Mist Over Pendle (46 page)

He made no ado about that, and his beaver swept again as he wheeled his horse and went splashing through the stream. Margery waved back gaily, and then she let her horse walk slowly up the slope while she gave her thoughts to this. It might, of course, be nothing; he might merely be putting himself at the service of his aunt while Tony was sick. Margery shook her head at that. Miles, indeed, seemed to be rather at Grace’s service than at his aunt’s; and he had had not a word to say about his uncle’s sickness, which must surely have been in his mind; nor would it have been his mother’s way to see him so free to visit Grace. Margery’s disbelief hardened, and soon she was asking herself what quarrel had flared between Miles and his mother.

The cool grey stones were aglow as she came through the pines, and the sun was glittering on the windows as she halted before them. The old servitor came out to take her horse as he had always done, and Margery had a smile for him as she dismounted. Then, under the stone lintel of the door, a man appeared, and for a moment she thought that here was the ailing Tony; then her eyes narrowed and she stood very still as she recognized brother Dick.

He came out to greet her, and it seemed that she had not wholly concealed her surprise.

“I’m my brother’s guest these days,” he said. “So is Miles. Did you see him as you came?”

“Yes.” She had collected herself now, and she spoke easily. “We met by the brook. I was coming to see if any service could be done for Mistress Crook, but it seems I’m behind the times in that.”

He nodded, and accepted that view of things at once.

“Aye, we can do what’s needed, Miles and I. But Margaret will be glad to see you, none the less. You’ll please Tony too. But come you in---”

The little parlour, which had been so grey and still, was vivid now with the sunlight gleaming on brass and shining oak; the low window-seat, where she had sat to stare at the rain, was warm in the sun today, and on it, stretched under blankets and with his shoulders propped on pillows, was a smiling Tony. And then Margaret was in the room; Margaret, welcoming and indignant, hopeful and anxious, pleased and petulant, and pouring it all into a flood of words before her visitor was even seated. Tony, she said, was a fool, and she had known that for years. Everybody knew he ought to be in bed; and now, just because there was a patch of blue in the sky, he must needs be down the stair. Margaret snorted at it. If it had been but Tony alone she could have managed him; she could always manage him. But now he had brother Dick at his side, and of course one man was as stupid as another; they had none of them any sense, and they always took each other’s parts. And Margaret snorted again.

Margery nibbled at a cheesecake and made soft answers. She did not even ask
why
Tony had brother Dick at his side, and she took her leave as soon as she decently could; there was something here that should be told to Roger.

She told him of it as soon as she was back, and he heard it gravely. He agreed at once that if father and son had both left home, there must be more to it than appeared; some reason would surely have been given if one could decently have been given.

“Which is to say,” he observed gravely, “that they’ve guessed something touching their Alice, and something that has no pleasant face to it---”

“It’s not certain,” said Margery slowly.

“We’ll be wise to treat it as certain. For if it’s so, and they’ve left her in the face of all Pendle, she’ll no doubt be preparing something. She may even be alarmed---” He laughed without amusement. “But what a woman she must be, when husband and son go out themselves instead of kicking her through the door. But that’s no matter. What’s of weight is that we’d best be watchful. Alice alarmed might be Alice dangerous.”

Watchful they were, and to no effect. The week-end passed quietly, and then they were in Easter Week. Frank came back from Lancaster with word that all was well and that Tom Covell would attempt the Demdike when she had had a few days’ quiet. But in all Pendle was peace. Even Richard Baldwin was at peace now, and had no more than a low grumble that Elizabeth Device should be still at large. The mild Spring weather held, and Good Friday was a day so brilliant that it seemed a Feast Day rather than a Fast. There were two more days of peace; and then, in the sunlit afternoon of Easter Sunday, Alice Nutter came again to Read.

For once Margery was excluded from the talk; for Alice Nutter, speaking very simply and soberly, formally asked for speech with the Justice; and since neither Margery nor Frank could pretend to any cause for intruding on that, they had to stay outside. Alice was with Roger for a full half-hour, and when she left he went courteously to the gravel to see her mounted. When he returned to his parlour, Margery and Frank were sitting waiting for him, and he did not keep them in suspense.

“I do not see where that woman drives,” he said. “She comes here in the middle of Sunday afternoon--Easter Sunday, if you please!--and she chooses in that time to lay an information.” Roger propped his shoulders in his favoured way, and then stared gloomily at his listeners. “She lays information that there’s been a grand meeting of the witch-coven on Friday last----”

“Good
Friday!” Margery sounded shocked. “And the-witches? But why? And where?”

“She has it all pat and ready set down for me.” He took a paper from the ingle-shelf. “It’s all here. At the Malkin Tower on Good Friday. Meeting began at noon. Dinner of beef, bacon and roasted mutton---which mutton was of a wether of Christopher Swyer’s of Barley, stolen and killed by James Device.”

“James?”

“The moon-kissed Jemmy. It’s all here, even to the names. The Devices, the Bulcocks, the Howgates, one Hewitt called Mouldheels, and a half-score more. Cause for the meeting, to plot the death of Tom Covell and the escape of Old Demdike.”

“Are they mad?” asked Frank, as Roger tossed the paper on the table.

“Very like. But Alice isn’t.”

Margery shook her wits and tried to grapple with this. “How,” she asked, “does Alice Nutter pretend to know so much?”

“She says she went a-riding and chanced to pass that way. She sees folk and a horse or two by the Malkin Tower, so she must needs ride close to see what’s doing. Thus she stumbles on it all, and being of a dutiful disposition she very properly lays it before the next Justice---”

“Two days late?”

“It took her so long to have the truth of it from the Devices. She has an answer to everything.” Margery stared blankly at him. “Is it true?” she asked slowly.

“I’m quite sure it’s true. The woman’s not a fool, and she knows I’ll ask the others. It will turn out to be exactly as she says it is.”

“Then why? Why does she say it?”

“I’d hoped your wits could tell me.”

He began to shred tobacco while she considered that, and she could see that his thoughts were busy.

“Could it be,” she asked slowly, “that Alice was herself, for some purpose, at this meeting, and that she now seeks the sunny side of law by informing?”

“It could well be that. Or it could be that she thinks these women would be better for a hanging. Rope has a way with tongues, and they may know too much.”

“Yes.” Margery nodded agreement. “It could be that.”

“It could even be both things,” said Frank suddenly.

“But what now, sir? Do you commit these women?”

“On the face of it I must. But not at once.”

“Why not, if you please?”

“If Alice schemes that I should, it’s no doubt wiser that I shouldn’t. Also, if I wait there’s hope Tom Covell will have an answer from the Demdike. Meantime----” He turned to Margery. “You may make it your concern to fall in with the Device child---”

“Jennet?” Margery nodded as she understood. “She may know more than a little of this. I’ll indeed seek little Jennet.”

“Not in her home if you please.” He was sharp on that. “But you may ride at large tomorrow and hope to fall in with her.” Then he turned swiftly to Frank. “Will you be pleased to ride to Altham for me tomorrow?”

“Surely, sir. But why?”

“To bear word of this to Nick Banister. He has a shrewd head, and I’d gladly learn what he says to it. We do not hear presentments at Easter, so he’ll not be coming here. Nor do I think it well to leave at this moment, or I’d go myself. So you may ride in my stead, and bring me back what words he speaks.”

There was no argument about that, and Frank rode early in the glow of a sunlit morning. An hour later, Margery took the Forest road, and she roamed at large all day, showing herself where she could; it gave her a pleasant day of sun and wind, but of Jennet she saw nothing. Instead, she had a meeting which she had not sought. She chose to return by way of Barley, on the chance that Jennet might be on that tree-lined road; and as she came to Barley and turned away to take the steep hill to the Newchurch, she saw Miles Nutter cantering briskly down the village street. He had obviously come from Wheathead, and Margery drew rein and waited for him. Together they let their horses plod up the long steep hill, and Margery considered him thoughtfully; then she took him by surprise.

“Miles,” she said suddenly. “Why are you and your father lodged in Goldshaw?”

“Why---” He was plainly in difficulties. “Why, as to that, it’s my uncle Tony. You know he’s been sick---”

“I
do.”
It was short and significant, and plainly it was not lost on Miles.

“Aye,” he said quickly. “And I think we owe you some thanks over that.”

She disposed of that with a nod. Then she waited in an unhelpful silence. Miles struggled at it again.

“We do what we can for him now he mends. He---”

“I’m not a fool, Miles.”

She looked him fairly in the eye, and there was a long silence. Then, as they came to the crest of the hill he suddenly put evasions aside.

“If you must know,” he said, “there were some matters that had a reek--and we liked them not, my father and I.”

“Matters?” A lifted eyebrow pointed the question.

“Say a syllabub, if you wish.”

He said it almost defiantly, and at once Margery took pity on him.

“I’m sorry, Miles. Perhaps I should not have asked. But---”

“You’ve done no hurt by asking. To put it truly, you knew it all before.”

“Perhaps I did.” She was trying to turn the topic now. “But do you stay there long?”

“Like as not--for myself, that is. For my father, he’s out of Pendle. He rode this morning.”

“Miles! But whither?” She was genuinely surprised this time.

“I know not whither, and neither does he. He said only that he’d be happier clear of Pendle till the reek had died.”

“But--but has he left you to face it yourself then?”

“Not so.” Miles was quick on that. “He’d have had me ride with him. But I stay by Grace.”

“Oh! You mean---”

“I stay by Grace.” He said it slowly, and his eyes were steady; and for once Margery dropped hers. “You--you do well, Miles.”

She said it softly, and then she was sunk in silence till they were at the bottom of the hill. Their ways parted here, but as he turned to ride down the Sabden brook, he spoke another word.

“One last thing my father did before he rode--he gave me formal leave for betrothal to Grace, whenever it can be contrived.”

Miles stayed for no answer to that. His beaver was already waving, and before Margery had found a word he had cantered off down the brook towards Goldshaw.

Margery was home at sundown, and she sought Roger with no delay; and while they were yet talking, she still in her riding-clothes, Frank came riding in, and at his side was Nick Banister. Margery went running out, and he gave her his own friendly smile as he said he meant to be at Roger’s side till this had cleared.

“Another head may help,” he told her, “even though it’s old and rusty.”

“None so old, sir,” she retorted, “and very far from rusty, if you please.”

“Ravaged by time,” he insisted. “And addled by Roger’s ale.”

‘That’s enough of squabbling,” said Roger from behind her. “Nick, I’m more than glad to see you, and you shall help us pour libations to Milady Fortune. Our cares shall stand till morning.”

But Roger spoke too soon. For in the last smoking blue of the dusk, at Daylight Gate as Pendle called it, a weary rider urged a wearier horse over the gravel; and being brought to Roger he presented a letter which he had borne from Lancaster, he said, by command of Master Thomas Covell.

Roger dismissed the fellow to the kitchen, broke the seal, and scanned the single sheet.

“Of Demdike,” he announced briefly. He gave himself to the sprawling script until Margery could sit still no longer. Has--has she answered?”

“Perhaps.” Roger looked up soberly. “But not to Tom Covell. She’s dead.”

Roger rode for Lancaster the next morning, with Margery at his side. Tom Covell’s letter had done no more than announce the fact of Demdike’s death, and Roger wanted to know more of it than that; he had, he said, an itching feel on this, and Margery, whose curiosity was certainly not less than his, went with him willingly. Nick Banister stayed at Read with all things under his hand and Frank Hilliard as his lieutenant; they seemed on good terms with each other, and Roger had peace of mind as he and Margery rode away.

They took the whole day over the thirty miles, and before they were through the Trough of Bowland Margery knew why. The steep and stony track, in places so narrow that she had to drop behind Roger, called for a watchful care, even though the sky was blue and the bright sun drew colours from the grass and the streams and the smooth grey rock. But Margery, riding here on this April morning, saw the slant of the straggling windbent trees, and asked herself what this place would be like in the wind and rain of a Winter’s night. But they gained the top at last, and then they were dropping down to a river which Roger called the Wyre; and then up again, and down once more to a lesser stream; and up from this to a stretch of moorland from which they could at last see the river Lune, and grey old Lancaster lying snug against its banks. And here, up on this windy moorland, the road ran past a great triangle of timber--three uprights, and three crossbars from which ropes could hang.