But the Moore girl wasn’t my responsibility. I had enough to manage. My first task was the sheep. Even if there was no connection with my father’s ailment, I had to know what was killing them. I put aside the thought that if enough had died, or there was no improvement, we might have to mortgage the land. If we were lucky, we could restock, but replacement ewes at this time of year would be expensive.
I left Esther praying – it was all she seemed to wish to do, but I was relieved she had something to occupy her – then went to see Ben. I stabled him beside my father’s mare, a steady grey named Temperance, who, due to her age, had narrowly escaped being commandeered by the army the previous year.
I supplied the horses with water and hay. Temperance recognised me, nuzzling my shoulder with her soft nose. I checked Ben all over, looking for the source of his injury. Not finding it, I resolved to ride Temperance over to Noah Litt’s acres later on. Litt, our nearest neighbour, was a wonder with horses, and might do me a turn by examining Ben, though I would probably have to help with his accounts next Michaelmas in return. I would also need to check how much silver we had in the house in case I had to purchase medicine or call a farrier.
I leant against Ben’s flanks. The warm, solid body offered a fleeting sense of peace, allowing me to forget, momentarily, about Father, Esther, the unabating pain of my injury. I closed my eyes and breathed steadily with the horse, feeling his ribcage rising and falling under the blanket, taking in the smell of new hay. He knew I was perturbed, and nickered. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll get someone to see to you as soon as I can. A warm stable and good food to eat is an improvement on these last days, though, no?’
I saddled Temperance, adjusting the stirrups and buckles to fit, as I was shorter than Father, with more muscle. I had ridden her before and she was an easy horse, but we would need to take things slowly; she suffered from arthritis, and would get winded more quickly than her younger counterpart. Still, until Ben’s lameness healed, riding him would make things worse. We would take things at a walk.
The ride quelled none of my fears. Father was well off, or had been, in terms of sheep stock. The part of the farm we didn’t let was around fifty acres. But it wouldn’t pay for itself. We relied on the sheep for wool to be sold at market to the weavers. The profits were low and, although Father was something near a gentleman, the work was hard and often physical, even with a small team of men to do the bulk of it. Now, since my father lay abed and nearly every sheep I saw was food for crows, I feared what would come to pass: mortgaging, or even losing the farm. What if I could do nothing to prevent it?
I completed my circuit, came back towards the house, and frowned to see a strange horse tied to the gatepost. She was a brown mare, three or four years old. Temperance shied away as we came close, the mare responded in kind, and I dismounted. Had the physician arrived? Surely not. Joan had been gone only a few hours. Physicians, clever as they might be, were never so reliable.
As I opened the back door, Guppy, my father’s dog, slipped by into the garden with a yelp, almost tripping me. I cursed. Perhaps it was due to the exercise I had taken, but the house felt colder than I expected. I paused to remove my boots, wincing as I pulled the muscle in my upper thigh. It took several deep breaths for the searing to subside, long enough to hear the hum of a voice from the kitchen.
I have a good ear for voices. I remember them like some men remember faces, their idiosyncrasies, all the unexpected things about them. And I take more away from them than most. I can usually spot concealed fear. Men find it difficult to disguise frustration or sadness from me. Even back then, I was often surprised how easily I could discern truth from a lie; voices told me more about people than their words did. But I noticed nothing singular about this one other than its evenness and its maleness. It had the quality of a blank page. If it had been a meal, it would have been pottage. If a rock, soapstone.
There was no possibility it could be the doctor. Joan didn’t have wings. Who else might have heard about our plight?
I walked into the kitchen.
The man occupying my father’s seat had shoulder-length brown hair, a fair, almost womanly complexion, and a slightly squat nose. He was, I suppose, handsome, but as a turtle dove is handsome, rather than its showier relatives, the swan, or the peacock. As I entered, he ran his fingers over the parting of his hair, smoothing it, and repositioned his hat nearer his elbow. These were pedantic movements, as if he cared a great deal about the exact placement of things.
Get your carcass out of my father’s chair.
I didn’t say it. I wanted to. But the honour a man offered a guest reflected the honour he owed himself, or so my father had taught me.
On seeing me, the newcomer rose. He was of middling height, shorter than I was, but dwarfing Esther, whose head reached only to my shoulder.
‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘I’m Thomas Treadwater.’
Esther, whose cheeks, for unknown reasons, had reddened like twin cherries against the paler canvas of her skin, was bringing ale. She said, ‘Brother, this is Mr John Rutherford, assistant to Sir Christopher Manyon.’
I had no reason to dislike the Justice of the Peace, or to fear him, and in a wager on Manyon’s good judgement would usually be inclined to place a shilling with the old man, but I wasn’t certain I wanted to extend that trust to his young prodigy. Not yet. And Rutherford was young. I guessed only a year or so older than I was. He cultivated the aura of an older man, carrying himself like a schoolmaster or politician, but didn’t quite pull off the trick.
‘Welcome, sir,’ I said, as Rutherford extended his arm. His hand was smooth and cool as petals. ‘I trust you have been offered food?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Rutherford, gesturing to Esther, who was hovering near him with a jug. He waited for me to wave him back to his chair. Once seated, he looked satisfied as Esther poured a cup. He drank a mouthful only, dabbing the sides of his mouth with a spotless linen sleeve. He did not compliment the ale.
I wanted to know why he was here. What I guessed gave me no pleasure. I had much to be getting on with, and wanted as little to do as possible with this matter of witchcraft and women’s jealousies, run as sour as curdled milk. I wished he could be back upon his mount, treading the gathering leaves towards town. But instead I had to be cordial. Silently, I damned gentlemanly tact and thought fondly of the coarseness of fighting men.
Rutherford did not state his business. It was left to me to begin. ‘You may know I returned only recently from my duties with the army,’ I said. Rutherford nodded. ‘I have been long away, and have known little of the matter I suspect brings you here. The matter of Chrissa Moore. And,’ I said, considering how he had arrived before me and been alone with Esther, ‘I can only guess my sister has, by now, told you of my father’s infirmity.’
‘That is correct,’ confirmed Rutherford. ‘It was in the hope of speaking with your father that I came here today, but of course…’ He seemed to grope for the appropriate words. ‘My commiserations,’ he said, finally. ‘I hope for your father’s swift recovery, with God.’
‘Thank you. As my father’s only son, I am now his proxy in all things. Whatever you wished to speak with him about, you may raise the matter with me.’
Rutherford’s eyes for a moment rested on Esther, who observed the interaction in solemn silence. ‘That may be,’ said Rutherford. ‘There is some news I can give you in the presence of your sister; other revelations I must share…’ He shrugged. ‘It might be better for us to speak alone, but I will leave that to your judgement. It is with your sister’s innocence in mind that I speak.’ Esther dropped her gaze modestly.
I should have appreciated his reticence for Esther’s sake, but there was something prurient about the set of his mouth, something like pleasure in his words. He seemed to glory in my embarrassment. I think, looking back, that I would have enjoyed hurling him by his fine collar out of the back door. As things turned out, it might have been better if I had, but he had Manyon’s authority to be here, and I didn’t want to provoke trouble. ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Share what you feel is appropriate with us both. We may speak alone afterwards. If necessary,’ I added.
Rutherford drew himself up. He spoke as if what he said was established fact. ‘The servant Chrissa Moore, birthplace unknown, is accused of unholy intimacies with the Fallen One. Specifically, it is recorded that she did conspire with Satan to bring down maladies upon livestock, and that she did, by way of corrupting his otherwise godly temper, seek to seduce your father, Richard Treadwater, with the aid of the Devil.’
I looked across the table at Esther. She had paled at this bald description of the situation, but nodded to me. I signalled Rutherford to go on. I wished he would hurry up.
Rutherford continued. ‘The girl denies it, which is usual in these cases.’ This was given a dismissive air; clearly, he had already decided on the question of guilt. ‘Without a confession, it is likely she will face the assizes when they come through in the summer, and in the meantime, we will gather statements. Including yours,’ he said to Esther, who nodded again. ‘And any other evidence.’
‘I’m sure my sister will be happy to assist in any way she can. But I will insist on being present for any witnessing. As she is a girl and a minor.’
Rutherford waved his hand. ‘Certainly. But it is not for that purpose that I came today. The statement can and must wait until we have apprehended all the deviants.’
‘All?’ I said, confused. My stomach lurched. Surely, he could not be talking of Esther? My earlier fear returned, keen-bladed. The thing I had feared had happened. By accusing others, Esther had drawn the gaze of the witchfinder upon herself.
Rutherford took another sip of ale and made a general noise of confirmation as he swallowed, replacing the cup on the table. ‘Those who commune with dark forces rarely do so alone. Even now, I am drawing in on those who assisted Moore in her practices. And this is where I believe you can help me, Miss Treadwater.’ As he turned to Esther, there was something unctuous in his tone.
Esther, who had been staring down at her hands, looked up. ‘I?’ I had never seen her so apprehensive.
‘Yes. I recall when I visited here with you last, before your father’s unfortunate turn, you spoke of a girl you thought might be in sympathy with Moore. Another servant?’
I spoke with a half-clenched jaw. ‘My sister has told you all—’
‘On the contrary, Mr Treadwater,’ interrupted Rutherford. The formal salutation rang false on his lips, as if I were being mocked. ‘Your sister was visibly reluctant to tell me more, when last I was here, and there were hints, only, but it is vital that we know the absolute and entire truth. After all,’ he continued, ‘if the young lady of whom I speak is innocent of any unholy conspiracy, then she will have’ – again, he dabbed at his mouth – ‘nothing to fear.’
I glanced at Esther. This, then, was what she had been concealing from me. Not only had she implicated the Moore woman, but Joan, little Joan, who had been with us since the age of ten and never raised her voice in quarrel or her hand in temper to anyone. I flushed in shame. This was my fault. If only I had not left… But Rutherford was looking at me expectantly. I tried again. ‘If you are talking of our servant, Joan Gedge, she is an employee in good standing here. There may be some error, but—’
‘There is no error. We have already apprehended Goodwife Gedge—’
‘Joan’s mother? A middle-aged woman, a woman I have known since childhood…’
‘A witch, sir!’ Rutherford’s voice, which had possessed such a malleable, silky texture, rang out harshly. ‘A woman guilty of acts of maleficia. She was found with banned herbs, a knab of toads in the garden—’
‘She’s old. She does not keep up with the work of the garden and the toads multiply, as toads are wont to do,’ I said, with a sarcasm that seemed lost on Rutherford. ‘There is nothing at all—’
‘Nevertheless, she is in our custody. As with the mother, soon too for the daughter, if I can only ask a few questions of—’
‘No,’ I said, flatly. Rutherford looked shocked, but then recovered himself and raised one thin eyebrow. He reached down by the side of the table and pulled up his knapsack.
‘I have Manyon’s mark here. It gives me the required authority. I have only to report to him and I am certain you know what the outcome will be.’
I am a man of a certain temper. In these later days, that temper is tamed; love, marriage, domesticity, though not children, have calmed it. But my instinct is towards battle where battle is needed, and on that day I contemplated putting my closed fist through Rutherford’s throat.
Then I looked at the bag. Manyon was a powerful man, and if I went against him, I could find myself on the inside of a gaol cell. There would be nobody to manage the farm, or look after Father and Esther. As tempting as it was to deny Rutherford, I had to bury my anger. I swallowed. ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Please keep your questions short and to the point.’
Rutherford hid a smirk. ‘Thank you. Justice Manyon will be gratified to hear of your co-operation.’ He turned to Esther. ‘Miss Treadwater, could you tell me what first raised the suspicions you mentioned, with regards to the girl, Joan Gedge?’
Esther twisted the fingers of her right hand in her left and fidgeted in her seat like a trapped rabbit. ‘Well, I… I…’
Rutherford nodded encouragingly. ‘You told me of her friendship with the witch – with Chrissa Moore?’
‘Yes,’ Esther said, hesitantly. ‘They seemed to… Well, I can’t say that Chrissa liked Joan. It wasn’t quite like that. Chrissa was… You’ve seen her, I expect?’
‘I’ve questioned her. What was the nature of their friendship? A close one?’
‘I would say… Joan often said that she liked Chrissa, that she could see why… well, why men liked her.’ Esther seemed to be dragging her words out of her own body.
‘Chrissa Moore had male admirers?’ Rutherford’s voice was tight with disapproval.
‘Oh yes,’ Esther said, looking relieved, as though this were a far easier question. ‘It was the way she walked, and held herself, as much as anything. I did not think she was modest.’
Rutherford’s nostrils flared. ‘No. It does not seem that she was. A terrible failing in a woman. Was the girl Joan modest?’
Esther nodded. ‘Joan was ever so humble and mild. She always did just as I asked. Until…’
‘Until the witch came?’
I snorted. ‘Mr Rutherford, I must object. These are not my sister’s words.’ Watching Esther under Rutherford’s attentions was like watching the dance of a puppet condemned to follow its master’s convoluted twists and turns of thought. ‘If this performance is to continue, I insist it takes place in Walsham, under Manyon’s direct supervision. I insist, sir,’ I said again, as Rutherford protested. ‘I will bring my sister as soon as my father has been seen by the physician. Without delay.’
Rutherford could not argue with this. He nodded. Then, dashing my hope the interview might be over, he leant in close, so I could smell the ale on his breath and something that might have been lavender water. ‘There is the other matter.’ I remembered there had been something Rutherford wanted to speak about with me alone. I didn’t think I was going to like it.
‘Sister, would you remove to the parlour for a few moments?’ I asked, careful to keep my mounting discomfort out of my voice. Esther rose, curtseyed to Rutherford, and left.
Now I could strip away the veneer of politeness. ‘What is it?’
Rutherford coughed. ‘Bear in mind that I was coming here to speak to Mr Treadwater, the senior, about this aspect of the business. I would not usually be at liberty to disclose…’
I squeezed my eyes shut. Be patient. ‘Please, Mr Rutherford, if you could be as direct as possible, I would be grateful. I’ve much to do.’
Rutherford sat back, offended. ‘Yes, well, unfortunately this will not be of much comfort to you, in that case. The witch—’
‘The alleged witch.’ As exhausted as I was, I couldn’t let that pass.
Rutherford’s face softened with a small, apologetic smile, as false as fool’s gold. ‘The alleged witch,’ he conceded, ‘claims to be carrying your father’s bastard.’