13

‘So, she does not bleed?’ I said, pausing the flow of my pen.

‘Not yet,’ Manyon said. ‘But it cannot be long.’

‘And no marks or teats have been found anywhere upon her form?’

‘None. But,’ the magistrate said, with the air of one delivering an important caveat, ‘they have been known to conceal them in places where they are less easy to find than they might be on… more cursory examination. Write that down,’ he added, and I did so, trying not to think about such concealed places.

We were in Manyon’s office, three days after my return from Norwich, and much had changed. I had come first thing, not only to enquire after Chrissa Moore and whether there had been developments in the investigation, but to remonstrate with Manyon about Rutherford. I felt strongly that the witchfinder had overstepped his bounds with Esther. I expected Manyon to reprimand him strongly, and the betrothal to be swept beneath the carpet. But I had been taken aback by the magistrate’s response.

Manyon’s expression as I had described Rutherford’s presumption had been nondescript. Yet as I had shared my concerns about Esther’s youth, her vulnerability at this time, so soon after her father’s death and given the circumstances of that death, he had begun to nod more sympathetically. ‘Yes, I see that you have reason to be affronted,’ he said. ‘In your shoes I might feel similarly. But what does your sister say? She’s keen on the match?’

‘She says she is,’ I admitted. ‘But her judgement…’

‘Has never been a matter of concern to you in the past,’ Manyon reminded me. ‘She is a good, modest girl. And Rutherford – whilst I concur that he has been rash – is a man of means and reputation. If he has acted precipitately, I can only say in his defence that it speaks well of his regard for your sister.’

So, Rutherford had got here first, I thought. Manyon’s rebuttal was too smooth, too practised.

‘He has acted disgracefully,’ I insisted. ‘I cannot see how his conduct speaks well of him at all. A man who approaches a woman like a thief is not a man I want tied to my family.’

Manyon was packing the bowl of his pipe. He had offered me a spare, but I had declined. Manyon performed this act as he did others: thoughtfully and with precision. It took him more than a minute. In the end, he said, ‘But you understand that, through the tie to Rutherford, and through your sister, you will also be tying yourself to my family?’

I flushed. I had not forgotten that Rutherford was Manyon’s nephew by marriage, but in my anger had spoken without thought, and now I had offended Manyon, whose family had its roots – before his grandfather had bought up swathes of property in the Worstead area – in Norwich haberdashery. He was no better than the Treadwaters, even if he had a great deal more money. I said, carefully, ‘A connection which would be an honour, sir, in any other circumstances. But that is an aside to the point here, I’m afraid.’

‘Is it?’ Manyon’s eyes narrowed beneath his bushy brows. ‘The marriage might not be to your liking, and I understand that, but it might yet prove to be to your advantage.’

‘In what way?’

‘Do you recall the matter of my incompetent assistant, Timothy – a slapdash young man I have, recently, had reason to dismiss?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, it had been my intention to sponsor Timothy. A year or so as my assistant, followed by my funding to attend Cambridge, and my preferment in the law. An offer I am now inclined to make to you. I would also be willing to write to the army, where I have certain influential acquaintances, ensuring your release from your commitments there.’

The inference was clear. I rose to standing. ‘I thank you, sir, but my sister is not for sale, and the implication contrariwise dishonours us both, and her more.’ I was barely keeping my anger in check.

Manyon’s face coloured, but to my surprise, he laughed, then stood and reached for my hand, which, once granted, he shook vigorously. ‘Oh, well said, my boy! Very well said!’ he said, continuing to shake. ‘But, please, do sit down; you have misinterpreted me entirely – my fault, of course – but do sit.’

Not at all sure that I had, I returned to my seat. Manyon took a deep pull on his pipe, then waved his hand through the smoke in an elaborate circle, almost as if dismissing his previous comments. ‘I should have made myself clearer. I think you are exactly the sort of young man I need working for me here, and allied to my family in general. Whether or not your sister marries my nephew – and you must trust that she will, since she has already accepted him, and she is of age – I would like to make that offer to you. I need coming men as my partners in the law, and I will need a candidate, eventually, to take my place in this very role. I think that person might be you, regardless of your sister’s marriage.

‘But,’ he went on, ‘I also think the marriage itself is sound, in and of itself. Take the two positions in turn: one, your sister does not marry Rutherford, or two, she does so. In the first position, your sister loses a match with a man of proven ability, of a faith with her, able to father a child – and John is a man with a strong natural desire to sire a family, given his bereavements – with a fine future, and with a true fondness for her. Yes, you are right to say that John should have come to you first but – and again, this is only in my opinion – he is young, and the young can be passionate in pursuit of the things they want.’ I nodded in reluctant acknowledgement of this, remembering my own foolishness and impulsivity, with Elizabeth. Yet I found it difficult to entertain the notion of Rutherford as an impassioned lover.

Manyon continued. ‘In the second case, your sister marries a young man to whom she has no objection; indeed, a man she has already accepted – if you will excuse my pointing it out – in contravention of your wishes, showing her determination to have him. She gains a secure home of her own, but close by her brother, and a husband who, as far as I can tell, is deeply enamoured of her. In time, perhaps a family. She will be a helpmate to him, he will be a protector to her. And she avoids what we both know she fears: being left alone and unwed, should the worst come to the worst, and you do not return from the wars.’

I was frustrated, knowing there was a kernel in what he said, knowing my own objection to the marriage was rooted in a somewhat unreasonable dislike of Rutherford. In truth, I had no firm footing for my aversion. I was being proud. Manyon looked at me as he pulled on his pipe, waiting.

‘My father respected you, sir,’ I said, eventually. ‘I would like to apologise for my rash words. I accept you meant Esther no disrespect.’

‘Thank you, Tom. What is your feeling on the marriage now that you have considered both sides of the question?’

It took a few moments to wrestle down my objections, but eventually I conceded. ‘I will leave the matter to my sister’s judgement. If she is determined to have him, I’ll not stand in her way.’

Manyon gave a satisfied wink. ‘Very good. And now, to the other matter. Do you think you could see yourself working here, at my side?’

It was a tempting offer, but I frowned. ‘I cannot see how I could accept, sir, though I am pleased you would consider me capable,’ I said, truthfully. ‘My father is so recently gone, and there is much to oversee on the farm.’

‘It’s only a matter of seeing how it works out. You would be free to return to the farm at any point.’

‘And you would write to my colonel?’ Although he would be under no obligation to release me, the colonel might be swayed by a man of Manyon’s influence.

‘Who is he?’

‘Colonel Bethel, sir.’

‘Not Valentine Bethel?’

‘The same, sir.’

‘Well, then there is no obstacle!’ Manyon said, with a confident smile. ‘Bethel is a man of sense. His father and mine were good friends. He’ll take my letter, and you will be your own man before the end of the month. Can I count on you?’

I didn’t know what to say, and stumbled over my thanks. I did not deserve such kindness, such a chance. I accepted, and although at the back of my mind I knew I would – at some point – have to decide whether to make my life here, in England, or strike out for America, the thought of home, of having the liberty and funds to care for Esther, perhaps even see her children grown, wrapped itself about me like a warm, familiar blanket. The feeling that I now realised had dogged my steps since I had first seen Father lying stricken in his bed, of being suspended in mid-air, just about to fall, was receding.

There seemed no reason not to begin immediately. Manyon wanted to record details of a number of cases, including two of horse-stealing, several of receiving or selling stolen goods and one of scolding. It was my job to take dictation, recording the names and outcomes of the cases, witnesses and decisions, including whether or not to advance a case to the quarterly sessions, and the punishments meted out.

Throughout, I was light-headed with the knowledge that I would not be going back into the army. My pen quivered as I took down Manyon’s words. I remembered, vividly, how writing had been such a chore at Milton’s house, how I had cursed every hour of scrubbing black ink from my hands, yearning for manlier pursuits. I had been a fool. How could wading knee-deep in blood, shit and mud be preferable to this? I shook my head, holding the pen with something like reverence.

I was good at writing, too. Although it sounds boastful now, I am old enough to allow myself a small boast; I was a natural scholar, with a precise hand, a facility with languages and a memory both deep and broad. By the end of the first hour of work, Manyon was impressed.

‘You’re as quick as I hoped,’ he said, rubbing his eyes in the lamplight. ‘I’m too old to write as well as you. What was the name of the fellow who taught you, again?’

‘My father taught me my letters, but my education was taken on by a man called John Milton.’

‘Ah, yes. I recall the name, now, vaguely. Is he a man of reputation?’

‘Not really,’ I answered. ‘He’s a talented scholar, and something of a polemicist; a reformer, and anti-prelatical, if you understand.’ Manyon nodded; there were many such men, now. ‘He’s particularly skilled in Latin and Greek.’

‘How did you end up going to him?’

‘He’s kin to my father’s family. A second cousin of my father’s, in fact.’

Manyon’s inquisitiveness seemed satisfied. ‘I see. Well, perhaps in time the fellow will make a reputation for himself.’

‘Perhaps.’ It seemed unlikely I would hear of it. I had little desire ever to see my old tutor again, and was quite sure he would share my sentiments.

Manyon sat up straighter, an indication he wished to return to business that I was beginning to recognise. ‘Let’s move on to the allegations against the Moore girl, and whether or not to add the charges of the deaths of Joan and Goodwife Gedge.’ He looked tired as he said this, as if the subject had been troubling him.

‘Are you inclined to do so?’

‘No,’ said Manyon. ‘I think the evidence insufficient. In spite of what I told the Reverend Hale, the case for self-destruction is stronger.’

And yet he had not dismissed the charges against Chrissa. It seemed unlike Manyon, somehow – indecisive. ‘But?’

‘As I said to you before, there is pressure from the community. Nobody wishes to consider that the women perpetrated the act themselves. Some wealthy men have bent my ear sideways on the subject. The Gedges were very popular, and the widespread account is now that Moore slipped them the hemlock by magical means, perhaps with the help of a familiar, a cat or some such creature.’ He pressed his fingers to the bony bridge of his nose, closing his eyes briefly.

‘But that’s surely nonsense,’ I said, too quickly, then wondered why.

‘Many a nonsense has been hawked about many a marketplace as truth,’ Manyon said, wearily, ‘to the detriment of many a more educated soul.’ I could not argue with that.

Manyon went on. ‘But I suspect you are right in this case, although we cannot dismiss it as impossible. John sat up with her in the cells for three full nights after the Gedge women died, trying to draw out any familiar that might come to her, without success.’

I said nothing about familiars, nor the wisdom of hunting cats, ferrets and toads in the middle of the night, in the hope of catching them in conversation. Still, I could not help a shiver at the thought of Rutherford’s midnight vigils in the gaol, sitting, perhaps, on a stool outside Chrissa’s cell, enveloped by the recent history of that place, eyes squinting in the darkness for diabolical creatures. How had he gone about his work? Was he something like a priest, offering his ear, transcribing the confessions and confidences of his prisoners? Or more like a torturer, dragging incriminating words from them, complete with flecks of spittle and rabid curses? It did not seem like an honourable position, to me.

‘And she still refuses to speak?’ I asked, in the end.

‘Correct. I am fast reaching the point where more forceful measures may need to be employed.’

‘There can be no torture, surely?’ I said, curious, again, about the little hiccough that rose in my stomach at the thought of it.

‘Narrowly defined, no. Since the Long Parliament took up its seat, we are not officially required – or permitted – to torture under the law. And yet, if we send the girl to the assizes without having employed such methods as depriving her of sleep, or walking her, well, they will send back criticism of our laxity and they might even dismiss the case for lack of evidence.’

‘So, a confession might be obtained merely by denying her sleep?’ My voice could not hide my doubt. It sounded so unlikely, when I had suffered through so many nights of broken slumber with the army. Now, of course, I know what a lack of sleep can do, how it fevers the mind and saps the body of strength. I would not wish it upon my worst enemy.

Manyon gave a brisk nod. ‘You would be surprised how effective such a simple device can prove, when the nights begin to add up. It drains the will like you would not believe.’

‘But she cannot be subjected to rough treatment whilst she maintains that she carries my father’s child,’ I said, feeling less ambivalent about defending an unborn baby.

‘That is so,’ said Manyon. ‘But the question of her pregnancy cannot stand in doubt much longer.’

I asked, with some delicacy, because, although I had to know, it seemed no legitimate concern of mine, whether Chrissa had bled, and took down the relevant notes, blushing a little. When I had finished, Manyon sat back. ‘And what of the boy you took from the whorehouse?’

I frowned. I had not mentioned the boy to Manyon, and worked to cover my surprise. Henry’s presence must have been disclosed by Rutherford, who had visited the farm two days previously, following Esther’s revelation of his proposal. He had arrived with smiles, but I met him coldly and invited him into the kitchen, where I told him he was not to call on Esther again until the question of their betrothal was resolved to my own satisfaction, citing my sister’s reputation as the reason. Rutherford asked what it would take to settle the matter, and I said I would give it thought. Having argued the point to a civil truce, we parted, but not before Rutherford saw Henry scampering about the garden, chasing a pigeon.

‘You have acquired a new servant?’ he asked, adjusting the bags on the sides of his horse, and looking at the boy’s distinctive face with open curiosity. Was he seeing some resemblance between Henry and his sister? It was there, in a shared colouring and face shape, but was made less apparent by the years between them.

‘Yes,’ I said, shortly. I had given him no further details, and how Rutherford – and now Manyon – had ascertained where Henry had come from, was a mystery.

Manyon now awaited my response, but I needed to be careful. I did not know what he already knew, and could not afford to be caught in a lie. ‘He’s Chrissa Moore’s brother,’ I admitted. ‘I travelled to Norwich to discover what I could about the woman’s antecedents, and that led me to the house of a procuress who confirmed that the Moore woman had lodged with her. But,’ I said, again not knowing why I took pains to point it out, ‘not that she had whored for her. I still can’t be sure how she made her living.’

Manyon raised his eyebrows. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘There’s not much more to say. I felt sorry for the boy – the vile creature running the place kept him half-starved – and brought him back to the farm partly for his benefit, and partly, I admit, to see what I could glean from him about his sister.’

‘And did you? Get any further, that is?’

I shook my head. ‘The boy is a simple idiot. He knows nothing.’

Manyon grunted. ‘Keep him close to your chest. Don’t let him leave the farm – too many people in the town resent his sister.’

‘He’s not going anywhere,’ I agreed.

‘Oh, and on a different note,’ said Manyon, rummaging across his desk for a scrap of paper, on which he scribbled quickly. ‘An invitation.’

‘For me?’ I took it with a twinge of anxiety. It had been so long since I’d been invited anywhere.

‘Yes. Do you know Welmet Huxley?’

‘I’ve heard of him. He’s a reformer, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, his great-grandfather was one of the first true Dissenters in the country, and the sons and grandsons followed him on. This is his address.’

The chit had details of a house several miles from Worstead, but I recognised it: a substantial property belonging to an estate on the road to King’s Lynn. I had a vague thought that the owner had interests in shipping. ‘He’s asked me there?’ I said, surprised, pocketing the paper.

‘Correct. A meal, tomorrow evening, with a bed for the night. Huxley likes to dine with up-and-coming men, and sometimes feels obligated to do the same with old carbuncles like me. He’s a friend.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ I said, already worrying about what I had to wear to the house of a rich man. Still, I wanted to go. It had been years since I had had an excellent meal in fine company. I could see, already, how Manyon might open up other such opportunities for me, to make connections and start building back my reputation, and could not help a dart of excitement.

Then Manyon said, ‘Rutherford will be there, too.’

‘Oh,’ I said, with less enthusiasm. Manyon could not suppress a smile.

A peacemaker, then.

Later, as I rode the short distance back to the farm, I contemplated why I had lied to Manyon. Henry was not clever, it was true, but he was not the abject fool I had described. He played the part well, but events of the previous days had cast doubt on the performance.

Esther had not concealed her bitterness about Henry’s presence, particularly once I had explained who he was and how I had come to find him, the morning after I brought him back. ‘Why would you go there, Thomas?’ she had said. ‘It’s a disgrace.’

I, still nursing my resentment about Rutherford, and thinking only of how I could scupper the match, responded briefly. ‘I can’t really explain it.’

‘And I am certainly at a loss to do so!’ she said, stabbing at her embroidery with her needle as if she wished to do herself an injury. I, struggling with whether I owed her an apology, left her to her work and went to find Henry.

He was back in the stable.

I eased Ben outside. The horse fretted in the cold air. After covering him with a blanket, I returned to the stable, and lowered myself down to the straw. The lamp lit up the boy’s pinched, hungry expression. ‘Henry, I need you to come with me inside the house. There is much work to do. I brought you here on the understanding that you would work for us, and that I would pay you. Do you remember?’

Henry nodded, but didn’t move. ‘Can’t I just work here?’ he asked.

‘In the stables?’ Another nod. I considered for a moment, then shrugged. ‘There are jobs to be done here,’ I admitted. ‘Ben and Temperance take a lot of looking after. Have you worked with horses before?’

‘No, sir, but I can learn.’

‘That is the idea,’ I said. ‘Not just for you to be here to earn a wage, but to learn as well. And for that, you need to be inside the house, at least sometimes.’

When the boy shook his head, I was reminded of Chrissa’s intransigence. I felt, somehow, though I would never do it, that I might drag Henry inside and beat him bloody and yet, when next I saw him, he would be crouched here behind Ben, quiet and still as a hunted hare.

‘You lived inside at Lucy Bennett’s house,’ I said. ‘What’s different here?’

‘Dunno,’ came the low, miserable voice again. ‘Sir. I just don’t want to be in there.’

It was so cold I could not tell whether the fog was mist off the ground or our breath. ‘Do you know how cold it’s going to get out here when the sun goes down?’

Henry nodded.

‘And so, you know I can’t let you sleep out here. Not unless I want to defrost you in the morning. But I can agree this: if you stay outdoors during the day, for now, just for today, and watch the horses, then as long as you agree to come indoors at sunset, you may go straight to your bed and come out as soon as you wake again in the morning. Have we made a bargain?’

Again, the acquiescent little nod. Then his voice seemed to become even smaller. ‘Will there be men visiting? Like at Lucy’s?’

I had a thought to put my arm about the boy’s shoulders, but held back. Who knew what the lad had seen in that scurrilous place, or what might have been done to him? ‘Never,’ I said, as firmly as I could manage. ‘This is not that sort of house.’

Henry seemed to weigh this information. Then, looking up, his eyes glinting with a new curiosity, he said, ‘What sort of house is it?’

So, the boy was not such a fool as he appeared. ‘A respectable one,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘Now, come to the back door and I’ll give you food. You have a long day of work ahead of you.’

It was of that glint in Henry’s eyes that I thought now, tugging at Ben’s reins to avoid a wagon on the road. Was he more like his sister than I had counted on, more calculating? He seemed honest enough. Two days after his arrival, I shared bread with him in the stable, instructing him in how to feed and water the horses, and how to muck out the stalls; while he ate and worked, I took the opportunity to ask him questions about his sister. He seemed happy to tell what he knew.

‘What do you remember of your life with your sister before you went to Lucy Bennett’s?’ I asked.

‘Nothing,’ came the answer, brief and definite, as Henry forked over a feeble heft of dirty straw. ‘I was yet a babe, sir.’

‘But your family hails from Norfolk?’

‘I don’t really know. My sister never said.’ He didn’t have the local accent.

‘When did you last see your sister?’

Henry’s half-frown seemed sincere. ‘I can’t be sure. Weeks? Months, it might be.’

I thought carefully about the wording of my next question. I wanted to avoid the boy’s awareness that he was being interrogated, and therefore did not want to say ‘your sister’ again, but ‘Chrissa’ felt strange, too intimate, in my mouth, so I did not say that either. ‘Are you very fond of her?’

Henry said, fervently, ‘Oh, yes, sir. She is so good to me.’

‘She sent money for your keep?’ At this, Henry nodded, cheerfully munching his breakfast as he worked. ‘And did you have… duties, in return for your stay at Lucy Bennett’s house, like you do here?’

Henry pondered for a moment. ‘Sort of,’ he said, eventually. ‘Not like my sister, or the girls there.’

‘What sort of duties were yours, then?’ I asked, keeping my voice light, mere chatter to go alongside the meal and the work.

‘Serving, mostly,’ he answered. ‘Sometimes I was called upon to sing.’

‘You sing well?’

Henry guffawed, a donkeyish, endearing sound that answered my question well enough. ‘No, sir – like a crow! Just like a crow!’ He kept laughing at his own jest. I could not help but chuckle a little, too.

‘Why have you sing, then?’ I said, once we had stopped laughing.

Now serious, Henry said, ‘I think they liked to mock me, some of the men who came to visit the girls. Or to hoof me with their feet if my singing got too bad.’

‘That was very wrong of them,’ I said, sincerely. Henry nodded in solemn agreement. ‘Did your sister sing, too?’ He shook his head, but seemed less willing to speak than he had been. ‘She had other duties?’

‘Some. Not like the other girls, though. She’d go out at night, and when she came back, she had coin.’

‘I see. But that stopped a few months ago, when she stopped coming in person and began to send money?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘A lot of money?’

‘No. Lucy always complained it was short.’

‘Right.’ Enough for now. I stood up and, almost without thinking, ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Don’t forget Ben’s saddle cloth, like I showed you. I’ll come back to check it at the quarter hour.’

Now, nearing home from Walsham, I thought ahead to the following evening: dinner at the Huxley house. Although I had been pleased at the prospect when sitting in Manyon’s comfortable study, now I felt a tightening of guilt at leaving Esther, if only for an evening, so soon after Father’s passing. Aside from anything else, it made her responsible for Henry, and Henry was unpredictable in his fears. I would have to have words with the boy before I went, instructing him not to bother Esther; but I thought there was little danger – he had not been within twenty feet of her since his arrival. He disappeared like a shadow whenever she came into a room.

But it was important that I went to the dinner. Manyon had clearly spoken well of me to Huxley, and to snub the invitation would mean loss of face, both with my new employer and a man who held sway with other powerful ears. If I wanted a career in the county of my birth, and I thought I might, I would have to go.

Of course, it was a transparent effort to bring me together with Rutherford. Yet I saw the sense of it. If the witchfinder was to be my brother-in-law, I would need to find common ground with him, and a meal in company was as good a way as any. I wished it had been a few days later, though – I would have preferred to be at home, poring over my father’s papers, mending fences with Esther, shutting out the world. But it was not to be. Instead, dinner with John Rutherford; I sighed.