Lawrence pulled up a wooden chair beside her. “Hello Hannah,” he said.
“Hello, my dear,” she replied. “You have made them angry.”
“Who?” he asked gently.
“All of them,” she replied.
Chapter 38
All Becomes Clear
Half an hour with Hannah was all that it took for Lawrence to understand what had happened and why. He returned to the house invigorated but was rebuked by Doctor Taylor who refused him access to Violet. It was not until the following day that the Doctor relented and allowed them to meet again. Violet was still immobile so Doctor Taylor helped her down the stairs and wheeled her into the morning room where Lawrence was waiting.
“No escaping today,” he said sternly, as he left the room.
“How are you?” asked Lawrence.
“Much better,” said Violet. “If only I could walk.”
“I wondered why you were in the bath chair,” said Lawrence.
“It is only temporary. I sprained my ankle when she pushed me down the stairs.”
“It could have been so much worse.” Lawrence shuddered. He was about to continue when the door opened and Loveday walked in.
“Oh, you are not alone,” she said, scowling towards Violet. “I came to say goodbye.”
“Where are you going?” asked Lawrence.
“Back to India, to see my people,” she replied. “I told you that weeks ago.”
“I thought you had an understanding with Doctor Taylor,” said Lawrence.
“I never said any such thing,” said Loveday. “I do not know where you got that idea from.”
Lawrence remembered the passionate kiss that she had shared with Doctor Taylor in the Churchyard. He had assumed they were courting. Perhaps that was not the way things were done any longer. The age gap between himself and Loveday suddenly seemed insurmountable.
He stood up and kissed her hand. “Have a pleasant journey,” he said.
Violet smiled. “Bon voyage.” Lawrence glanced at her. He could be imagining it, but she looked self-satisfied, almost smug.
Loveday blew a kiss towards Lawrence, waved and left the room.
As Lawrence watched the door swing shut, he wondered whether he would miss her, but knew that he felt nothing. He had no attachment to Loveday, real or imagined.
He turned towards Violet. She seemed smaller, frailer since the accident, but her eyes sparkled with curiosity. She was eager for information.
“I still do not know why Hannah Roper did it, Lawrence. It makes no sense.”
“It does in a way,” said Lawrence. “There is a curious logic to it, once you realise that Hannah Roper is a direct descendant of Faith Mills”.
“Then I suppose it is about vengeance.”
“Yes, when Faith was hanged as a witch, her daughter vowed that she would find a way to punish those who betrayed her mother. It so happened that the hanging was carried out in the middle of a storm. A fork of lightning knocked a crow out of the sky and it fell at the foot of the executioner. Honor Mills took it for a sign and it became an unofficial family crest. Her illegitimate son married and had children of his own. She lived for many years and was influential over her grandchildren and their children even though she despised her own son. She passed the story on, encouraging them to seek their revenge on anyone connected to the Witch Trials.”
“Not an easy task,” said Violet. “How did they know who to punish.”
“That is the point,” said Lawrence, “they did not. There is no evidence that the descendants of Honor Mills avenged anyone. After all this time, it would be difficult to find those responsible even with the help of written records. In any case, who would they choose? The descendants of the Vicar? The villagers who stood by and did nothing? The Executioner? There were so many people involved in Faith Mill’s hanging that punishing one individual would be almost impossible. Hannah decided, instead, that she would take vengeance against those who had wronged her personally.”
“Had she been wronged?” asked Violet. “If she was, I never heard it.”
“She thought she was,” replied Lawrence, “though others would see it as an unfortunate accident.”
“By who?”
“By Jonathan Carter and George Corbyn,” Lawrence replied.
“I cannot imagine how.”
“Neither could I until I spoke to Hannah yesterday,” said Lawrence. “She was surprisingly lucid considering her mind has gone and she will soon be admitted to the asylum. You may know that her husband, Harry Roper died the same year as Harriet Corbyn. He fell out of a cart. Less well-known is who was held responsible. The horse that pulled the cart was young and skittish. Harry asked Jonathan Carter to hold it still while he dismounted. George Corbyn happened to pass by on his way back from the Swan, somewhat the worse for wear. He started an argument with Jonathan Carter who was momentarily distracted and he let go of the reins. The horse was spooked. It reared up and threw Harry Roper to the ground. He hit his head on a rock and died. Hannah was distraught, as you can imagine. She had no children and Harry was her life. She seemed to recover in time, but it destroyed her sanity. She began hearing voices and plotting her revenge.”
“Did Hannah kill Jonathan Carter?” asked Violet.
“Yes, she did. Not only did she kill him, but she killed his sister too. Then she had an enormous stroke of luck. Henry Riches died a natural death and George Corbyn asked Hannah’s friend, Mary Riches, to marry him. Back then, Mary was not unpopular with the villagers. She was the unofficial wise woman, well-versed in country lore. She was trusted to cure minor ailments for those who could not afford the services of a doctor.”
“Not a witch?”
“Never a witch, at least not to start with. It was Hannah that put those ideas in her head and under Hannah’s influence that she was encouraged to keep the crow. Hannah Roper was persuasive and Mary hung on her every word but Hannah was careful to keep her manipulation well-hidden. If she concealed her influence, she could make Mary appear to be something she was not. It worked. As Hannah’s standing increased, so Mary’s diminished.”
“But it was Mary that hurt the baby.”
“No, it was Hannah. She killed Jonathan by frightening him to death but she wanted worse for George as in her opinion, he committed the greater crime. She decided to punish him by hurting those he cared for. That way his punishment would last longer. She poisoned Harriet which she considered a triumph as she was both George’s wife and Jonathan’s sister. Then, when Mary was already dying through a long-standing heart condition, she convinced her that both she and the baby would die the same day. Mary publicly repeated the prediction and Hannah poisoned her soon after. Then she applied an irritant substance to the poultice Mary had prepared for the baby earlier that day.”
“But Mary was her friend.”
“It did not matter, in the end. The lure of being able to hurt George Corbyn was too strong. Unfortunately, the scheme only partly worked. She made Mary so convincing as a witch, that George was glad to see the back of her and was not upset by her death at all.”
“Then why did she poison Eliza Clay?”
“That is a good question, and exactly what I asked when I saw her. It was quite simple. Eliza had seen Hannah attempting to persuade Mary to keep the crow. She was one of very few witnesses to Hannah’s influence over Mary. It would not have mattered had she forgotten about the incident, but she spoke of it. Only once or twice, but it came to Hannah’s attention. Eliza enjoyed the occasional beer but because she was poor, she could not afford it very often. Hannah took a jug of ale and laced it with Taxine, then she left it on Eliza’s window sill. Eliza did not question where it had come from and drank it.”
“There is one thing I do not understand,” said Violet.
“What?” asked Lawrence.
“Hannah worked at the Post Counter opposite the Chemist. Why did she go to the trouble of gathering yew berries, which is not without risk, when she had a ready sup
ply of poison within reach?”
“Two reasons,” said Lawrence. “Though Mr Lait can be somewhat cavalier in his approach, he locks the most dangerous poisons and drugs away so she did not have easy access to them."
"And the second?"
"Even if she had secured them, it would be obvious that they were taken from the Chemist. Everyone in the household would be under immediate suspicion, including Hannah.”
“Ah, but it did not stop her doctoring your powders,” said Violet. “It could not have taken much effort to slip the poison into an envelope marked with your name.”
“Indeed, said Lawrence. “But it did not matter in this one instance. You dropped the prescription off. I was unwell and unlikely to collect it myself. She knew that the powders could have been interfered with at any point between leaving the Chemist and arriving in my room. It would not be narrowed down to the occupants of the Chemist alone.”
“That is everything then,” said Violet.
“Not quite,” said Lawrence. “I have a question for you.”
“What?” asked Violet.
“Please do not be offended,” said Lawrence, “I have to ask. Why did you not tell me you were born Violet Mills? Are you related to Faith Mills?”
Violet laughed. It was the first time Lawrence had seen her smile since Mrs Harris died. “No relationship at all,” she said.
“Then why did you not say?”
“Why would I bring it to your attention when it did not matter? You are a private investigator. What else would you think?”
“Were you married?” Lawrence asked.
Violet spluttered. “You are absurd,” she said. “I was born Violet Mills but my mother remarried when I was small. I took her husband’s name. He was like my own father and treated me well. They both died soon after I left home and I was fond of him so I kept his name.”
“I see,” said Lawrence, regretting his cynicism. Everyone closest to Violet had believed in her when he had not. He alone doubted her and he alone was wrong. Not knowing what to say, he changed the subject.
“It was Hannah who lit the fire in the basement, you know. She splashed oil through the window and tossed in a lighted match. She intended to kill us both.”
“How did she know we were there?”
“It was my fault,” said Lawrence. “I met Caroline Elliot outside the chemist shop and she told me something that did not fit with the facts. She said that Hannah had missed her shawl when Hannah denied it only moments earlier. Then Caroline said that Hannah encouraged Mary’s odd beliefs. She could have been told by Eliza Clay, who knows. Finally, I remembered what I had seen on the wall hanging. I recognised the names of Charles Fayers and his wife Christian but I could not remember why the names were familiar. After I left, it occurred to me that the names might be part of the Mills family tree. I could not find my notes or yours either, so I returned to the basement to look for the registers.”
"A good thing you did," said Violet. Hannah’s room is immediately above the front of the chemist,” she continued. “I noticed that when I was there. I suppose she must have heard your conversation.”
“And my subsequent exclamation,” said Lawrence. “She followed me to the Vicarage and waited to see what I would do next. I went to the basement, exactly as she feared.”
“It would have been easier if you had just gone to the study,” smiled Violet. “I left our notes there for safe-keeping.”
Epilogue
Bury St Edmunds, October 1890
Rain lashed over the cobbled streets as the man in the top hat battled with a large umbrella which threatened to collapse at any moment. He slowed as he approached the mullioned windows of Number 33. The sign above the window bore the interlocked names of Harpham and Smith, Private Investigators. He peered inside. A smartly-dressed woman worked at her desk examining a map through a magnifying glass. The man checked over his shoulder, stole a furtive glance up and down the street, then grasped the door handle. He entered the establishment.
A bell clanged. The gentleman wiped his feet on the doormat and shook the umbrella onto the street before closing the door. He took a deep breath and walked towards the woman. She looked up and smiled.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“I wish to consult with Mr Harpham,” he said. “There is a matter of some delicacy I would like to discuss.”
“Mr Harpham is unavailable,” she said. “He is out. May I be of service?”
“I would be equally delighted to speak to Mr Smith,” the gentleman continued. “It is all the same to me, as long as they are discreet.”
The woman opened her mouth to speak, but the bell chimed again and Lawrence Harpham strolled into the newly-painted office.
“Good day sir,” he said. “Can I help or are you dealing with my business partner Miss Smith?”
“Oh,” said the gentleman. “I assumed it was Messer’s Harpham & Smith.”
“Everybody does,” said Lawrence. “Come into the office and tell us all about it. Miss Smith and I will sort your problem out in no time.”
THE END
Afterword
The Fressingfield Witch is a work of fiction based on real events. It was inspired by a series of newspaper clippings recording the allegations of witchcraft made against Mary Corbyn and the subsequent inquest into the death of baby Edith Hammond. The Bury Witch Trials were factual and took place in 1645 though whether Faith Mills escaped with her life or not is, as far as I know, unrecorded. I have taken the unusual step of populating my fictional version of Fressingfield with real inhabitants from the 1891 census records including a few of the main characters. Most, however, exist only in my imagination.
Jacqueline Beard
Cheltenham
www.eastanglianancestors.co.uk
References:
William Dowsing – Information about William Dowsing was ‘Extracted from Trevor Cooper (ed.), The Journal of William Dowsing: iconoclasm in East Anglia during the English Civil War, Woodbridge, 2001’
The Fressingfield Witch Page 24