I loitered instead, by the door of an alehouse, 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. There was no bloodshed on this occasion, but it gave me fair warning of the folly of entering the establishment.
I waited outside for a short time, sure that someone would enter or leave. It did not take long. An elderly woman 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, and I thanked her and set off in that direction.
The town was silent, but an uncharacteristic fear gripped me all the same as I traipsed the cobbled streets. I slowed my footfall and tiptoed close to the shadow of the buildings, feeling the same need to be invisible in the town as in my intended destination. Eventually, I arrived on the outskirts of Bury and watched the great stone barn loom tall in the distance 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 vanished. The occupants of the barn were singing, and 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, 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 one, and ran towards the enormous 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 too high to be accessible.
In the narrow wall containing the window, stone ran only to waist height with the remaining part of that side of the barn constructed from timber. Another large doorway appeared high up in the wall, secured by another locked latch. At head height, near the bottom of the doorway, the timbers were swollen and damaged from damp and wear, with large gaps between the wooden pieces.
I waited for a lull in the singing which eventually 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 leapt 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 before telling 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 sure 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, and an unsettling silence descended. I asked again, and a piercing, hopeless wail emanated from the other side of the wall, and my mother’s fingers fell away. I called her name, realising to my horror, that the heartbroken guttural sobbing was hers. 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 choke, and I screamed her name again. Inside the barn, I could hear the voice of a kindly person as she calmed my mother. The disembodied voice offered words of comfort, but the sobs did not cease. 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 and reached for my mother’s fingertips. Hoarse with grief, she told me that Patience had begun to ail during the journey from Fressingfield. With her daughter exhausted, burning hot and running a fever, Mother had 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 and waiting 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, and fat drops of rain spilt 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 from the world. Life was lopsided and good people punished while the 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 on the floor. "I couldn’t get it."
"Did Scoggins refuse?"
"Mr Scoggins was perfectly prepared to let me have the register," said Violet. "Indeed, he went so far as to fetch it for me. But when I opened it, I realised it was futile."
"Why?" asked Lawrence.
"Because the register dates from 1797, which means there is a big gap. The records we need are missing."
"Typical," said Lawrence. "What 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 shouldn't be," he said. "It's quite common for the Parish Clerk to retain only the most up to date records, but the others should be safely stored away."
"Well, the one we need is missing," said Lawrence. "It looks as if something was taken from the basement after all."
"If that's the case, we may be on the right track," said Violet. "Otherwise, why take it?"
"If someone removed it to impede our progress, they've certainly 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, but I know some of the clerks, and I'll write you a letter of introduction to be on the safe side."
Lawrence sighed. "There's still a flaw in the plan," he said.
"What?" asked Violet.
"I have been instructed to remain here for questioning. Inspector Draper will be arriving at any minute."
"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 can't ask you to go," said Lawrence. "Not alone."
"I need to ask permission, in any case," said Violet. "But if Mrs Harris does not require me, then why not?"
"I can always join you if your business can be finished in 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, and I don’t like having to answer another investigator's questions while you are investigating my mystery. It doesn't seem right," he added. "But it is the best of a bad job, I suppose, and I'm grateful. I will stay here and do my duty."
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'd been reading earlier, before flicking 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, and showed costs of fifteen shillings plus travelling expenses to Fressingfield parish to extract confessions from Faith Mills and one other, with a further two shillings paid to each Searcher and Watcher for services rendered. Their names were appended and recorded as Honor Mills had journaled, naming the searchers as Ann and Priscilla Briggs and the watchers, as 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 and 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 and he stood next the gallows from whence he read a series of accusations pertaining to those witches there present.
The nine before him sometime previously confessed to all manner of sinful things, which he recounted in detail to the waiting crowd. Confessions included covenanting with the devil, keeping imps with which to do mischief and the suckling and nurturing of these 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 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 clouds filled the firmament while 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 that followed, the girl vanished and was never seen in Bury again.
Lawrence closed the book. The account was wrong - Honor did appear again. He'd seen the burial record himself. Honor Mills had lived an extraordinarily long life for the time, dying at the age of ninety-one. 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 a hostile 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 from 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.
Lawrenc
e 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's 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 my current case."
They walked through the graveyard, which was empty apart from a woman at the far end, who was kneeling on the ground and paying her respects. She tidied some flowers and stood to leave well ahead of them, and 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.
The Lawrence Harpham Boxset Page 18