asked again and a piercing, hopeless wail emanated from the other side of the wall. My mother’s fingers fell away. I called her name, and realised to my horror, that the heartbroken guttural sobbing came from her. I waited for the awful sound to cease but it went on and on. She cried hard for a long time until I thought she might be choking and screamed her name again. Inside the barn, I heard a kindly person calming my mother. The disembodied voice offered words of comfort, but the sobs did not desist. I fell to the ground with my head in my hands, trying not to think of what had driven my mother to this outburst. After ten long minutes, the sobbing stopped and a broken voice whispered my name. I stood up and reached for my mother’s fingertips. In a voice, hoarse with grief, she told me that Patience had begun to ail during the journey from Fressingfield. She was tired and running a fever and mother pleaded for a doctor as soon as they arrived at the gaol. Her entreaties were ignored. Both Patience and my mother were herded into a communal cell, cold, crowded and awash with disease. Already weakened, Patience was vulnerable and succumbed to the prison fever that raged about the gaol. She died in my mother’s arms the day before the trial. Mother wept as she said she was ready to die, ready to join her two eldest children in God’s arms.
Her words pierced my heart like shards of glass. My mind filled with images of my innocent sister’s final hours. I thought of her cooped up in a fetid gaol, unable to comprehend what she had done to provoke such a punishment. Mother and I cried together, separated by the width of the barn wall, but united in grief. I held her fingers for as long as I could, but as the hours passed, waves of sleep coaxed me from standing to crouching. I fell, slumped against the barn wall, too tired to hold onto the last physical remnant of my mother’s love.
I was woken at dawn the next day by a sharp pain in my shoulder as a burly man pummelled me to the ground before kicking me away from the barn wall. As I lay prone, not quite conscious, he kicked me again and told me to move on before he set his dogs on me. I pleaded for more time but he put his face close to mine and snarled a refusal. I scanned the barn one last time, hoping to see my mother, but no one was there. I gathered my skirts and ran towards the ruined Abbey with tears streaming down my face. As I approached Westgate the heavens opened. Fat drops of rain spilled down my back. The streets of Bury turned muddy in moments and I was covered in dirt and soaked to the skin by the time I arrived at the Abbey vineyards.
It was early morning but the sky was black with rain. The grass was high and wet. There was no shelter, no hope and all decency had been sucked away from the world. Everything was lopsided. Good people were punished and holy men, who ought to protect them, were filled with sinful indifference to those they were obliged to defend. Sobbing and railing against the injustice, I clawed at my clothes and my face as I walked through the grounds, half mad with grief. At the side of the boundary hedge, a crow with a broken wing hopped unsteadily on the ground. There was a time, when I would have nursed it, Vicar; when there was still some humanity left in me. But I did not. I grasped a stick lying near its injured body, and drove it deep into the crow’s chest. As blood welled from its beak, and the light left its eyes, the burning pain in my heart began to recede.
Chapter 32
An Inspector Calls
Lawrence met Violet at the bottom of the stairs.
“Have you got the register?” he asked abruptly.
“No,” she said, placing her basket upon the floor. “I have not been successful.”
“Was Scoggins not willing to give it to you?”
“Mr Scoggins was perfectly prepared to give it to me,” said Violet. “Indeed, he went so far as to fetch it for me. But when I opened it, I realised it was futile to take it.”
“Why?” asked Lawrence.
“Because the register dates from 1797 which means there is a big gap. The records we need are missing.”
“How galling,” said Lawrence. “What on earth can we do about it?”
“Problem?” asked Michael emerging from the bottom of the passageway. He strolled towards them smiling.
“Our research has ground to a halt,” said Lawrence. “There is a gap in time between the parish register in the basement room and the book that the Parish Clerk currently uses.”
Michael frowned. “There should not be,” he said. “It is quite common for the Parish Clerk to retain only the most up to date record, but the others should be safely stored away.”
“Well, the one I want is missing,” said Lawrence. “It looks as if something was taken from the basement after all.”
“If that is the case, we may be on the right track,” said Violet. “Otherwise, why take it?”
“If someone removed it to impede our progress, they have achieved their aim,” sighed Lawrence.
“Not necessarily,” said Michael. “Parish records are transcribed for bishops and archdeacons. It is a requirement even now and many historical transcriptions have already been deposited.”
“Where are the transcripts kept?” asked Lawrence.
"We are in the diocese of Saint Edmundsbury,” said Michael, grinning.
“So, they are held in Bury Saint Edmunds?”
“Yes,” he nodded.
“And how can we apply to see them?”
“The diocese has an office in town. It is usually open during the day and I generally turn up, ask to see the records and they allow me access. It may be different for non-clergy. I know several of the clerks and I will write you a letter of introduction to be on the safe side.”
Lawrence sighed. “There
is a flaw in the plan,” he said.
“What?” asked Violet.
“I have been instructed to remain here for questioning. Inspector Draper will be arriving imminently.”
“Are you under arrest?” asked Violet. Her eyes sparkled and she wore a half grin.
“Of course, not,” said Lawrence. “Oh, I see. Very funny. Perhaps I should leave by the tradesman’s entrance before he gets here and catch a coach to Bury.”
“Or I can.”
“I cannot ask you to go,” said Lawrence. “Not alone.”
“I must ask permission, in any case,” said Violet. “But if Mrs Harris does not need me, then why not?”
“I can always join you if your business can be concluded within a day,” said Michael, “but I must be back here by tomorrow evening at the latest.”
“It is settled then,” said Violet. Michael and I will go to Bury this afternoon and return tomorrow. You can answer the Inspector’s questions at your leisure.”
Lawrence sighed. “I am supposed to be the investigator in this case. I do not like having to answer another investigator’s questions while you are investigating my mystery. It does not seem quite right,” he added. “But it is a good plan, I suppose, and I am grateful. I will stay here and do my duty.”
The Fressingfield Witch Page 18