Violet smiled and put the notebook in her pocket before collecting the tea tray for washing. As she walked through the room, she tripped over the fraying edge of the carpet. A sugar bowl tumbled to the floor. Violet sighed and put down the tray before picking the spilt sugar cubes from the floor. As she stood to retrieve the tray, she noticed a blue shawl draped across the day bed. She set the sugar bowl down and grabbed the shawl, yanking the front door open so she could hail Lawrence. It was too late. Lawrence had already crossed the road and was striding briskly towards the church, well out of shouting distance. She sighed and hung the shawl on the coat hook. She was not going to run after him. He would have to finish his errand another day.
Lawrence hurried along the pathway and past the Butcher’s Shop, which stood at the end of a terrace of white painted cottages. He continued until he reached the Post Office, but when he opened the door, he realised he had forgotten the very thing he was supposed to be returning. Inwardly rebuking himself, he closed the door and walked towards Sarah Hammond’s cottage instead. As he neared her house, he happened upon a crowd of people grouped around the village sign. About thirty people were gesticulating and discussing something in excitable tones.
The crowd quietened as he approached. Then George Corbyn stepped forward.
“Hey, Mister Private Investigator,” Corbyn hollered. “It’s not so much nonsense now.” He put his hands on his hips and glared at Lawrence.
“What do you mean?” asked Lawrence.
“The witch,” said George Corbyn. “Deny it now, if you dare.”
“There is no witch,” snapped Lawrence.
“Well something means to harm you,” continued Corbyn. “And how long will it be before it hurts the rest of us?”
“I do not know what you mean,” sighed Lawrence.
“We know all about it,” said a short, slight man with bowed legs. Lawrence recognised him as one of the farm workers. “The word is out. Young Anna took a dose of poison meant for you and Eliza Clay was killed with the same thing.”
“Who told you?” asked Lawrence.
“What does that matter?” said the man. “Who told us is neither here nor there. George says it is Mary back from the grave, taking anyone who crossed her; and there were plenty.”
Lawrence shook his head. “This is the work of one who lives on this earth, not beneath it,” he said.
“What would you know,” spat an unkempt woman. Her face was furrowed with deep lines and her two front teeth were missing. “History repeats.”
“What she means,” said George, “is the way my wife and brother-in-law died. We said it was unnatural and they insisted it was heart disease. Well, they were murdered and it was Mary who did it. Now she has returned and walks again.” George folded his arms and glared at Lawrence, daring him to disagree.
“You cannot attribute every death in the village to your deceased wife,” said Lawrence.
“He does not,” said a familiar voice. It was Sarah Hammond. “But there is no denying that deaths come in waves in this village.”
“Yes,” said George. “First Jonathan, then Harriet and before that Henry Riches and poor old Harry Roper.”
“You cannot claim Henry Riches and Harry Roper’s deaths were caused by witch’s poison,” said the short man. “Especially not Harry Roper; that was a different kind of brew altogether.”
He winked and poked George Corbyn in the chest. The other men laughed loudly.
“It is not a laughing matter,” scolded Sarah Hammond turning to her father. “If you would only stop at one or two ales, you would not get in such a state.”
“It was that old fool, Carter,” scowled George. “If he had been concentrating, it would not have mattered that I tripped over him and Harry would not have fallen from the cart. Doddery old idiot. Do not blame me.”
“Well it was not witchcraft, was it?” said Sarah. “Any more than Henry Riches death was. You have taken a silly idea and run wild with it.”
Lawrence smiled weakly, relieved to find someone in the village who could still view matters with a sense of balance.
“Witch or poisoner, I do not care,” said the unkempt woman, “there is mayhem in this village and it must be stopped.”
“What can we do?” cried a young woman, wringing her hands. “We will all be killed in our beds.”
“We can pray.”
“A lot of use that does in the face of Satan,” said the thin man.
“Go back to the old ways,” said the crone. “I have witch bottles aplenty, for those who can afford them.”
“Do not listen.” Caroline Elliott, the monthly nurse joined them. “She will have all your wages if you are not careful.”
"Hush your mouth, woman,” said George Corbyn. “You should know better than to question a wise woman, with your charge so full of child.”
“She will be attended by a proper doctor,” Caroline said, “you keep your superstitions away.”
“Tell that to her husband,” said the thin man. “He knows the truth. A bigger bag of nerves I have yet to witness since the poor fellow found Jonathan Carter in the churchyard.”
“You leave William Edwards out of this, Henry Harper,” hissed Caroline. “He is a sensible man.”
Lawrence watched nervously. Tempers were becoming frayed. The atmosphere was tense, febrile.
He wondered whether to intervene, but decided against it. His presence was provoking further anxiety. An air of mistrust had descended over Fressingfield. Violence threatened. He began to understand why the Reverend had been sufficiently concerned to call upon him to investigate. He was on the verge of returning to the Vicarage when he saw a pair of figures in the distance. It was Inspector Draper accompanied by Doctor Taylor.
Lawrence walked towards them, relieved.
“What is going on?” asked the Inspector.
“Things are getting nasty,” said Lawrence. “They have heard about the poisonings and believe they were caused by witchcraft. Corbyn thinks his wife has returned from the dead. He has whipped them up into a fearful frenzy. Some actually believe the dead walk among them.”
“They are afraid,” said Doctor Taylor. “There is a poisoner in their midst who they cannot identify.”
“They are turning on one another,” said Lawrence. “They ought to be stopped.”
Inspector Draper strode towards them, holding his hand up. “Move along now,” he said.
George Corbyn began to argue, but the Inspector was firm. “Go back to your homes. There is nothing to see here.”
He stood watching with his arms crossed. A few men objected, but Inspector Draper radiated authority. Before long, the crowd dispersed. The Inspector waited until the last person had gone then returned to Lawrence.
“I thought you were keeping out of the way,” he said.
“I was running an errand and happened upon them,” said Lawrence indignantly. “I was only walking past.”
“You should return to the Vicarage,” said the Inspector, “and stay there, for your own safety. I do not want to have to ask you to leave Fressingfield.”
“But I need to see the Parish Clerk,” said Lawrence.
“Not today,” said the Inspector. Andrew Taylor smiled sympathetically. Lawrence thought of Loveday and could not meet his eyes.
“Very well,” said Lawrence. He did not intend to antagonise the inspector by arguing, and it would be easy enough to slip out later.
He left the two men and retraced his steps, returning through the churchyard. As he picked his way moodily up the path, he was cheered by the sight of a squirrel sitting on top of one of the taller gravestones. Lawrence wondered what the incumbent of the grave would have thought about his visitor. As he considered the matter, it occurred to him that there might be some of Honor’s descendants lying within Fressingfield churchyard. If he could find any gravestones with Mills or Fayers inscribed, he might glean some more information. The weather was clement and he was in no rush to return to the Vicarage desp
ite the Inspector’s concerns. He circumnavigated the churchyard and began searching for relevant gravestones.
It was not an easy task. The older graves were covered in lichen, inscriptions weathered and worn. Few were readable and the newer, clearer tombstones were of no interest. He did not locate any graves with the name Mills but after half an hour of fruitless searching, he found one of interest. It was a gravestone inscribed with the name 'James Fayers'. Lawrence remembered that James Fayers was Sarah’s grandfather. The tombstone was of reasonable quality and the inscription read clearer than most. It confirmed that James had died in 1798 at the age of seventy-six. There were no further details and no family members lying near the grave. Lawrence sighed in frustration. After all that searching, he had learned nothing new. As he turned to leave, he noticed that the lichen covered rear of the stone was not quite flat. He reached into his top pocket for a handkerchief and gently scraped the moss and debris away. He surveyed the stone and felt a rush of adrenaline. The hairs on his neck stood on end. Carved into the reverse of the tombstone, was the unmistakable form of a crow.
Chapter 34
Somerset House
Lawrence hurried towards the Vicarage, keen to share his news. He ought to discuss the matter with Michael, but Violet Smith had been so helpful, so accommodating, that he wanted to share the discovery with her. Besides, he was not quite sure what it meant and how it helped. Violet was sensible and would, no doubt, have a ready solution.
When he arrived, the house was quiet. He searched the rooms but they were empty. He heard a sound and glanced towards the garden. The family were sitting outside on the lawn having tea. Reverend Raven and his wife had returned. Michael, Violet, Mrs Harris and the girls were sitting on wicker chairs, chatting together. Lawrence decided not to join them. It was too intimate a gathering. Instead, he sat at one of the study desks and considered what he had found.
What exactly did it tell him? There was very little he did not already know. He was aware of James Fayer's age and his death date so his age at death was no surprise. Lawrence could not determine the relevance of the Crow. What would Violet say if she was with him and not enjoying tea on the lawn? She would ask why a poor man had a gravestone at all. Of course, that was it. Not only did James Fayers have a gravestone, but he had a carving made upon it. He must have been a man of some means. And if he was a man of means, he would have wanted to dispose of his assets when he died. There was a good chance he had made a will.
Lawrence paced the study, watching over the garden. He still felt uneasy about the prospect of intruding on the family scene before him, but badly wanted to consult with Violet. Just as his patience was coming to an end, Michael stood and walked towards the house. Lawrence greeted him at the rear door.
“What are you doing inside?” asked Michael, “Come and join us. It is a beautiful day.”
“It is not a beautiful day in the Village,” said Lawrence and described the scene of discontent he had witnessed earlier.
“This is what the Reverend was afraid of,” said Michael. “It was like this a few weeks ago, then it began to pass. I do not wonder at their concern about these poisonings. It is one thing after another. I will go and meet George Corbyn and see if I cannot talk some sense into him.”
“He is the ring leader,” said Lawrence. “Despite his ridiculous ideas, I have sympathy for the man. He has lost a wife and grandchild, after all.”
“I will treat him kindly,” said Michael.
“One thing before you go,” said Lawrence.
“Yes?”
“Do you know where I can find a copy of a will?”
“Yes,” said Michael. “But it will mean a trip. You will likely need to go to Somerset House.”
“Where is that?” asked Lawrence.
“In London,” Michael replied. “Is it necessary?”
Lawrence nodded. “I expect so,” he said. “I am going to seek out Elijah Scoggins. I need to search his records but if I cannot find what I am looking for, it is the only option left to me.”
Michael nodded. “Then Godspeed,” he said.
Lawrence considered leaving his visit to Elijah Scoggins until the morrow. He knew that the Inspector might order him to leave the village if he ignored his request to stay away but the matter was pressing. If he must go to London, it was better done without delay. If the parish register bridged the gap in information, the trip to London might be avoidable. It was only a short distance to Scoggins cottage and could save an unnecessary journey. He was not prepared to wait, whatever the Inspector had asked.
Lawrence watched from the Vicarage window to ensure there was no one in Church Lane, at least as far as he could see. He strode to Elijah’s cottage using the most direct route. The Parish Clerk greeted him and offered his cooperation. He showed him inside and collected the register which Lawrence took and checked in Scoggin’s parlour. It was easier to read than the older versions and he scanned through it in no time. Within half an hour, his worst fears were confirmed. There was no reference to Sarah Fayers. No death and no marriage. He asked Elijah's opinion on the matter. He suggested that Sarah could have married or died in another parish, but it did not help. Lawrence thanked him for his time and left, knowing that a journey to London must take place.
Lawrence joined the family for the evening meal. He was seated at the top of the table next to Reverend Raven while Violet sat at the opposite end. There was no opportunity to speak to Violet that evening and she retired early. After an evening of stilted small talk, Lawrence was unsurprised to be summoned to the Reverend’s study after the meal to discuss progress.
The Reverend Raven was barely able to conceal his disappointment. “Inspector Draper telephoned me earlier,” he said. “I am sure you have tried your best, Lawrence, but the disruption in the village is the very thing I hoped to avoid. There is now an official investigation underway with all the problems that entails. It is time for you to return to Bury.”
“I understand, “said Lawrence, “but there is one further thing I need to check. You are right. This has not been a successful investigation, but I am sure that there is something in Faith Mill’s lineage. Something that connects the two outbreaks of witchcraft. I want to visit Somerset House to see if I can prove it. If not, I will return to Bury and leave the matter in Inspector Draper’s hands.”
“I cannot see how it changes things, whether you succeed or not,” said the Reverend.
“There is a poisoner afoot,” said Lawrence. Just because the deaths were not caused by witchcraft, does not preclude a connection. The two things are linked in some way.”
“You have two days,” said the Reverend. “The Church will not pay for any more of your time. Those two days are on the condition that you do not get in the way of the official investigation. You must cooperate with Draper."
“I will,” said Lawrence and they parted company.
Lawrence spent a restless night at the Vicarage and was relieved to leave the following morning. Michael had been upset and embarrassed by the Reverend’s antipathy towards Lawrence. He apologised profusely when he heard Lawrence’s account of the meeting and insisted on ordering a cab for Lawrence's journey to the station. Lawrence boarded the cab after breakfast and alighted in Eye in time to embark upon the ten o’clock to Liverpool Street.
He spent the most part of the ninety-four miles of the journey reviewing the genealogy of the Mills family which he had traced from Faith Mills to Sarah Fayers. Had James Fayers left a will, he might have named his grandchildren, if any existed. The will had the potential to expose the presence of any other children he might have fathered. This could reveal other direct lineages which did not involve Sarah at all. On the other hand, there might not be a will, it might contain nothing of note or it could be unreadable. He decided not to dwell on the negatives and was in an optimistic frame of mind by the time the train pulled into Liverpool Street.
Lawrence collected his paperwork as soon as the brakes were applied and waited at
the carriage door. He vacated the train and walked along the dusty platform and past the ticket offices. He pushed through the crowd and into the busy concourse where he hailed a cab. The ride to the Strand was noisy and bumpy. The city smelled rank and unwholesome. It was frenetic, loud and wholly different to the calm purity of the countryside. He was grateful he did not have to live in the busy metropolis.
He endured an uncomfortable carriage ride to Somerset House, a grand, imposing mansion set around a large quadrangle. The size of the building and the beauty of the neoclassical architecture made the difficult journey worthwhile. He admired the craftmanship as he walked across a stone balustrade and through one of the side doors. He hesitated and enjoyed the view from the window before locating an official from whom he asked directions to the public search room.
The official directed him down a dark corridor and he emerged into a large, square room with wood panelled walls and ceilings. An extensive array of arched windows lit one side of the room while electric lamps illuminated the other. The rear wall contained a floor to ceiling bookcase with a series of over-sized registers. The search room was occupied by half a dozen studious-looking men, mostly in their middle years.
Lawrence located the appropriate register with relative ease and used two hands to heft it over to one of the giant reading stands. Wills were presented in date order, not alphabetically and there were a great many for the year of 1797. He spent the first half hour of his research squinting over exquisitely written but hard to read text, searching without success. It was not until he reached the records for May that he found what he had been looking for. James Fayers had indeed left a will, short but pertinent.
The Last Will and Testament of James Fayers of Fressingfield in the County of Suffolk being of sound mind and memory, but frail in health. I declare this to be my last will and testament, revoking all other wills by me previously written. I hereby will and bequeath all I do or shall be possessed of at the time of my decease in household goods, plate, linen, money and goods in kind and my house in Fressingfield in which I now dwell, to my beloved wife Catherine for her sole use and benefit. To my granddaughter, Sarah, I bequeath the sum of five pounds. I hereby make my son-in-law, John Chittock, my sole executor and leave him five shillings for his pains. Signed, sealed, published and declared by the above-named testator as his last will and testament.
The Fressingfield Witch Page 20