Mist Over Pendle (48 page)

“Yes. The fact is--I’m sorry for it, but the child’s bitter. You may guess what treatment she has ever had from that mother.”

“I can. Is she then coming here--tonight?”

“Yes. I’ve told her she may come down--for just ten minutes. It may be worth it.”

It was, though Jennet took a full twenty minutes before she had done. She spoke in the main of the doings at the Malkin Tower on Good Friday, and her tale bore out all that Alice Nutter had told to Roger; but Jennet chattered on, and soon she came to a detail that Alice had
not
told to Roger. Jennet named all she had known of her mother’s guests that day, and the names were those that Alice had given--with one more added. There was a woman, said Jennet, who had come out of Craven, a woman who had been to the Malkin Tower before, and whose name was Jennet Preston.

“Was it so?” Frank leaned forward suddenly, and there was a gleam in his eyes; but he recovered, and then he sat back, silent and interested, while Jennet went on with her tale. Jennet needed little prompting, and soon she was telling of this woman coming from Craven and bawling threats against Master Lister of Westby and Master Heber of Marton--until, to the general consternation, Alice Nutter had arrived. The company had then been at dinner, but Alice had peremptorily called two of them out--this Jennet Preston and little Jennet’s own mother. They had stayed out in the sunlight for a full quarter-hour in talk with Alice Nutter; then they had come in again, tight-lipped and silent, and Alice had been heard riding quickly away.

That seemed to be all that Jennet knew, and Anne Sowerbutts was called to give her hot milk and put her to bed again. Then Margery had a word for Frank.

“Jennet Preston,” she said quietly. “Who swills Tom Lister’s dairy and gives some hand in his house. Is not that the woman?”

“It is.” Frank spoke quickly in answer. “A woman who was in Pendle at Christmas, and rode back to Tom Lister with a hurtful tale of you. But two weeks back, when they were swimming your witch here in Pendle, I was at Westby, as you well know. And that Sunday Tom Lister told me some more of this woman---”

“Did he? You never told me of it.”

“When I was back here, I listened--to you. And then I forgot this tale---”

“What
was
this tale?”

Roger had intervened firmly, and Frank responded at once; he turned to Roger and spoke soberly.

“This Preston,” he said, “a little after Christmas, fell foul of one Dodgson, being a yeoman hard by Westby. There was some quarrel about I know not what, and Dodgson forbade the woman his land. And in no long time after that, a child of this Dodgson took sick and died--something suddenly, as it was thought. Whereat Dodgson made all haste to the next J.P. and swore witchcraft against this woman.”

“The next J.P.? Meaning whom?”

“Your son-in-law, sir--Tom Heber. Who committed her to Assize at York. From whence she’s newly returned--acquitted of this charge, and mighty hot against the Justice who committed her and against Tom Lister, who, she says, urged him to it.”

“So?” Nick Banister nodded thoughtfully. “That tells us why the woman was bawling against Lister and Heber. But does it help us find this Lizzie?”

“It does not,” said Roger firmly. “And that’s the core of it. We cannot commit Alice Nutter on the word of a child of nine. We must have this Lizzie and her moon-kissed son. And whither did they go?”

“Just so.” Nick nodded again. “The child said towards the river---”

“Which might mean Colne. But does it?”

“By your leave, sir, it does not.” Frank was speaking urgently again. “By your leave, I do think that this Preston woman, like your Lizzie here, had her orders from Alice Nutter.”

“Very like. And what were those orders?”

“To make all ready to receive and comfort Squinting Lizzie. And no doubt her son as well.’’

“God’s Grace!” Roger sat stiffly as he thought of it. “Nick, what say you to that?”

“Shrewd, Roger--uncommon shrewd. And it may well -be true.”

“Aye. It could be. At Gisburn, hey?”

“A fitting hide, Roger. It’s out of the County, where your Warrant does not run--nor mine.”

“Tom Heber’s does.” Roger spoke grimly as he rounded on Frank. “This is your hare, and you shall have the coursing of it. You may ride at dawn.”

“To command, sir.”

“We’ll warn Hargreaves tonight, and he may ride with you.

Arrests, when all is said, are for the Constable. Then to Tom Heber, and persuade him along with you--telling what tale you please. Lister will guide you to where the woman is, and you may see if she has the Devices in hide. Is there more?”

He glanced inquiringly at Nick Banister, and in a moment Nick nodded.

“If the Devices are there,” he said, “you may tell Tom Heber he may draw a Mittimus on his own account--for the Preston woman. This will hang more than Squinting Lizzie.”

Margery did not hear Frank ride in the dawn. She was too deeply sunk in sleep to hear anything at that hour; but when she did wake the sun was gleaming through her curtains, and it tempted her to pull them back. The hour was young and the sun was yet low, and Margery lay back contentedly; and then, while she still lingered, she heard a horse come clopping on the gravel. Curiosity strove with languor, and won. She slipped out of bed and pushed her window open, and at once, as she remembered the proprieties, she hastily withdrew her head; for the rider of that horse was Richard Baldwin.

Languor dropped from her. Richard would not be here at this hour without cause, and Margery wanted to know what it was. She sought clothes and hurriedly got herself to some sort of decency, and then she took the stair at a half-run. For once she was ahead of Roger, and when he appeared, half dressed and wrapped in his furred gown, she had already got Richard into the parlour and was hospitably pouring his ale.

“Pour for me also,” said Roger. “What news, Richard?”

“James Device,” said Richard briefly.

“The moon-kissed?”

“That one.” Richard drained his ale and looked at them exultantly. “The lord ordereth a good man’s going and maketh his way acceptable to himself. Yesterday I rode to Colne to have speech with my brother there. And as the sun grew low and I came from my brother’s house, there was a bellowing in the street like a cow that seeks her calf. Whereat, knowing that voice, I turned aside and laid hands on him---”

“Jemmy?”

“None other. Shaking the peace of the afternoon with his moon-calf bawlings.”

“Most happily met.” Roger caught Margery’s eye. “It may be Milady Fortune’s smile.”

“Speak not of the heathen.” Richard was stern and exultant. “The Lord is known to execute judgment; the ungodly is trapped in the work of his own hands.”

“To be sure, Richard.” Roger spoke soothingly, and Margery was in haste to refill Richard’s mug. She thought it might distract him, and she had no taste for Psalms at this hour of the morning.

“And what followed?” asked Roger.

“He journeyed home with me.”

“Willingly?”

“He journeyed. And I’ve two lads now walking him here.”

“It’s very well. You’ll breakfast with us, Richard?”

“I have eaten---”

“Then you’ll eat again.”

They brought Jemmy Device into the Justice Room and stood him before the table. Behind the table Roger and Nick Banister sat in dignity. Margery sat at its end, thoughtfully cutting a quill. Richard sat aside, a watchful spectator.

Roger made no prelude.

“What did you do in Colne?” he asked frostily. Jemmy’s eyes went blinking, and his head rolled on his long neck.

“Hadn’t no meat,” he croaked.

It seemed to be his way of saying that he had been begging, and Roger accepted it. His shrewd eyes considered the fellow coldly.

“Where is your mother?”

The idiot face twitched violently and a sullen malice flickered in it. For a moment he stood with his tongue protruding; then he burst into speech, quick, indignant, and all but incoherent. Roger sat patiently, and slowly he pieced it together. On Tuesday morning, Elizabeth Device had first sent Jennet to Whalley, and had then told Jemmy he was to go on a journey with her. They had started as soon as Jennet was out of sight, and had tramped to Colne. Then, as they had no food, they had parted; each was to beg for an hour, and then they were to meet in the market place. Jemmy had done his part, and had duly sought his mother in the market place; but he had not seen her there; he had, in fact, not seen her anywhere, either then or later, and he had been roaming at large ever since, eating what scraps he could beg, and sleeping in what alleys he could find. He had been into every quarter of Colne, but there had been neither sign nor trace of Squinting Lizzie; and the hungry Jemmy was both dazed and bewildered.

Roger accepted the tale without much difficulty. This feeble creature had hardly wit enough to have invented it, and it was, moreover, all of a piece with what was known of Squinting Lizzie; she had certainly abandoned Jennet without scruple, and if she was in flight she must have had at least as great a motive for getting rid of Jemmy. Roger nodded thoughtfully, and turned to another topic.

“Why did you leave your home?” he asked.

Again the gaunt head rolled, and suddenly the idiot laugh came pealing out. It quenched abruptly as Tom Peyton’s fist jabbed his ribs, and for a moment Jemmy gasped.

“Cats,” he said suddenly, and Margery sat up in surprise.

“What cats?” Roger’s voice was expressionless.

“Daylight Gate.” Jemmy leaned forward, blinking. “Came home a month back at Daylight Gate, and there were hundreds of ‘em, all yelling foul---”

“Where?”

“By home it was, and children shrieking too---”

“And what of it?”

“I was feared. And one come in, and lay on me an hour.”

“And you were feared of it?”

“I was an’ all.”

“It comes of images in clay. Did you know that?”

“Im . . . im. . . .” The fellow gawked, and Richard Baldwin leaned forward in his chair.

“Pictures,” he said to Jemmy, and the twitching face cleared as though that was a word he knew.

“Pictures,” he repeated stupidly. “Aye, pictures.”

“Pictures in clay,” said Roger softly. “Pictures of men and women--wrought in clay. You have some in your house, have you not?”

“No. . . . No. . . .” Jemmy was shouting, and Margery watched him keenly. The question had pricked too close for him to bear it. His excitement made that plain, but he stuck to his denial, and Roger turned abruptly to the other thing.

“What of dead men’s teeth?” he asked suddenly.

“Teeth? Ha! Ha! Ha!” The laugh was coming again, but Tom Peyton’s gesture checked it, and Jemmy stood silent, twitching and rolling.

“Do you keep teeth?” Roger asked again.

“Aye, aye. Got my own,” was the answer, and his mouth popped open to show the truth of it.

Again Roger changed his attack abruptly.

“Who’s Jennet Preston?” he asked quietly.

The head shook wildly in denial.

“She came out of Craven,” said Roger coldly. “On Good Friday she dined at your mother’s house on stolen mutton. Do you remember?”

The head shook again, but this time without excitement, and Margery wondered if the denial might not be sincere. Jemmy, after all, might not know Jennet Preston by name.

“Who was at your mother’s house that day?”

The question came firmly, and while his loose mind was still groping. It seemed to slip through what caution he had.

“All of ‘em,” was his thoughtless answer.

“All of whom?”

Jemmy’s mouth shut viciously, as if he realized what he had said. Again his eyes began to roll round the room while his breath came noisily.

“Who was there?”

The question rang steadily, and Jemmy, suddenly meeting Roger’s eyes, found something there that held him. “Friends,” he said sullenly.

Roger nodded.

“Is Alice Nutter a friend of yours?”

Jemmy lurched into Tom Peyton and stood quivering. But Margery spared little heed for him. She had seen Richard Baldwin start at the name, and come half to his feet; he was sitting again now, but Margery knew the thin-lipped hardness that had come upon him. Richard, she remembered, had not heard young Jennet’s tale. And Roger, as she now noticed, had also a wary eye on Richard as he persisted with his question.

“Was Alice Nutter at your mother’s house on Good Friday?”

Tom Peyton jerked Jemmy upright and spun him round to face Roger. Fear-was plain on his twitching face, and a trickle of saliva was running down his chin.

“Was she?”

Roger had lifted his voice for the first time, and at the crack of the question Jemmy recoiled as if he had been hit. Tom Peyton heaved him back stolidly.

“Was she?”

Nick Banister echoed the question, and the cold crackle of his voice matched Roger’s. Jemmy’s resistance collapsed. He nodded wildly, and began to gesticulate. Then, of a sudden, his wild whooping laugh came again, and when Tom Peyton jabbed him he sagged forward hopelessly. Roger looked with distaste. “Take him away.”

His icy order was obeyed with swift efficiency. The door shut behind the struggling Jemmy, and they heard his idiot bray come faintly through the oak.

“He’s a pretty sight,” said Roger.

“Aye.” Nick Banister nodded. “You did well not to press him further now. He’ll have more to say when he’s cooled. Meantime, there’s not a doubt he stands in fear of your Alice.”

“Alice? Aye, Alice.” Roger turned slowly. “Richard, there’s a tale here for you to know. A tale of Good Friday and the Malkin Tower--and Alice Nutter.”

“The Malkin Tower? In God’s name---”

The western sky was a reddening gold when Richard Baldwin at last took his leave and rode away. He went tight-lipped and grim, and in his leave-taking he recited some verses from the fifty-third Psalm. He had heard the whole tale, and he had characteristically found the heart of it in the meeting at the Malkin Tower. To have consorted with known witches in such a place and on such a day would have damned a better than Alice Nutter in the eyes of puritan Richard; and if Alice Nutter was therefore a witch, all else fell in fine; she was one among the brood, and that was enough. Had he not always seen witchcraft in the death of his Margaret? And what matter how the work was wrought? Spells or poisons--what did it signify? It was still witchcraft, and now at last he was justified of the Lord. He said it grimly, and he found none to say him nay in it.