Mist Over Pendle (45 page)

Certainly his son had not doubted it. Abraham Law had at once made search for Alizon Device, and he had found her elusive; it had taken him a week to come up with her, but when he had at last done so, he had taken her more or less forcibly to his father’s bedside at Colne; and there, in his presence, she had admitted to bewitching his father.

Richard Baldwin got so far with their tale, and then Abraham Law interrupted him. Indignation lent him words, and they came with a rush. His father, he said, had been so starkly mad as to forgive this Alizon, and fury at that had all but driven him, the son, mad too. But when he had recovered his wits he had at once hastened to Pendle, whither Alizon had already flown; he had told his tale at a house he had come to down by the river, and the people there had bidden him carry his tale to Master Baldwin. And the rest they knew.

They did, and Roger had tact enough not to probe into details. He gave his orders crisply. He would formally examine Alizon on the morrow, supposing her to be sufficiently recovered by then, and it would therefore be needful for Abraham Law to attend and give evidence. Harry Hargreaves would naturally be needed, and Richard Baldwin would be welcome if he chose to attend. Ordinary presentments due to be heard on Monday must stand till Tuesday. And that, said Roger, was all; it was time for him to take his leave.

It was not till they were half way home that an odd thought came upon Margery. It startled her, and without intending it she drew rein and stopped.

“What the Devil?” said Roger, stopping also.

Margery collected her wits and tried to speak simply.

“That lad who brought you the message this morning--he sent you on a perilous mission.”

“No doubt. But what of it?” Roger sounded puzzled.

“And perilous too for Master Baldwin?”

“I’ll grant you he stood some chance of hanging. But again, what of it? What teases you?”

“I’m asking who sent that lad with that message.”

“Hargreaves, was it not?”

“That’s what I ask. Was it?” Roger stared at her.

“What’s in your mind?” he asked slowly. “There’s something chilling here.”

Margery explained it carefully.

“I supposed from that message that Hargreaves was already at Wheathead and in trouble.” “And was he not?”

“No. He said he’d been there but three minutes when we came.”

Roger whistled softly.

“God’s Grace!” he said quietly. “What wits you have! Tom!”

“Sir?” Tom Peyton drew close.

“That lad who brought alarm to us this morning---did you know him?”

“Yes, sir. Jack Wharton, sir.”

“And who the Devil may Jack Wharton be?”

“Pig boy, sir. At the Rough Lee.”

The Examination of Alizon Device of the Forest of Pendle in the County of Lancaster, Spinster. Taken at Read in the said County of Lancaster, the xxx day of March, Anno Regni Domini nostri Jacobi Deigratiae Angliae Franciae et Hiberniae Regis, Fidei Defensoris, decimo; et Scotiae quadragesimo quinto:
Before Roger Nowell of Read aforesaid; Esquire; one of His Majesty’s Justices of the Peace within the said County:
Videlicet:

Margery put down her pen and sanded what she had written She contrived a dry cough as she poured the sand back into the jar. Then she picked up the paper, and in a cold expressionless voice she read it aloud. Alizon Device, standing alone beyond the table, turned a shade whiter, and her eyes flickered nervously from Margery to Roger, and from Roger to Harry Hargreaves sitting stiffly by the door; she found no comfort in that, and her throat was twitching as her eyes came hastily back to Roger.

Margery ended her reading and put her paper down. She had a cold and hostile stare for Alizon, and then she spoke icily.

“Alizon Device: you are here to be examined on oath before a Justice on matters touching the hurts lately done in and upon John Law, a petty chapman of Colne. You will therefore be sworn.”

Richard Baldwin, his eyes smouldering and his face set and hard, rose grimly from his chair and came forward with a Bible; it was his privilege as Churchwarden, and Alizon, meeting his eyes, was stammering as she took the oath. Margery, her face impassive, watched with satisfaction; it looked as if Alizon was not going to give much trouble.

She gave none. By her ordeal yesterday and these deliberately chilling formalities today, she had been so cowed that she surprised everybody by making a full confession, and soon Margery was hard put to it to drive her pen fast enough; and what she wrote was damning. For Alizon declared that Old Demdike, her grandmother, had persuaded her to receive a familiar spirit, which spirit appeared to her from time to time in the guise of a small dog; and when she had pestered Fat Jack for pins and had been refused, she had told this dog to lame him; and the rest had followed swiftly.

Alizon told her tale and then stood silent. Margery scratched to the end of her paper and then sat back, resting her hand and glancing quickly about her. Harry Hargreaves and the chapman’s son were plainly pleased and satisfied; beside them Richard Baldwin sat with a face of granite; behind the table Roger sat impassive, showing nothing of his thoughts, and Margery had to guess that he was already probing beyond this in search of what might lead him to Alice Nutter; it would not be like Roger to find pleasure or profit in hanging so poor a thing as Alizon. Then, while she still watched, Roger settled himself back in his chair, and coolly invited Alizon to tell him of any more evil doings she might know of in Pendle. Alizon needed no second invitation, and there was a gleam of the old malice in her eyes as she plunged at it and accused her own grandmother of the murder of Margaret Baldwin; and then, before Richard had been persuaded into his chair again, Alizon was speaking of the Chattox, and had roundly accused the woman of the murder of Anne Nutter.

It all had to be set on paper, and it made hard work for Margery; her hand was stiff and aching before it was done, and then she had to make out the Mittimus that would send Alizon to Lancaster. But she was well content, and she read in Roger’s eye as he signed the Mittimus that he was content too; that Alizon should know the dark secrets of Alice Nutter was not to be expected, but she had said enough to entangle those who might; and more might be expected to follow.

It did. With his hand once forced, Roger wasted no time, and in the next three days he made formal and thorough examinations of both the witch-families. Squinting Lizzie and the moon-kissed Jemmy had to be loosed again, she because she was too stubborn, and he because he was too stupid to say anything of note; but by the Thursday night Roger had Old Demdike, Old Chattox, and the shapely Anne Redfern under lock and key at Read; a Mittimus had been signed for each, and all was ready for them to journey with Alizon to the castle at Lancaster. But Roger was not satisfied; he had got enough to hang these women, but he had not got what he wanted. He said as much in his parlour that night, while he leaned against the hearth in his familiar stance. Margery sat at the table, her writings of the week spread before her, and Frank, now back from Westby, was attentive in an elbow-chair.

“It’s well enough,” said Roger, “and it will hang those four. That pleases Baldwin vastly and me not at all. There’s nothing that touches Alice Nutter. The Chattox seemed to touch the old grandmother, and that’s all.”

“Yes.” Margery shuffled her papers thoughtfully, and then read out what the Chattox had said. Some of it was of Anne Nutter, and went close to being a confession. But most of it was of the young Robert Nutter who had died twenty years before, and it bore out Tony’s tale even to the sinister grandmother; this grandmother, according to Chattox, had asked her and Demdike and a long-dead widow Loomshaw to make away with Robert Nutter in order that a woman vaguely called a cousin might have the land. And that had been as much as Chattox seemed to know.

“It’s of interest,” said Roger tersely. “I don’t doubt that it’s true, and I could guess who that cousin was. But does it help?”

“No---” Margery shuffled her papers again. “But there’s the Demdike---”

“What of her?”

Roger poured himself wine, and then waited patiently while Margery scanned her closely-written sheets. Demdike had had a lot to say about clay images of people, asserting that as these were dried and crumbled, so would the persons represented waste and die. But in one matter she had departed from this; she had killed Margaret Baldwin, she said, as Alizon had maimed the pedlar, by the help of a spirit that had the form of a dog.

“Just so,” said Roger. “And it will no doubt hang her. But again I ask, does it help?”

“In itself it does not.” Margery was speaking slowly, and now she was looking at Roger, not at her papers. “But it’s a thing lately done--not twenty years agone. And it seemed to me that when the Demdike had said so much, she closed her mouth most suddenly--and thereafter said no more.”

“Now what’s this?” Roger had put his wineglass down, and was looking keenly at her. “She shut her mouth lest she tell of something
very
lately done? Is that it?”

“That and something more.” Margery paused, and then chose her words with care. “Of all else she spoke not unwillingly. Why, then, will she not speak of more--if more there be?” Again she paused, and she put down her papers as she turned to face him. “Could--could the woman be in fear?” she asked quietly.

“God’s Grace!” Roger stood rigid as he thought of it. “What will your wits not cut? So she knows what touches one of whom she has a fear! Even so---” He was smiling suddenly, and when he spoke his tone had changed. “I feel myself beholden to those brothers of yours. If they’d sent me a girl of other sort--the common pudding-wit--I know not how I should have fared. But certainly we must see this Demdike, and at once.”

He moved quickly on that, and Demdike was brought to the room. At first it seemed that she was resigned to everything, and she made no difficulty about his first questions. Margery became hopeful. But the first mention of Alice Nutter brought a startling change in the Demdike; at once she retreated to the wall, her little eyes rolling and blinking, and her whole frame trembling. Soon she was in such a state of open terror that Roger had to abandon his questions; the woman was plainly in no state to be pressed further if she were to keep what little sanity she still had. It was revealing and it was exasperating; but there was plainly nothing to be done but let the matter drop.

Demdike was taken away, and Roger looked grimly at Margery.

“She knows,” he said. “She knows more than it’s comfortable to know. And I ask, how is it to be had from her?”

They looked at each other blankly; and then, for the first time, Frank spoke from his chair by the hearth.

“By your leaves,” he said slowly, “this is not without hope. There’s always Master Covell---”

“Covell?” Roger rounded on him sharply, and Frank nodded.

“To be sure. He’s a Justice, is he not? And therefore able to make examination of these women?”

“So he can!” Roger whistled softly. “I had not thought of that. And he may wait till fears are less, and then pick his moment. They’re too late now for the Lent Assize, so he’ll have them in hold till August.”

“August!” Margery sounded dismayed, and Roger had almost a laugh for her.

“We’ll hope for an answer before then. But it will be well to have it in Tom Covell that there’s an urgency in this.” He paused in thought for a moment, and then he spoke briskly to Frank. “It will need some nice explaining, and that’s your work. You seem to have Covell’s ear, and you know the whole of this. So when these women go to Lancaster tomorrow, you may command the escort.” Again he paused, and suddenly the old sardonic tone was back with him. “Be pleased not to be far diverted if some sightly wench should spill from a horse---”

And Margery was brazen enough to lead the laughter.

But there was no dispute about what was to be done, and Frank was away at first light with the ambling horses that bore the captive women and their guards. This time Margery did not rise to see him go; for him alone she might have made the effort, but she had no wish to look on so sad a cavalcade, and she lay behind her curtains till they were out of sight and sound. Even then there was a melancholy upon her, and it was as much to rid herself of that as to perform a social duty that she chose to ride into Goldshaw that morning. Margaret Crook had her Tony back at home now, and it was no more than proper that Margery should inquire how he fared.

She rode out into an April morning, and April seemed disposed to make amends for March. First there was sunlight between showers, and the arching of a great rainbow; then the showers passed, and when she came to the Sabden brook there were white clouds in a blue sky, and a southerly wind that had the scent- of Spring. She halted by the brook, charmed by the ripple of the light on the splashing water, and when she lifted her eyes again there was a horseman coming quickly down from Goldshaw. Margery looked once and had no more doubts; here was Miles Nutter, and Margery sat her horse and waited.

His hat was a-flourish long before he came up to her, and his smile was friendly as he drew rein. Margery was glad to see him.

“You’re a stranger, Miles,” she told him cheerfully.

“Not more than you,” he retorted. “But you know I’ve been from Pendle?”

“Yes. Grace told me.”

“It’s good to be back.” He was chattering lightly, and seemed quite at his ease. “I suppose you’ll be for my uncle’s house? You ride early this fine morning.”

“Not so early as you, it seems. My visit’s still to make and yours is surely made?”

“Not so.” Suddenly there was embarrassment in his face, and Margery thought he was seeking words. “The truth is, I’m lodged at my uncle’s just now, and I’m on my way to Wheathead.”

“Wheathead?” She said it slowly, and only because she could think of no better answer.

“Aye.” He laughed, and she thought that covered something. “At the least, I see something of Grace these days.”

“God be with you then. I’ll not hold you here.” She had a smile for him now. “Away with you! And commend me to Grace---”