7

Esther’s voice trembled. ‘They took to sleeping together in one room, against my instructions. They carved symbols into the wood of the doors and windows, so that I feared to enter. Joan’s room had evil smells, and when I questioned Joan about it, she told me she but brewed draughts to ward off illness, according to her mother’s teachings. I would see them at night, burying things, I know not what, but I did not dare go out of the house, and in the morning, I could not find the sites of the things they had buried. They muttered curses whenever I passed. I suffered racking pains, in my head and beneath my ribs, and there were times when I could not remember what I had been doing, so muddled did they make me. And the weather was terrible – they called in storms of wind and lightning, though there were few clouds above us. Such was their pleasure, to torment me with things that made no sense.’

By the end of the tale, Manyon’s frown had deepened. Esther had answered his many questions in her gentle way, and he had probed with further enquiries. I admired his ability to place his finger on the pulse of a point without seeming to press too hard. I believed I might have underestimated him before. Esther had not shamed herself in her answers. She had spoken tremulously, but with all the appearance of truth.

Yet still Manyon frowned, and I knew why.

Esther’s account of Joan Gedge’s conduct had been clear and, as far as I could see, honest. Her words carried the ring of self-belief. But there was nothing solid, no knife in the hand, so to speak, by which the magistrate might be able to justify holding Joan further.

I was relieved. Esther’s impassioned account had given pause to my confidence that Joan was innocent of evil intent, but not really shaken it. Both girls, my sister and our young servant, were credulous, and I could easily see how Chrissa Moore might have come between them, setting one against the other. Now that influence was removed, I hoped Manyon would release Joan. It might not be that she could return to work for us – she would hardly wish to do so – but I thought about how I might compensate her, and what I might do for her mother.

Manyon had indicated to the clerk to stop scribing. He seemed deep in thought, his hands folded together beneath his chin. When he spoke, it was slow and careful. ‘It appears to me,’ he began, ‘that there is not enough here against Joan Gedge or her mother – at least, not enough to hold them for trial.’

‘They will be released?’ Esther asked, quietly. Was she frightened of this prospect? I scanned her face, but she was looking at Manyon, and I couldn’t see her eyes.

There came a long pause, then Manyon said, ‘Not yet. The searchers still conduct their business at the Gedge house, and what your sister has said here today confirms what I have thought; we must conduct a similar search of your property.’ I nodded. I had expected this. We had nothing to hide. The magistrate continued. ‘There is also the interrogation of Chrissa Moore, which will take place this afternoon. Given the girl’s lack of proper account of herself – where she comes from, whether there was intent on her part to draw your father on to… corruption – there seems to be a better prima facie case against her.’

‘What has she said in her own defence?’ I asked.

‘Nothing,’ said Manyon, brusquely. ‘Not a word to anybody since she was taken up.’

‘She was ever quiet,’ said Esther, suddenly. We looked to her, and she seemed embarrassed to have spoken out of turn, but when we waited for her to go on, she added, with a touch of defiance, ‘It was a disrespectful silence.’

Manyon sighed. ‘Be that as it may, the girl cannot be compelled to speak in her current condition…’

‘What condition?’ Esther’s face was half in shadow, turned away from me.

I thought about lying, but the tinderbox was alight. I spoke gently, taking her fingers in mine. ‘The girl claims to be with child,’ I said. Esther’s hand stiffened. ‘It’s a shameful lie,’ I reassured her. ‘She seeks to avoid a trial, I’m certain.’

Esther began to weep. Manyon looked uncomfortable, but Rutherford gazed on, admiring. It was time to leave. I stood. ‘My sister is distressed,’ I said. ‘I’ll see her home, if that is all that is required?’ When Manyon nodded, I remembered the offer of assistance with a medic for Father. ‘My thanks, sir, for your offer of help in summoning your physician. I will cover the cost, of course.’

Manyon waved this away. ‘I will send him as soon as he arrives. And with God’s providence your father will soon be back to himself.’ He turned to Rutherford. ‘Would you see them out?’

Rutherford bowed to his master, who said, ‘I will keep you informed, Tom. I hope this matter will soon run its course.’

I walked down the stairs, supporting my weight on the wooden rail, as Rutherford provided his arm to a still-sobbing Esther. Each descending step brought fresh pain. My wound was getting worse. I felt, now, every moment of my long journey and my profound lack of sleep. Ahead of me, Esther leant in towards Rutherford. He was solicitous, murmuring to her as they approached the main foyer. I couldn’t hear what was said, however I strained my ears, nor believe what I was seeing; could it be that she liked the toady little man? That Rutherford would like her, given her youth, malleability and piety, I could easily accept, but that the feeling was reciprocated? It was hard to credit, yet there Esther stood, tearless, as we reached the tiled floor of the courtroom.

‘Mr Rutherford,’ I said, standing up straighter. I did not want Esther to see I was in pain. ‘I would have words with the girl now.’

Rutherford turned as if he had forgotten. ‘The girl? Oh, the witch. I do not think you will get anything from her lips. I sat with her all night – she said nothing.’

‘Nevertheless, I would speak with her. And with Goodwife Gedge, and Joan. As we agreed.’

The witchfinder hesitated. I knew he wanted to refuse, but after a brief glance at Esther, he nodded. ‘I will speak with the constable,’ he said. He disappeared through a stone archway leading to the cells below.

The delay was short. Rutherford returned within a minute or two and beckoned to me to follow. I left him standing and found Esther a space on a bench. ‘Wait here,’ I said.

She clung to my hand. ‘Must you go?’

‘You went. I thought you very courageous.’

‘No,’ she said, blushing. ‘It was only my duty, and what I owed to God.’

‘As this is mine. Mr Rutherford will stay with you and make sure you come to no harm. I’ll not be long.’

The square grey tiles of the courtroom’s public floor gave way to rough-hewn stone on the spiral leading down to the cells. I thought of Esther’s tread on these steps, just minutes ago, imagining her trepidation as she passed out of the light. For a moment I felt guilty I had not accompanied her, but I had to remember the positive impression I thought I had made on Manyon – with luck, the magistrate could help propel me into a profession, one which would help me to support Esther, if Father failed to recover. This was no small thing; in fact, losing this prospect could be disastrous. If the sheep continued to die, if our small collection of tenants went elsewhere, we would have no means to restock or feed ourselves, let alone pay for medicine for Father. Manyon’s good opinion might be the difference between spending a winter in our own kitchen, and begging as paupers on the highway. No, I had made the right decision to cultivate that relationship, I decided.

The gaol did not concern me much. I was less innocent than Esther. Once, unknown to my father or sister, I had been taken up for drunkenness, and had seen the inside of the county gaol at Norwich. I did not remember the way down – I’d been much the worse for drink – but clearly recalled being brought back up, having parted with every penny in my possession to secure my release without charge. This chamber was deeper, older and narrower than the larger one at Norwich, but the stink was the same: unwashed humans, the reek of sewage where the waste of the town dripped down from the street above, the stench of the bowels of the earth. It made me long for the winter air of the farm, for the freshness of the wind off the sea. I groped the walls as I descended, trying not to give too much thought to the provenance of the mucus covering the ancient stones.

I reached the bottom stair. Someone, probably the constable, had lit candles at regular intervals on the wall, so the dank, draughty space was just visible. I peered ahead, getting my bearings. I found myself in a thin, elongated cellar, lined on one side by stone and on the other by several doors, each with a barred window just large enough to shove through a hunk of bread and a cup of water – all the people confined here would receive, and that if they were lucky. The smell of mildew and dung was joined by a waft of stale ale and vomit.

‘Good, isn’t it?’

I spun about, wondering how I had contrived not to notice being shadowed down the stairs by such a hulking brute of a man. The figure that now extended a hand towards me reminded me of a sand dune: tall, large across the shoulders, back and neck, ox-like in his appearance. But Constable Dillon bore a broad smile of recognition, despite the gruff voice, and I remembered that the man was surprisingly jovial for one whose job was so thankless.

Dillon’s responsibility was simple: to lock up, detain and present to the courts the detritus of the parish – the poachers, drunks, hedge-damagers, prostitutes, and fathers of bastards. At the thought of the last, I felt another flush of anger towards the woman I had come down here to meet.

Dillon was a fair gaoler in comparison to many of his type. Those released from his custody very often sent him a barrel of apples at Michaelmas or a ham at Christmas, and spoke of his reasonableness and his mighty singing voice. Those who hanged said nothing much worse.

‘Constable,’ I said, shaking the meaty hand. ‘It’s good to see you, though I’m not sure what is “good” about this,’ I added, aiming a nod at the squalid space beyond.

Dillon laughed, poking his head in beneath the low ceiling. ‘This is a palace, lad, compared to some of the gaol-houses I’ve seen. Manyon had it put together – a good man, Manyon. Before he gave the funds for this, this cellar held nothing but ale and rats, and the prisoners were dumped in a hog sty on my land.’

Unbelievably, Dillon was not formally paid by the parish for his services as constable. He had his own tenancy to look after, and his position was technically unwaged. So, Dillon’s adult son cultivated his fields while his father dealt with the vagabonds and beggars of Walsham. But Manyon was clever. He wanted none of the bribery, the petty corruptions that would arise from placing a man with empty pockets in charge of law enforcement within his parish. It was common knowledge that he paid Dillon himself.

Something grey streaked across our path. ‘The rats are still here, then,’ I said, watching as the creature scuttled off along the wall, disappearing into the dark.

‘There’ll be rats at the end of the world,’ chuckled Dillon. ‘What can I do for you, lad?’

‘Mr Rutherford sent me down. He’s given his permission for me to speak with the prisoner, Chrissa Moore, and to check on the Gedge women.’

Dillon paused, his face losing its open friendliness. ‘Rutherford, eh?’ I nodded, knowing the witchfinder had spoken to Dillon, and realising that Rutherford was held no higher in the constable’s esteem than he was in my own. ‘Does the magistrate know he’s sent you down here?’

I liked Dillon and didn’t want to lie to him. I said, ‘He may be having that conversation now; I’m not sure. He was explicit in his own permissions, though.’

After another moment’s thought, Dillon said, ‘Good enough for me. Watch that one, though. Don’t turn your back on her.’

‘Which cell is she in? And the others?’

Dillon pointed down the corridor. ‘The third one. The mother and daughter are in together, in the very far cell.’

I couldn’t see to the end door. I requested the use of a candle and Dillon agreed. The small, bright flame was comforting. ‘I’ll be just a few minutes,’ I said, ‘but I do need to speak with the Moore woman privately.’

The older man looked uncomfortable again, but eventually he nodded and retreated up the stairs, his keys jangling at his waist. Wishing I could follow Dillon back to the world above, I moved instead into the gloom.

The first two cells were hardly deeper than the length of a horse and considerably narrower than the span of a man’s arms. Each contained more than one inmate. It was from the first cell that the stench of vomit emanated; two men, paralytic with drink, slumped against the walls. Neither stirred as I passed. The second cell was host to three others, again men, all sullen, hungry-looking creatures. One called out an obscenity as I walked by, perhaps mistaking me for Dillon. Another laughed.

Before I reached the third cell, I stopped still.

But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death.

The words from Revelation came as clearly as if I had the Bible open in my hands. I heard them in my father’s voice. I closed my eyes briefly, taking in the stink of shit and piss: the smells of the world. There were no sorcerers, no witches. No compacts with the Devil or familiar creatures suckling at nerveless teats. Only drunks and whores, whoremongers, and heretics, like me.