"Why?" asked Lawrence.
"Because of the crow."
"A crow?"
"Mary kept a crow in a cage," explained Hannah. "A poor thing she found with a broken wing. She cared for it until she was sure it would live, but the wing would not mend, and it could not fend for itself. Anyone else would have wrung its neck, but Mary did not. She fed it and cared for it."
"She sounds like a compassionate woman," said Lawrence.
"It was ill-judged," said Hannah, pouring more tea into the cups without asking whether Lawrence wanted it. Lawrence sipped the now tepid tea, then pushed the teacup away.
"How so?"
"Have you heard about the death of Jonathan Carter?"
"I have. I’m aware that dead crows were found near his body."
"Yes, they tried to keep it quiet, but some of us knew," said Hannah, "so you will understand why taming one was reviled. Jonathan Carter had only been dead for three years, and although the talk of bewitchment had faded, it had never completely vanished. People were horrified when they heard about her crow and she was viewed with even greater mistrust. I implored her to release the crow, but she would not hear of it."
"I can’t imagine George Corbyn tolerating the crow?"
"He didn’t. He hated it and thought it an omen of death."
"I begin to see the problem," said Lawrence, "a well-meaning woman with an unfortunate way of offending people without intending to."
Hannah sighed, scraped back the chair, and began clearing the cups from the table. "Mary was not completely without blame," she said. "As I have told you, she was my friend - perhaps my closest friend, but I would not want you to leave with the wrong impression. By the time Mary died, she had convinced herself that she had powers ordinary people lacked. The reason they thought her a witch is because she believed it herself."
Chapter 9
Inquest
Lawrence emerged from the Post Office deep in thought. Everything he had been told about Mary inferred that she was in the grip of a self-created delusion, and it gave him room for hope. If Mary was the cause of the outbreak of hysteria, then it should die out of its own accord now that she was no longer around to perpetuate the myth. But leaving it to chance and hoping the rumours would fade away might not be enough. He should, at the very least, speak with the Corbyn family. If there were no surprises from them, his stay in Fressingfield might be swiftly concluded and to the satisfaction of all.
He was considering whether to return directly to Bury Saint Edmunds if he finished early or visit his sister in Warwick when he heard a voice calling his name. He turned around to see Violet Smith walking towards him struggling with a full wicker basket and a brown paper parcel under her arm.
“You’ve been busy,” he said amiably. “Can I carry your parcel.”
“I’d be grateful,” she smiled, handing it over. “Have you finished your business yet?”
“For the moment,” Lawrence replied. “I need to talk to other people, but it can wait. Are you walking to The Vicarage?”
“I am,” she said.
“Good. I’ll keep you company and interrogate you if you don’t mind?”
She laughed. “I don’t know what use I’ll be, but I promised to cooperate, and I will.”
“Do you know Hannah Roper?”
“From the Post Office?”
“Yes. How well are you acquainted?”
“I do not know anyone very well, but I have passed the time with her and she is always pleasant.”
“She seems very sensible. I am inclined to trust her. Do you think she’s honest?”
“I do,” said Violet, “I’m sure you can trust her judgement. Why do you ask?”
“She gives a very different account of Mary Corbyn to any other I have heard.”
“That’s no reason to suppose it isn’t true.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Lawrence. “We agree.”
They continued walking and had almost reached The Vicarage when Loveday emerged from the top of Church Street. She waved and walked swiftly towards them.
“I have succeeded,” she smiled. “Three dresses are on order and will be ready in a fortnight.”
“I’m glad you had a fruitful visit,” said Lawrence.
“Are you going to speak to Michael now?” Loveday asked without acknowledging Violet.
Lawrence reddened. “Yes, I will,” he said.
Violet raised an eyebrow.
“Goodness, there is Emily,” said Loveday. “I had better tell her where I have been.”
She put her hand on her hat and hurried across the road.
“An unusual young lady,” said Lawrence awkwardly.
“Indeed.” The expression on Violet’s face was unreadable.
They entered The Vicarage and Violet attended Mrs Harris while Lawrence looked for Michael. He found him in the upper part of the garden, sitting at a wrought-iron table next to a stout, older man. They were engaged in earnest discussion.
“Ah, Lawrence.” Michael sprang to his feet. “What excellent timing. This is our parish clerk, Elijah Scoggins. We have been discussing church matters. If you want to talk to him, now would be an opportune time.”
“Good afternoon,” said Lawrence, offering his hand.
Mr Scoggins stood and gave a firm shake, appearing stouter and shorter than while he was sitting. His greying hair was thick with no sign of balding, though a deep-lined face gave the impression of a man approaching his sixth decade.
“Glad to meet you,” he said gruffly.
Lawrence pulled out a chair and sat with them. The metal was cold against his back.
“Have you discussed our concerns with Mr Scoggins?” asked Lawrence.
“No,” said Michael. “It has all been about parish matters today. We have concluded for now. Would you like me to stay while you talk?”
“Not if you have something you would rather attend to,” said Lawrence.
“I do,” said Michael, “my sermon is still incomplete.” He grimaced.
“I quite understand,” smiled Lawrence, turning to face Elijah Scoggins. “I won’t take up much of your valuable time,” he said. “Now, I understand you were present at the inquest into the death of the little Hammond girl?”
“Then I fear you have been misled,” said Scoggins. “I was not there at all”
“My misunderstanding,” Lawrence apologised. “Michael said I should consult you about parish records. I may have wrongly assumed you were at the inquest. If you weren’t there, then I will not keep you from your duties.”
“Why do you ask?” said Scoggins. “I’ve seen all the accounts of the inquest and may be able to assist.
“I’ve seen them too,” said Lawrence. “But I’d like to confirm the accuracy of the detail contained in the press clippings.”
“Do you have them to hand?”
Lawrence reached into his pocket and peeled the clippings from his notepad. “Here,” he said, thrusting them towards Elijah.
They sat in silence while the Parish Clerk digested the contents of the papers. “Have you read all of them?” he asked.
“Not all,” confessed Lawrence. “I scanned the first two when they were handed to me, but I have not read them thoroughly.”
“I can’t say whether the inquest into the baby was reported accurately,” said Scoggins, “for as I said, I was not there. But I was at the first inquest.”
Lawrence reached for the cutting offered by Elijah. The article had been clipped from the Ipswich Journal, and was dated 1884. It reported the inquest of Jonathan Carter.
“Then you most certainly can help,” said Lawrence. “I have it on good authority that some of the matters raised at the inquest, were not reported upon.”
Elijah nodded in agreement. “They weren’t,” he confirmed., “but it was not with the intent to deceive. There were matters raised at the inquest which were not fit for public consumption.”
“You mean accusations of witchcraft?”
Elijah sighed, and stroked rough, stubby fingers against his wiry sideburns as he considered his response. “Yes,” he said, finally. “There has been much talk of witchcraft in this village for some time. I was involved in the Carter inquest. Having heard the accusations once, I was in full agreement that the later allegations should be concealed from the press.”
“What do you mean when you say you were involved?”
Elijah pursed his lips, “I will tell you, but first you should understand why I decided to act that way.”
Lawrence nodded. “Continue,” he said.
“Jonathan Carter was an old man, long past his best. He was not educated and lacked a certain amount of rationality,” said Elijah. “I have known him a long time and when he first spoke of curses and crows, I thought his mind was befuddled.”
“Exactly what anyone would think,” agreed Lawrence.
“They did, to begin with,” Elijah continued, “but Jonathan was in the grip of such terror that the fear began to spread. By the time he came to see me, the man was broken and careless in his talk. Others began to believe his stories.”
“He spoke to you about it?” asked Lawrence.
“He did,” said Elijah. “He told me that there was a particular place that he used to break his journey when he ventured to the village. It was a tree stump and he got into the habit of sitting there to rest. I saw him on the stump many times, and other people did too. It became something of a routine. He found the first dead crow when he settled there a few months before he died.”
“And how did he know that the crow was meant for him?”
“I will get on to that,” said Scoggins. “But you should know that it was not the only crow. There were several others. One instance was particularly nasty.”
Lawrence wrinkled his nose, not wanting to hear the details but knowing he was duty-bound.
Elijah Scoggins continued. “Jonathan lodged with George and Harriet Corbyn. Harriet was George’s first wife and Jonathan’s sister. One day, Jonathan woke early, and it so happened that he was the first to leave the cottage. As he opened the door, he found a pile of decomposing crows on the front doorstep. They were rancid; several weeks old and infested with maggots. He was disgusted and afraid in equal measures. This continued for several weeks. Piles of crows were left in varying locations and different degrees of putrefaction for him to find.”
“And they were definitely intended for him?” asked Lawrence.
“Without a doubt,” said Elijah.
“And how do you know?”
“Because there was a note accompanying the first of the crows. A sharpened stick had been thrust into the crow’s breast and cleaved at the other end to accommodate a slip of paper. Jonathan could not read, but he kept the note. He grew more afraid as he found each crow's corpse until he was at his wit's end. And when he could take no more, he brought the note to me.”
Lawrence leaned forward. “What did it say?” he asked.
“It said, “I curse you, Jonathan Carter. Death stalks you.”
“Good Lord,” exclaimed Lawrence. “There is no doubt, after all.”
“It gave me a nasty turn,” said Elijah. His fingers trembled as he rubbed his face.
“Someone must have wished him ill,” said Lawrence, “it was a spiteful thing to do to an old man.”
“Somebody tried to terrify him,” said Elijah, “and they succeeded.”
“Do you really believe he was frightened to death?” asked Lawrence incredulously.
“I think it is possible,” said Elijah. “Jonathan had a weak heart, a fact that was widely known. Several other members of his family also suffered from the same condition.”
“Was this suppressed at the inquest?” asked Lawrence.
“No, it was not.”
“I haven’t read about it?”
“No,” repeated Elijah. “You won’t because I never said it.”
“Why not? It was pertinent.”
“I did not reveal it for several reasons, the foremost of which was my reluctance to add any more credence to the rumours of witchcraft. I am a parish clerk and conduct my business with the Godly. This talk of the supernatural goes against everything I believe in. And there is another reason; a reason I have not shared with anyone, but which preys upon my conscience.”
“Will you tell me?” asked Lawrence.
Elijah nodded. “I will. I did not read the whole of the note to Carter. Following the curse was a further sentence. It said, ‘For Faith Mills and all like her.”
“Who was Faith Mills?” asked Lawrence.
“Faith Mills was the original Fressingfield Witch.”
Chapter 10
Honor – Subjugation
We arrived in Fressingfield in 1639 when I was eleven years of age, journeying on the back of an old cart with all our worldly goods beside us. We travelled most of the way in silence, full of trepidation. I held the hands of my two younger siblings while Patience rocked and gurned in silent anguish. Mother stared fixedly ahead, lost in her thoughts. We ceased our travels when the moon was high in the sky and darkness fell heavily around us. The pale moon cast shadows across the fields and the calls of a lone owl punctuated the stillness.
Mother had not sent word of our impending arrival to her Aunt, fearful of a refusal. As soon as we stopped, she begged the driver to wait outside my Aunt’s cottage until daybreak to avoid upsetting her with a midnight call. The Carter, in need of rest himself, was easily persuaded to break for a nap. Though his presence mitigated our fear of the dark, we rested but could not sleep. It was the first and last time that we had food aplenty. Though grateful for the generosity of my mother’s friends in Lavenham, we were too disturbed and disorientated to be hungry. We waited until darkness broke, then we saw our Aunt Bennett’s cottage for the first time.
It was a poorly constructed property in the middle of a terrace of three, far smaller than our smart home in Lavenham. It had one tiny window to the front and a crooked door set into irregular grey stone walls. Above was a low tiled roof with a hole and a large swathe of moss. My spirits fell still further at the sight of it.
We dismounted from the carriage, and the Carter placed our meagre belongings on the track in front of the house. Mother wiped the dust away from our faces and patted down our clothing in a bid to make us presentable. Then she knocked at the door, unhooked the latch, and let herself in.
Though her Aunt must have been surprised at our sudden appearance, she did not show it and accepted our presence with a quiet forbearance. She gave no consideration to the prospect of turning us away and listened as Mother told her tale. When Mother finished and begged her Aunt for shelter, Aunt Bennett simply replied, “Family is family. Of course, you will stay”
Mother offered to sell the pewter tableware and two skeins of cloth that she’d recovered from our house in Lavenham to help pay for our upkeep. She took them to market in the nearby town of Eye the week following our arrival. With the help of Aunt Bennett, she raised enough money to pay for our board for a short time. We knew the money would not last and would need to be supplemented soon. Aunt Bennett was too frail to mind the younger children and Patience was incapable, so Mother remained at home, and I went to work at the tender age of eleven.
I hated it. Not the work, that is, but the invisibility of being a domestic servant. I, who could read and write, shackled in servitude to the uneducated and ignorant. My employers were a loathsome family, squeezed into a ramshackle farmhouse on the edge of the village. Their dwelling was configured with the livestock half in and half out of the habitable accommodation. It smelt, they smelt, and I was employed to keep it clean, a futile waste of energy.
I learned to appreciate the invisibility I had initially detested. Suki Watts, two years my senior, frequently came to the notice of the family for her misdemeanours. They were never serious offences. She was chastised for breakages or general carelessness, all unintended. Mrs Page would box her ears and leave her without food all
day for the smallest perceived transgression. None of the Pages were kind. Mr Page was a small, sinewy man with a big voice and a rough beard, who was completely unsuited to farming. He hated the animals and treated them with contempt, one day wringing a chicken’s neck in the usual manner, and the next stamping upon its head, if the mood took him. His equally repugnant son, Samuel who was about my age, watched him mistreat the animals with an expression of rapture upon his sly face. The dogs were good judges of character and cringed when he came near them.
Mrs Page was a rough, ugly woman with a sharp tongue. I never saw her hurt an animal for she satisfied her sadism in her treatment of the farm servants, Suki in particular. We laboured all day, from daybreak to dawn, and she gave us the least amount of food and water possible to live upon. It was enough to keep us from passing out with hunger during the long day, but never more. Apart from Samuel, she bore two other children, a boy of two and a girl of six, both too young to exhibit their parent’s cruelty.
The farm employed many labourers, and we saw them come and go but rarely spoke. Two farm boys also assisted in the yard, who we came to know. The youngest of these was Thomas, a boy of thirteen summers. He bore the same name as my dead father and became my close friend for the best part of the four years I worked there.
Our acquaintance grew over time as I did not see much of him when I worked inside the home. But as I grew older, I was sent to work in the Dairy, and our paths crossed more often. He lodged with his widowed mother as I did with mine and we would rise and walk together to the farm most days. Thomas could not read or write, but he was wise to the ways of the world, and it was Thomas who told me to stay invisible. He said I should be quiet, never answer back and be dutiful. If I kept to these rules, I would not suffer at their hands even though they were the most unpleasant of people. Sure enough, we did not come to their notice in the early days, though we often witnessed cruelty to others.
Our lives continued in this manner for several years. At home, my younger siblings grew and contributed to the household by picking stones in the fields. Our elderly Aunt weakened as she grew into her dotage and Mother kept house, committed to her obligation to care for Aunt Bennett for taking us in when we were almost destitute. It was far from ideal. I earned little as a farm servant, and my brother and sister even less. My wages did not go far in supporting a household of five and food was always scarce.
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