Francis invited them into the parlour. Before he sat down Jonathan Shooks circled slowly around the room, peering at the samplers on the walls and the engraving of Jesus casting the moneylenders out of the temple, and then at himself in the looking-glass over the fireplace. The glass was slightly flawed, so that it twisted one side of his face.
‘Would you care for tea, Mr Shooks?’ asked Beatrice. ‘Or perhaps a cup of cider?’
Jonathan Shooks brushed his shoulders and straightened his cravat and then he turned to Beatrice and gave her a disarming smile. ‘Tea, please, if it’s not too much trouble. And if your girl would be kind enough to take some water out for Samuel.’
‘He’s more than welcome to join us,’ said Beatrice.
‘Samuel is not very comfortable in company, I regret. He will be happy enough outside, thank you, taking care of the horses.’
Beatrice ushered Mary into the kitchen. While Mary filled the kettle and put it on the hob, Beatrice set out a tray with cups and plates and took snickerdoodles and bishop’s bread out of the larder. Noah climbed on to a chair to watch and she snapped a snickerdoodle in half and gave it to him. He wasn’t usually allowed to have treats in between meals but for some reason Beatrice felt particularly protective towards him today. Something about Jonathan Shooks unsettled her, even more than his talk of a ‘noxious shadow’.
Mary warmed the porcelain teapot and spooned out tea. While Mary’s back was turned, Beatrice lifted out her pocket and pulled out the folded handkerchief with the hoof mark imprinted on it. She tucked it into the left-hand drawer of the pinewood hutch, behind the cutlery tray. She would have time to examine it more closely after Noah had been put down to sleep this evening, before Francis had returned from his parish meeting. She had never hidden anything from Francis before, but she didn’t want him to think that she was questioning his beliefs. If you believed without question in the existence of God, then you believed equally in the existence of the Devil.
When she returned to the parlour Jonathan Shooks was saying, ‘Yes, reverend, I was in the shipping business originally, for a company in London, and on their behalf I travelled the world very widely. I visited India and Arabia first, and then I crossed the Atlantic to New Granada and Guatemala and Puerto Rico. On each of my journeys I spoke out of natural curiosity with the priests and shamans of many different religions and cultures, and gradually I came to realize what my true calling was.’
Beatrice set the tray down on the side table. As she was pouring out the tea she became aware that Jonathan Shooks was talking to Francis but was staring all the time at her. She passed him a cup and then offered him a plate.
‘I have snickerdoodles or bishop’s bread, Mr Shooks. Or plain pound cake, if you would prefer it.’
‘I am happy with a slice of bishop’s bread, Goody Scarlet.’
Why is he smiling at me like that? she asked herself. What is so diverting about tea and cake? Or has he seen something in me that amuses him?
‘Of course, there are many beliefs,’ said Francis. ‘There is, however, only one true God, and it is that God who will be our salvation.’
‘There is only one true Devil, too,’ replied Jonathan Shooks. ‘Our difficulty here in New England is that he does not always appear in his familiar guise, so it is much more difficult for us to recognize him.’
‘I’m not sure that I understand what you mean.’
‘This is the New World, reverend, where the Devil does not necessarily answer to the name of Satan and can manifest himself in ways that are unfamiliar to pastors such as yourself. Here, Satan has countless different faces and countless different names, and it can take very different procedures to identify him, and very different incantations to send him back where he came from.’
‘I can’t see that it matters what he calls himself or what form he takes. Evil is evil, by any name. God will know him, even if I don’t.’
Jonathan Shooks took a sip of his tea and then put down his cup. ‘My dear reverend, why does the church have such a variety of prayers and collects? Each is specific to our needs on any given day, because the Lord cannot tell what perils we face unless we tell him. But what if we ourselves don’t know what those perils are?’
‘I still don’t follow you,’ said Francis. ‘If pigs mysteriously die and cattle collapse, if apples rot on the trees and children unaccountably fall ill, that seems to me like the work of Satan, no matter what he calls himself.’
‘But how can you tell for sure?’ Jonathan Shooks persisted. ‘What if Satan appears in the shape of a screeching bird of prey, whose every screech brings death to those who hear it? Or a headless woodsman with doors in his chest that open and shut with a sound like the chopping down of a tree? Or a figure made out of broken mirrors – mirrors that glitter in the forests in the dead of night? Are these all manifestations of Satan? Or are they some other demonic spirits quite unallied to Satan – spirits from some other hell of which you may know nothing at all?’
Francis glanced at Beatrice uncomfortably. She could see how much he disliked Jonathan Shooks and everything that he was saying. Francis hated his faith to be challenged, and although he believed in the Devil he had no time for folk stories about goblins or banshees or men who turned into wolves. But Jonathan Shooks had mentioned broken mirrors and because of that alone she could tell that Francis was going to hear him out.
Francis said, ‘God created everything on this earth, Mr Shooks, even those spirits that have chosen the path of evil. No matter how ignorant I may be of the different forms in which the Devil may come to us, I am confident that God will protect us.’
Jonathan Shooks sipped some more tea. ‘If that is how you feel, reverend, then I admire your faith. May I say, though, that should you encounter anything that you find both menacing and inexplicable I would like you to feel free to contact me, if only for help in identifying what it might be. In my experience, the Lord can help us far more expeditiously if He knows exactly what threats we face.’
Beatrice knew that, for Francis, this came very close to blasphemy. As far as Francis was concerned, God was all-seeing and all-knowing and if He chose not to save us from disease or death or any other misfortune, He must consider that we deserved it.
Jonathan Shooks had taken a bite of his bishop’s bread now and was chewing it slowly and methodically, and she could see by the light in his eyes that he understood just how much he had discomfited Francis, and with how much pleasure he was waiting for him to answer back.
Francis cleared his throat and tried a variety of expressions before he said, ‘Thank you for your offer, Mr Shooks. I expect to have no need to call on you, but all the same I appreciate your concern.’
*
Francis and Beatrice stood in the doorway to watch Jonathan Shooks climb back into his calash. Samuel let out a high screeching noise to start the horses, and shook the reins, and as the calash wheeled around in a semicircle Jonathan Shooks picked up his grey tricorn hat from the seat beside him and lifted it into the air in farewell. Like every other gesture he had made since his arrival, there seemed to Beatrice to be a hint of mockery about it. Goodbye, you innocents, you have no idea what storms are on their way.
‘Well,’ she said, as they went back into the parlour. ‘What did you make of him?’
‘I’m not at all sure,’ said Francis. ‘Either he is a self-deluded fanatic or else he is a very devious man indeed. It may be uncharitable, but I have to say that I didn’t care for him at all.’
‘Well, I think that he told us only half of the story,’ said Beatrice. ‘There is much more to Mr Shooks than meets the eye. And I have the feeling that this is not the last we will see of him, by any means.’
Francis laid one hand on her shoulder and kissed her forehead. ‘You have unusual perception for a woman, my dearest. Sometimes I must confess that it disturbs me.’
‘I’m your wife, Francis,’ she insisted, looking up at him. ‘I never want to cause you any unease. Your happiness and your comfort are all that I care for, yours and Noah’s. I’m here to serve you, like any good wife.’
Francis took out his pocket watch. ‘Heavens! I must go at once! I have so much to do! Goody Jenkins could well be at her Saviour’s breast by now! And I have to meet Richard Moffatt about the accounts!’
As Francis put on his coat Beatrice went into the kitchen and picked up Noah. ‘Give your father a kiss and say “bye-bye”.’
Francis gave Noah the quickest of kisses and then hurried outside, calling out, ‘Caleb! Caleb! Fetch round the shay for me, if you will! As quick as you like!’
Beatrice carried Noah into the parlour and across to the looking-glass over the fireplace. ‘Who’s that?’ she asked him, pointing to his reflection. ‘Is that Noah’s little friend? Why don’t you wave to him?’
Noah rested his head shyly against Beatrice’s shoulder, but watched himself out of the corner of his eye. Beatrice found herself staring at her own image and for a few long moments she felt as if she were staring at a stranger – a stranger much younger than herself. While the men of Sutton usually appeared to be much older than they really were, in their powdered wigs and high-buttoned waistcoats, the women all contrived to stay as youthful as possible, even the older matrons in their forties. Beatrice didn’t have to try. She looked no more than twenty, although she was seven years older than that. She was slight and narrow-waisted, but very full-breasted, which was emphasized by the tightness of her corset. She had dark brunette ringlets and her eyes had intensely blue irises, as blue and speckled as lapis lazuli. Her nose was short and up-tilted, and her lips always looked as if she were pouting. When she was a young girl her father had teased her by telling her that she looked like a cherub – a pretty cherub, but a cherub who was sulking because God had given her brown hair instead of gold.
Staring at herself, she found it hard to believe that she was now the wife of a minister, and a mother, and the mistress of her own house. But she couldn’t help feeling a flush of guilt that she was so proud of what she had achieved and so vain about her looks. She hoped that her vanity hadn’t somehow contributed to the death of their pigs and the sickness of Henry Mendum’s cattle. The Lord was very quick to punish those who thought too much of themselves.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Francis rattling off down the driveway. She needed to stop daydreaming and return to her duties. As she carried Noah back through the doorway, however, she glanced back at her reflection, almost furtively, and she couldn’t stop herself wondering what Jonathan Shooks had thought of her. He had stirred some feeling inside her that she had never experienced before. Was it apprehension, or was it attraction, or was it some curious mixture of both?
She turned away, but when she did so the slight distortion in the mirror made her look as if she were secretly smiling to herself.
*
Early in the afternoon Beatrice and Mary walked into the village. A soft, warm breeze had sprung up and the trees were rustling and dipping all around them, as if they were curtseying. It was less than half a mile, but they made very slow progress because little Noah insisted on walking on his leading-strings most of the way, and every now and then he would stop and pick up something that caught his attention, like a twig, or a pebble, and either Beatrice or Mary would have to take it away from him before he put it into his mouth.
After a while Mary picked him up and carried him, even though he started to grizzle.
‘We should put him in a wheelbarrow,’ she said. ‘If we can push potatoes around on wheels, why not children?’
They reached the village and climbed the steeply sloping green to the meeting house. Beatrice wanted to make sure that the grass in the graveyard had been scythed, and the brick path weeded, and that the floor had been swept ready for Sunday’s services. Noah was still whining so she went inside alone. The interior of the two-storey meeting house was very plain, with no stained-glass windows or ornaments or pictures of Jesus. Its box pews were as simple as cattle stalls and its high pulpit was bare and unadorned. All the same, it was filled with sunlight, and utterly silent, and Beatrice stood still for a moment and closed her eyes and whispered a prayer.
‘Dearest Lord, please forgive us for any arrogant thoughts that have entered our heads, and protect us from evil. Amen.’
She went back outside. Mary had put Noah down now and he was tottering around the gravestones, trailing his leading-strings behind him. The newest stone marked the recent burial of Mercy Quilter. Beatrice had known Mercy well, and liked her. She had died in April during the difficult birth of her seventh child, at the age of thirty-three. Her gravestone recorded that she was ‘Eminent for Prayerfulness, Watchfulness, Zeal, Prudence, Sincerity, Humility, Meekness, Patience, Diligence, Faithfulness & Charity’. Beatrice remembered her more than anything for her wicked sense of humour, but that would not have looked well on her gravestone.
‘Come along, naughty little Noah!’ she called him. ‘I have to go down to see Goody Holyoke, and if you like you can play with little Eliza.’
They walked across the slanting green towards the Holyoke house, which was one of the larger dwellings in Sutton, with two tall chimneys and a pillared porch. At the far end of the green three small boys were climbing on a cannon, a relic of the French and Indian War, and Noah stopped to stare at them enviously. In the end Mary had to pick him up again and carry him.
They had nearly reached the other side of the green when a plump young woman appeared from the doorway of one of the salt-box houses next to the Holyokes’. She came hurrying along the track, holding up her skirts with one hand and keeping her cap on her head with the other. Beatrice recognized her as Jane Saltonstall, the wife of Andrew Saltonstall, the shoemaker.
As she reached them, Goody Saltonstall stopped and pressed her hand to her breast to get her breath back.
‘Jane – what’s wrong?’ asked Beatrice.
‘I’m going for the doctor,’ Jane panted. ‘Although your husband might be needed just as much.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘Judith Buckley’s twin babies, Apphia and Tristram. They’re both awful sick. But there’s a sign above their cribs. A cross, upside down. It looks as if the Devil himself has left his mark.’
Beatrice said, ‘Bring Doctor Merrydew, Jane, as smartly as you can. Mary, I want you to take Noah directly back home. If there is sickness around, I don’t want him to catch it.’
‘And what will you do?’ Mary asked her.
‘I’m the minister’s wife,’ said Beatrice. ‘If Satan really has come calling, I need to see for myself.’
She walked quickly along beside the white picket fence until she came to the Buckley house. The front door was open and there were four or five women crowded into the narrow hallway, all of whom Beatrice knew well.
‘It’s a curse come upon us, Goody Scarlet,’ said Goody Rust, a thin woman in her fifties who had always told Beatrice that she believed in witches. ‘Somebody in this town has sinned and we are all having to pay the price for it.’
Goody Cutler beckoned Beatrice to a room at the back of the house. It was stifling and dark and Beatrice smelled sickness as soon as she stepped inside. There was one large bed on the left-hand side, covered with a patchwork quilt, where Nicholas and Judith Buckley slept. Against the opposite wall stood two basketwork cribs and in each lay one of the twins. Judith Buckley and one of her cousins were leaning over them and Judith’s cheeks were glistening with tears.
On the white plastered wall between the cribs a large black cross had been daubed – an inverted cross, over two feet high.
‘Oh, Goody Scarlet,’ sobbed Judith. ‘Oh, look at them, my babies!’
Both children were naked except for cotton clouts. Beatrice remembered that they had been born in late February, so they were just a few days over six months old, although they were very small for their age. Their eyes were closed and they were pale and sweating. Now and then their fingers twitched, as if they were having nightmares.
‘There was nothing wrong with them at all this morning,’ said Judith. ‘They were bright and laughing and they took their feed without any trouble. At eleven I put them down for their sleep, but three hours later they still hadn’t woken up, and when I came in to see why they were sleeping for so long, I found that they had both brought up their milk and soiled their clouts. And there was this.’
She pointed to the upside-down cross.
Beatrice went up to the wall and examined the cross closely, although she didn’t touch it. It appeared to have been painted with the same tarry substance that had been used to make the hoof marks in Henry Mendum’s pasture and when she leaned closer and sniffed it she detected that same irritating clove-like smell. If the Devil had come into this room to make the Buckley twins sick, then it was the same Devil who had infected Henry Mendum’s cows.
‘You saw nobody around the house or on the green?’ she asked Judith. ‘You heard nothing?’
Judith shook her head. ‘I was baking and then I was mending. Please ask the Reverend Scarlet to come and pray for them. I couldn’t bear it if they died. I think I should die, too.’
Beatrice looked down at Apphia and Tristram. ‘Try to give them a little water each, Judith. Little and often. Doctor Merrydew will know why they have such a fever and give them a medicine for it, a posset of marigold probably. But water will help for now.’
‘They won’t die, will they?’
Beatrice looked at the cross again. She didn’t fully understand why, but it disturbed her more deeply than any omen had ever disturbed her before. ‘No, Judith, I pray not. But I have a feeling that we are being played with, although I don’t yet know why, or by whom.’
‘It’s Satan,’ said Goody Rust from the doorway. ‘Somebody in this village has called on the Devil to take revenge on us, and I know who it is.’
‘You have no proof of that, Goody Rust,’ said Judith, in a quiet, panicky voice, almost as if she were worried that they could be overheard.
‘What more proof do I need?’ Goody Rust demanded. ‘She has a sharp tongue for everybody and not a week goes by without her making false accusations about this person or that. Only last week she told Roger Parminter that she would see him in hell, for no other reason than his dogs had chased after hers. And what poisonous potions she cooks up in her kitchen, goodness only knows.’
‘You’re talking about the Widow Belknap,’ said Beatrice.
Judith frantically waved her hands to shush her. ‘She’s told me so many times that my babies are unnatural because they had fits when they were being born, both of them, and both stopped breathing.’
‘What’s unnatural about that? They both survived, thank God.’
‘She said that they should have died, by rights, but that God blew life back into them to show that it was He who decided who was punished, not Satan.’
Beatrice didn’t ask why Satan should have felt that he was justified in taking the lives of the newly born twins. Unless both had been very premature, Judith would have conceived them while her husband Nicholas was away in Boston for two months on legal business. That was the gossip, anyhow. Nobody had dared suggest it to Judith’s face because Nicholas was so well respected, and so was John Starling, who might well have been the father.
Beatrice said, ‘Well, Goody Rust, if you’re right about the Widow Belknap, if she really has called on Satan to punish us all for our sins, then all I can say is, may the Lord preserve us.’
At the same time, however, she was thinking: maybe the Widow Belknap didn’t need to call on Satan. Maybe the Widow Belknap had enough knowledge of poisons to bring sickness and death to the local community without any help from the Lord of the Flies. After all, there were plenty of highly dangerous herbs that were native to New England – herbs that even her father wouldn’t have known about, like Jamestown weed and thorn apple and devil’s trumpet.
She suddenly thought of her father, and her mother, too, lying side by side in their caskets in St James’s Church in Clerkenwell, and she felt a pang of homesickness and grief that she thought she had long ago managed to bury, and tears unexpectedly sprang to her eyes.