Hue and Cry (32 page)

‘Minnie, it’s not cold,’ his daughter frowned.

‘Like as not the rain has soaked him. Do what he asks.’

She pulled off the boots. ‘His feet are quite dry.’

‘Rub them, child,’ her father whispered, ‘for I cannot feel them.’

‘I’m doing it, Father. Minnie, look, his feet are blue. I cannot warm them.’

‘You must come towards the fire,’ urged Agnes.

Archie struggled to stand. ‘Where is the place? The world is spinning.’

‘It is the whisky,’ she told Tibbie. ‘Go and fetch Tom!’

Archie took a sudden lurch, flailing with his hands. He staggered, and his legs fell under him. Agnes caught his head before it struck the board. His eyes were fixed. ‘I cannot move my legs,’ he whispered, ‘tis a heaviness, a creeping over all, that drags me down. I cannot move them.
Help
me, Agnes.’

‘Hush, it is the drink. You’re dull through lack of sleep. Here’s Tom. He will help you to your bed.’ The three of them lifted him, legs trailing useless behind him, onto the bed. ‘
Minnie
,’ said Tibbie, and pointed. Dark waters spread over the quilt.

‘Shh, tis nothing. Tom shall fetch a pothecar. Archie, do you hear?’

‘Aye,’ he answered faintly, ‘I can hear you far away. I do not want the pothecar.’

‘Are you content?’

‘Quite peaceful, aye. It’s strange, I cannot find my hands.’

‘I must change your hose.’

‘Ah, let me rest. For why would you change them?’

‘Archie, you have pissed yourself,’ she answered boldly. Her daughter blinked. ‘You’re lying in the stew. But surely you must feel it, wet and cold.’

‘You lie,’ he said uncertainly, ‘why would you lie? I tell you, I feel nothing.’

He did not stir as she began to strip his clothes.

Tom said, ‘Mistress, tis not right. I will fetch the apothecary.’

Agnes looked upon the bare legs, draped unfeeling on the bed. She frowned a little. ‘Aye.’

Archie lay three hours upon the bed. He felt no pain. Even his choler had evaporated, leaving him a sombre quietness, his sanguine looks at last drawn sad and pale. He answered all the questions put to him, in a distant, lucid voice, as though he found some place of relaxation far away, where everything was clear to him. The apothecary was fascinated. He pricked his soles with pins, moved boldly to the calves and thigh and pinched the inner surface of the groin. He pressed the palms and fingertips, the nailbed to the quick, and at the last was satisfied there was no feeling there. When finally the pulse grew slow, he shook his head, and with complacent sorrow said, ‘He’s poisoned, then. There is no hope.’

‘Poisoned?’ Archie Strachan’s unfixed muscles jerked their last response. His eyelids and his brows flew open in astonishment, and locked. ‘
Poisoned
, Agnes? How?’

He spoke no more. The paralysis that crept upon his body reached his heart and stopped it dead, with that last look of hurt surprise, indignant, frozen there forever on his face.

‘Poisoned,’ said the pothecar, and closed his patient’s eyes.

‘What did you put with it?’ The coroner prodded the remains of the pie, and sniffed the liquor dubiously. Agnes sat very still.

‘The quarter of a hare.’

‘No roots or mushrooms? Parsnip? Grass?’

‘None of those,’ she whispered. ‘Twas a plain roasted hare, with a pudding in his belly, and we ate him yesterday. The remains I put in the pie, with onions and sweet herbs in a blood wine sauce.’

‘Twas good meat, and not tainted?’

‘Aye, for sure.’

‘And no one else did eat of it today?’

‘My daughter ate the pudding, which had roasted in his belly.’

‘And yet no one ate the pie?’ he repeated patiently.

She shook her head.

‘Well then, it seems clear to me, the poison that he took was in the pie.’

Agnes shrank. ‘It was a good pie.’

‘As you say,’ he answered pleasantly, ‘then you shall prove the point, by tasting it.’ He pushed the dish towards her.

‘Sir,’ she faltered, turning pale. ‘I cannot, sir.’

‘Why not? If it were a good pie, as you say, why would you shrink from tasting it? And you will not then it would seem to prove you know it for a
bad
pie.’

‘Sir,’ Tibbie spoke out tearfully, ‘consider that the pie my mother made . . .’

‘You saw it made, I’ll warrant?’ he enquired of her.

‘I did so, I swear. It was a good pie. But we did not have it by us all the time. It went for baking at the pastry shop.’

‘I see.’ He said good-humouredly, ‘You think your pie was poisoned there?’

‘Well, sir, no … we do not know it
was
the pie.’

‘Then would you care to taste it?’

‘No!’ cried Agnes fearfully. Tibbie looked at her. ‘But Mother, why?’

‘I fear it.’

‘Be ware,’ cautioned the coroner, ‘that your refusal proves your guilt.’

‘It does not prove,’ Agnes answered with a sudden flare of spirit, ‘that I know the pie is poisoned, only that I fear it
might
be so.’

‘I observe the difference,’ he remarked. ‘Then
why
might it be so?’

‘Because my husband ate it.’

‘Aye, and no one else. Which brings us back to this. Why did you make the pie for him alone?’

‘For there was little meat. My husband had the choice of it. And what remained, we might have shared, when he was taken ill.’

‘
Might
have, aye.’

‘I think that you suspect me, sir.’

‘I do suspect the pie. Come, lass, Tibbie is it, will you take a bite?’

‘I beg you, no,’ cried Agnes. ‘Sir, my husband died. I fear it for a bad pie.’

‘Then confess it. Spare your daughter,’ he said clear and kindly. ‘Come now, tell us, what was it that you put with it?’

She stammered, ‘It must have been the seeds.’

‘Good lass,’ he coaxed her gently, ‘aye, the seed. And what was that?’

‘I had them from a herbalist. She was a witch, I doubt. I was deceived in her. I swear to you, I meant no ill. They were carrot seeds, promised to provoke my husband’s lusts.’

He raised an eyebrow, glancing at the body, ‘Did it work?’

Agnes flushed unhappily. ‘You see that it did not.’

‘Well,’ he scratched his head, ‘and I may put this to the justice clerk, I do not think that it will help your case. Witchcraft will compound the crime. I must tell you, things look grave for you. The pothecar has sworn he heard your husband speak your name before he died. Few indictments are more damning than the accusation of a dying man. Unless you eat the pie, and prove him wrong, I must take you into ward to face your trial.’

‘Shall my mistress not be bailed, sir?’ Tom asked bravely.

‘Tomorrow we shall look to it, when I make my report. Mistress Ford, I have ever found you honest, and am loath to take you hence. It must be done.’

‘You should know,’ whispered Agnes, ‘I am with child.’

‘
Mamma
!’ Tibbie cried.

There was a long pause while the coroner tried to make sense of this. At length he said sceptically. ‘You are with child?’

‘I am.’

‘And yet your plea is that you fed your husband seeds to stir his lust?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘A pregnant wife solicit husband’s lusts! Forgive me, mistress, this is new to me.’

‘It is quite simple, sir. The child is not my husband’s.’

‘Not your husband’s? Ah.’

‘It is not what you think. I was raped.’

‘Enough of this. Come, mistress, you must see this does not help,’ he coaxed. ‘Come quiet now. This is what we’ll do. I’ll take you to the kirk tonight and put you in the steeple. You can think upon your story there.’

‘I will come there if I have to, sir. My story will not change.’

‘Hush. If it does not, we’ll have the midwife try you. Come now, quietly.’

It was a form of words, no more, for she did not resist. She paused only to appeal to Tibbie, holding out her arms. Her daughter shrank away.

‘Did you cheat my father?’

Agnes answered quietly, ‘It’s true I am with child. The child is not your father’s. I wanted him to lie with me, so that he might accept it as his own. I meant no more than that.’

She touched her daughter’s cheek. ‘You must write at once to your uncle, and explain what has happened here. God bless you. Tom, take care of her.’

The kirk session had already met that week, and on the afternoon of Agnes’ arrest dispensed its justice in the marketplace, from which fleshly entertainment came the baxter, somewhat flushed. He was surprised to find another prisoner in the tower.

‘Wha’s that ye brocht?’ The Strachan wife?’ he demanded of the coroner. ‘The minister is out of town. We are no’ due to sit.’

‘Ah, she’s not for you. She’ll come before the circuit judge. She’s taken for the slaughter of her man.’

‘Archie Strachan, deid?’ The baxter gave a whistle. ‘Who’d have thought it, though?’

‘Poisoned,’ the coroner grinned. He knew that in committing Agnes to the kirk he had ensured her full confession when she came before the magistrate.

‘She has confessed, I doubt?’ the baxter went on greedily. He felt a frisson of excitement, stirred by his exertions in the marketplace, a mingled sense of pleasure and disgust.

‘There’s witchcraft involved. A convolute case.’

‘Witchcraft?’ The baxter’s eyes were open wide. ‘Tsk! You’d have her watched and waked?’

‘Aye, that I would. Twere better that she did confess before the session court.’

‘I see. That I do see. Come, then, tell me all!’

At dusk he took the gaoler’s key and let himself into the steeple where Agnes was locked for the night. ‘Mistress Ford,’ he told her pleasantly, ‘I have the candle. Here now, let me look into your face. A terrible thing, is this not?’

‘Master Brooke,’ she knew him; he was like the dyer, and she did not trust his kindness, ‘It is a mistake, and will be put right.’

The baxter had the softest hands, made white by the kneading of bread, the barley stone pumice of oatmeal and peas. Blank as a child’s and milk-clean, they harboured a sinuous strength. His fingertips had long since lost all feeling, numbed and scorched by force and fire. Only memory preserved their subtlety of touch, prodding and probing resistance, knocking and shaping the bread. He looked from these hands up at Agnes, pale in the candlelight, flexing his fingertips, plying the joints. ‘Ah, Agnes Ford,’ he said softly, ‘tis a sad, sad thing that has befallen you. Perhaps it was the demons drove you to it?’

‘What demons?’ she whispered. ‘I have done nothing.’

He considered this, inspecting his fingernails. Presently he said, ‘Did you hear the brangling at the cross?’

Agnes shook her head.

‘Ah, did ye no’? A woman was lashed for a whore, the mouth on her foul as you like! She’s to compear for blasphemy next week. The world’s a wicked place, what say you, Agnes Ford?’

‘I cannot think her much improved,’ she answered hoarsely.

‘By whipping? Ah, you’d be surprised.’ He smiled a little, dropping the words into the darkness. ‘Did you bewitch your husband?’

‘I swear it, I did not.’

‘Tell it to the minister, at the session court. Goodnight now, Mistress Ford.’

Without another word, he closed the door.

‘That woman is a witch,’ he informed the beadle. ‘There can be no doubt. Did you look upon her mark?’

‘I did not lift her dress,’ allowed the beadle sheepishly. ‘Did you?’

‘Forget the mark.’ The baxter changed the subject. ‘Guard her close. She will confess. She’ll come before the session when we meet. Meanwhile, we must wake and watch, observe her, mark the signs. You may take the first shift, and a shilling extra for your pains.’

‘Two shillings,’ said the beadle narrowly. ‘If she is a witch, there is a risk.’

The baxter tutted, ‘Tsk, there is no risk, because, you see, you will restrain her, that she may not use her artifice or conjure you with tricks. Neither heed nor talk with her, but place her bread and water only just in reach. Better, keep her chained. And keep her dark and waking, and I’ll warrant you may hear her devils yet. Peace, man, they won’t harm you! Two shillings, then. So be it. You shall have another when she hangs.’

‘You must pay me to release her, even if she hangs,’ the beadle pointed out. ‘Two shillings now, and two for her release, and two for her confession, and another when she hangs.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘Seven shillings in all. We’ll call it eight.’

The baxter raised an eyebrow ‘Would you rob the parish to despatch a witch?’

‘Witches are expensive. There’s the pyre or scaffold, and the lockman’s fee, a quantity of rope and kindling for the fire . . .’

‘Aye,’ the elder chuckled, ‘there’s ay a price to pay. Well then, Jock, I cannot promise, but the parish is likely to meet you. If ye’ll mind her while the lockman comes, I’ll put it to the minister to approve your fee. I can’t see he’ll dispute it. As ye ken yourself, he does not care to know the details of these things.’

‘He’s a guid man,’ posed the beadle doubtfully.

‘Aye, that he is, the better to be clear of this. He’s weak in heart and stomach, and he will not like this news. Therefore we’ll not disturb him till the time is ripe. Meanwhile, guard her well.’ The baxter winked at him. ‘Ye widna want her devils makin’ eyes at you.’

The beadle had set the lamp behind him low on the ground where the prick of the light did not show his face. Still she seemed to know him for as he approached she cried hoarsely, ‘For pity, Jock, I am with child!’ He blanched a little at the calling of his name, cupping her face in his hand, and placed his necklace tenderly, like a lover’s trinket, at her throat. The wall supplied a collar and a chain, the partner of the jougs that rattled at the mercat cross, and this the beadle used to encircle her, beading her neck with twin bracelets, buckling its manacles close. He restrained the witch so that she might not sit or lie, the better to arouse and wake her. If she fainted it would wirry her or strangle her, and jerk her back into life. He forced the rusted padlock fast against her breast, where it hung grinding and pendulous. Agnes could taste it, metallic like blood. The beadle retreated as soundless as he came and taking up the light, he closed the door. He left the witch alone and in the dark.