The Fressingfield Witch

by Jacqueline Beard

  Lawrence loitered in the morning room for half an hour before deciding to make better use of his time. He retreated to his bedroom and collected the notebook he had been reading earlier. He flicked through the remainder of the journal. It revealed nothing but blank pages so he picked up the fourth and final notebook and opened the front cover.

  The notebook was thick and uneven. The inside pages were obscured with a multitude of paper items clipped from other sources and stuck down. A shabby envelope fixed to the flyleaf contained receipts for payments to Matthew Hopkins from the village coffers. The ink was faded, but legible. It revealed that Hopkins had charged Fressingfield fifteen shillings plus his travelling expenses. This was to extract confessions from Faith Mills and one other. A further two shillings had been paid to the Searchers and Watchers for services rendered. Their names were appended and were confirmed as Honor Mills had journaled. The searchers were Ann and Priscilla Briggs and the watchers, Moses Rayner and Richard Glanfield. It was further proof that a long-ago incumbent of Fressingfield parish, had been an avid collector of unusual historical facts.

  The next page contained a series of clips from an ancient pamphlet purporting to be a first-hand account of the Witchcraft Trial. It was entitled:

  “A true relation of the arraignment of nine witches at St Edmundsbury tried and convicted and condemned to die on the 29th September 1645. Also, an account of the supernatural event which followed thereafter.”

  Lawrence read on, transfixed.

  At the assizes in St Edmundsbury on Friday 22nd, September in the year of our Lord 1640 and the twentieth year of the reign of Charles I. Nine witches were tried and condemned before Edmund Calamy one of the Justices of the Common Pleas to be brought for execution the following Friday. These nine were carried by cart to the Market Square in Bury Saint Edmunds and arrangements were made to record the proceedings for posterity.

  The said witches were unloaded from the cart which arrived from Almoners Barn, where they had been confined the previous evening. Their leg irons were struck away and they were marched to the centre of the square to await their fate. In attendance was respected Minister, Samuel Fairclough. He stood next the gallows from whence he read a series of accusations pertaining to those witches there present.

  The nine before him some time previously confessed to all manner of sinful things recounted in detail to the waiting crowd. Confessions included covenanting with the devil, keeping imps with which to do mischief and suckling and nurturing those imps. Prisoners admitted debased acts including the murder of children, the slaying of livestock and other diverse and evil misdoings, committed for the benefit of Satan. Minister Fairclough spake with each prisoner in turn and asked whether they should die for their sins. Two confessed they should and were blessed while others recanted their original confessions and did not receive absolution. All prisoners were directed to climb the steps to the cross and the executioner tightened each knot in turn until they were all bound and ready. Then the prisoners were hung and left to die, eight of them taking almost half of an hour before they expired.

  The last to hang was a witch by the name of Faith Mills who confessed to the killing of a child, the laming of many livestock and the nurture of three imps from a nub upon her extremities. This witch was hanged by her neck like the others before her. Within moments of her suspension a young woman, clad in bloody rags, ran from the throng and pulled upon the prisoners’ legs with such force that she did expire quickly and without suffering.

  The crowd was much aggrieved at this devilry, fulminating against the girl for preventing the prescribed punishment. They demanded retribution for her interference, calling for her to hang in place of the Witch. The girl faced them in anger and did not surrender to their demands. Instead, the damnable creature stood upon the steps of the gibbet and cursed the crowd and the church and all holy things. And the sky did darken and thunder and a flash of lightning lit the Market Square in a strange, unearthly manner. And at the second clap of thunder, there fell from the sky the dead body of a crow, which settled at the feet of the Minister. The crowd gasped in terror and in the confusion of the moment, the girl vanished and was never seen in Bury again.

  Lawrence closed the book. She did appear again. He had seen the record for himself. Honor Mills had lived an extraordinarily long life for the time, dying at the age of 91. She probably never left Fressingfield again. Her remains may have been buried somewhere in the churchyard.

  Lawrence could not help but admire her bravery and fortitude in bringing her mother to a quick end; a risky action in front of an antagonistic crowd. She was foolhardy, but with formidable courage for such a young girl. He thought about the crow struck by lightning that had fallen at the Minister's feet. The superstitious crowd would undoubtedly have taken it as a sign. Rumours may have reached Fressingfield. Was the story passed down through the generations? Could it be the reason for the recent spate of dead crows?

  His reverie was interrupted by a rap at the door. It was Mary Warne. “The Inspector is here to see you, Sir,” she said.

  He followed her downstairs where Inspector Draper was waiting in the hallway. “Mr Harpham, I presume,” he said, offering a firm hand.

  Lawrence accepted it. “I trust you had a good journey,” he said.

  “Tolerably,” said the Inspector. “A tree has come down on the Stradbroke Road. We were forced to divert and that is why we are late. Tell me, Harpham. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “Come through to the morning room, if you like,” said Lawrence.

  “No, somewhere public, I mean. It has been a difficult day.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Lawrence. “Somewhere like the Fox and Goose perhaps?”

  “That sounds ideal.” The Inspector smiled and rubbed his hands appreciatively. Lawrence warmed to him.

  They set off across the road towards the church.

  “Well, Lawrence. May I call you Lawrence?”

  “Please do.”

  “And you can call me Jack. Let us dispense with the formalities. Now, who wants to kill you and why?”

  Lawrence flinched, momentarily taken aback with the direct approach. “I am not entirely sure,” he said. “It may have something to do with the case I am working on.”

  They walked through the graveyard. It was empty apart from a woman at the far end who was kneeling on the ground, paying her respects. She tidied some flowers and stood to leave well ahead of them. As she walked away, an item of clothing fell from her arm.

  “Wait,” yelled Lawrence, but she was too far away to hear.

  They walked over to where the apparel lay crumpled on the floor. It was an old shawl, threadbare and worn and had seen better days. It lay across a well-tended grave with a granite stone marked in the name of Ann Chittock. Ann had died in 1855 and had been well-loved if the tidy appearance of her final resting place was anything to go by.

  “I will take it to the public house,” said Lawrence. “Somebody there may know who it belongs to.”

  The inspector nodded. “Is this it?” he asked, pointing to the red brick jettied building, nestling on the edge of the churchyard.

  “It is,” said Lawrence, “but the door is on the other side.”

  “Jolly good,” said the Inspector. “Lead the way.”

  They entered the public house, ducking their heads as they passed through the low door. The interior was dark but welcoming. The bar counter stretched across a large expanse of the room and the barman stood to the side of it polishing glasses.

  “Good evening, sirs,” he said, placing the towel on the bar. “What can I get you?”

  “Two of your finest ales,” said Inspector Draper without asking Lawrence. “What is your name sir?”

  “Benjamin Powley,” said the Victualler, suspiciously.

  “Well, Benjamin Powley, you keep a very fine inn,” he said gazing at the room appreciatively. The Innkeeper beamed. “I am glad you like it,” he said passing two tankards of beer. “Enjoy your drinks.”


  “Shall we sit?” asked the Inspector, gesturing to a table in an alcove further into the room. “It is quiet now, but we may be glad of privacy later.”

  “You go,” said Lawrence. “I will be with you in a moment.”

  The Inspector took both beers and settled down on a chair.

  “Do you happen to know who this belongs to?” asked Lawrence showing the shawl to the Innkeeper.

  “Sorry,” said Mr Powley. “I have never seen it before. Where did you find it?”

  “We saw someone drop it as we were walking from the Vicarage,” said Lawrence, “it was lying on a grave. I did not recognise who it belonged to. She was too far away.”

  Benjamin nodded. “Wait a moment”, he said, opening a door to the rear of the bar. “Margaret.”

  Moments later, Margaret Powley arrived.

  “Do you know who owns this?” asked her father.

  “I found it on the arched granite gravestone nearest the church,” said Lawrence helpfully.

  “It is probably Hannah Roper’s,” said Margaret. “Her mother is buried there.”

  “Good, thank you,” said Lawrence. He was pleased to hear it belonged to Hannah. He liked her and would enjoy seeing her again. A sensible woman, he thought, and someone he needed to talk to again. He still had one or two questions to ask about Sarah Hammond. As much as he had warmed to Sarah, something was bothering him and Hannah might be able to help.

  He folded the shawl as he walked towards the alcove where he joined the Inspector.

  “Cheers,” said Jack Draper, “now, to business.”

  He interviewed Lawrence at length, in a companionable and unthreatening manner. Lawrence felt was like he was having a conversation with an old friend. He stopped short of telling Draper about Faith Mills but revealed that he had been summoned to the village by Reverend Raven. He mentioned how unsettled the Reverend had been at the suggestion of witchcraft following the death of baby Hammond.

  “Quite an understandable reaction from the Reverend,” said the Inspector rationally. “A credulous lot, it would appear.”

  When Lawrence had finished divulging that which he was prepared to tell, the Inspector spoke. “The Clay girl’s death is murder pure and simple,” he said. “There is no doubt whatever. There will have to be an inquest, of course, but your doctors are adamant that taxine could not have entered her body accidentally. In the absence of any evidence or anecdotal report of suicidal intent, we must assume it was deliberate. So, let us not beat about the bush. If the Clay girl was murdered and your servant girl was poisoned by the same means, you were most likely the target. Why?”

  “I do not know,” said Lawrence. “I have told you everything relevant.”

  “No, not everything,” said the Inspector. He waved at Benjamin Powley and gestured for two more beers.

  “Almost everything. The only thing I have not told you is that this may connect to someone who died two centuries ago. It is by no means certain and the link is tenuous,” said Lawrence. “And the subject matter is so unlikely, that I am reluctant to mention it.”

  "If that is all, I will leave you to investigate that part yourself," said the Inspector. "As for the rest of it, you should avoid proceeding any further with the case.”

  Lawrence opened his mouth to protest.

  The inspector pre-empted him. “I am not trying to prevent you earning your living, Lawrence, but you have come to the attention of someone who wishes to do you harm. Lay low for a bit. You can come back to it all when we have located the poisoner. Understand?”

  Lawrence nodded. He was going nowhere until this was settled. But it would be better to give the impression of cooperation.

  “That’s a good chap. Now, there is a billiards table over there. Do you fancy a game?”

  Chapter 33

  A Hostile Crowd

  Lawrence woke late the next morning and flinched as sunlight flooded into his room from undrawn curtains. He screwed open one eye and felt for his pocket watch which he hoped would be on the bedside table as usual. It was and he flicked the catch open and examined the time piece through bleary eyes, finding, to his chagrin, that it was almost ten o’clock. He sat bolt upright, wincing at the pain in his head. His temple throbbed in time with the judder of the second hand.

  He wiped his brow while considering how much he had drunk the previous night. It could not have been more than four tankards of ale. It had been a long time since he had indulged in that much beer at once, and the ale was uncommonly strong.

  Lawrence dressed gingerly and made his way downstairs. He peered into the morning room in the hope that there was some breakfast left, but it had all been cleared away. He decided not to impose on Mary Warne given the circumstances and set off for a walk to take his mind off his empty stomach. He strolled towards the village along the Cratfield Road. He walked past the Baptist Chapel and around the village centre towards the Jubilee Pump. His head began to clear in the light breeze. As he approached the Swan Inn, his eye was drawn towards the church. Two figures walked side by side in the distance. It was Loveday and Doctor Taylor. They were walking arm in arm through the empty churchyard in earnest conversation. As he watched, they stopped talking. Andrew Taylor drew her close, then kissed her gently on the lips.

  Lawrence blinked and looked again. They were still together locked in an embrace. Taylor’s arms encircled Loveday’s waist. She was smiling.

  Lawrence lowered his head and walked swiftly away. He did not wish to see any more or be seen. If he returned to the Vicarage, their paths would cross so he trekked across the field following the stream until he reached Gules Green Lane. It was a much longer walk than he originally intended, but it gave him time to think about the scene he had witnessed.

  He was certainly attracted to Loveday. Not only was she beautiful, but she had a youthful exuberance he had never possessed himself. But was he falling in love with her? And if not, why did he feel so flat having seen her with the young doctor? On reflection, he was certain his feelings did not run deep. If he had wanted to, he could have acted already, encouraged her. It was only an infatuation.

  By the time he returned to the Vicarage, his headache had disappeared and he had come to terms with Loveday’s transfer of affections. He had been flattered by her attention, but it was right that she was with the younger man. He walked through the door as the grandfather clock chimed midday. Michael’s coat and hat were in their usual position on the coat stand.

  “You are back,” said Lawrence, opening the drawing room door. Violet was sitting with Mrs Harris, discussing the evening menu.

  “We arrived ten minutes ago,” said Michael.

  “How did you get on?”

  “Good and bad, equally,” said Michael. “Violet has it all written down. I will let her explain when she has finished with Mrs Harris.”

  “I hope it was not too taxing.”

  “Not at all, “said Michael. “It only took a few hours so we decided to visit my brother. He would not hear of us staying at the Inn and offered us rooms for the night. He laid on a jolly good spread for us too. He asked after you, Lawrence, and sends his regards.”

  “I will make a point of going to see him as soon as this is over,” said Lawrence. “I am sorry I was not with you. It sounds like you enjoyed yourself.”

  “How was the Inspector?” asked Michael. “Did he give you a hard time?”

  “It went unexpectedly well,” said Lawrence, “the man is completely charming. Quite the reverse of what I was expecting. I could not find it in me to dislike anything about him.”

  “Jolly good,” said Michael. “I do not have to feel guilty now for enjoying myself while you were in his clutches. It looks like Violet has finished with Mrs Harris. She has much to tell you so I will leave you to it.”

  Violet scurried past. “I will only be a minute,” she whispered as she left the room.

  Lawrence smiled awkwardly at Mrs Harris. She said nothing but picked up her lace, hooking the stitches w
ith slow, deliberate strokes. They sat in uncomfortable silence until Violet returned.

  “Sorry. I was giving Mary instructions for dinner,” she said. “Now, listen to this.” She opened the notebook. “There were few relevant entries, only one or two deaths and marriages of distant cousins and hardly any direct line descendants. James Fayers had a brother and sister but the brother died young and the sister died in childbirth. James also had a child of his own; just the one, a daughter named Ann. Ann went on to have an illegitimate daughter, Sarah who was christened in 1771 but we could not find any trace of Sarah after her christening.”

  “The trail goes cold,” sighed Lawrence.

  “It does a little,” agreed Violet, “but the register held by Elijah Scoggins begins in 1797 so we could check it for a marriage. Sarah would have been 26 or more which is a little old for the time, but it is always possible. On the other hand, she could have died. If she died, there is no trail. Honor’s line dies with her.”

  “Can Mrs Harris spare you again later?” asked Lawrence. “We could look at the register?”

  “No,” said Violet firmly. “She has done without me for almost a whole day and I cannot abuse my position.”

  “I understand,” said Lawrence. “I will save it until you can join me. I have other errands to run today. I need to visit Sarah Hammond without the Inspector finding out and I must return Hannah Roper’s shawl, at some point. She dropped it yesterday.”

  “We can look at the records tomorrow,” said Violet. “I will be free then. Before you go, I must give you some news. Did you know that Anna McElliott has returned to her mother’s house?”

  “Has her condition worsened?” asked Lawrence.

  “Quite the opposite, she has improved enough to go home. Dr Taylor says she must rest for at least a week before returning to work, but it appears that she has survived the poison.”

  “Excellent news,” said Lawrence. “I am relieved. Well, I must not keep you from your duties any longer. I will call in on Sarah Hammond and drop the shawl on my way. No doubt I will see you later.”