Mist Over Pendle (49 page)

The last of the dusk was gone and the candles were bright behind the curtains before Frank came in, haggard, dusty and boisterous.

“We have her,” was his brief announcement. “Safe taken and secured. But Jemmy--no. Not a sight of the rogue.”

“Jemmy’s here,” said Roger briefly. “Where’s Lizzie?”

“Up the Forest, sir, in the house of one James Wilsey.”

“Wilsey? How that, if you please?”

“We walked the woman back, sir. Hargreaves had taken no horse for her. He said a walk would cool her impudence--and so it did. I’ll say it for Hargreaves that he knew what he was about. He had her wrists fast to his saddle, and he made her trot as much as walk.

“Can she trot?”

“When you, warm her back parts. But she’s something wearied now---”

“But not impudent?”

“Not impudent. But we judged it well to spare her the last few miles, and since this Wilsey lives conveniently at the top of the Forest, we lodged her with him. Hargreaves said Wilsey was your last Constable, and would know what was needed.”

“He knows.” Roger nodded with satisfaction. “That’s well done, and we’ll see her at Wilsey’s--early.”

They rode while the sun was low, Tom Peyton going first with Jemmy in his charge, and Frank riding swiftly and alone to summon Richard Baldwin. Margery rode with Roger and Nick Banister, and her saddlebags held paper and quills and an ink-horn. Jim Wilsey, untidy as ever, gave them a grinning welcome.

“Glad to see you, sir,” he said briskly. “She’s safe and ready. Peyton’s brought the lack-wit, and Hargreaves has been here these two hours.”

“Good. And Baldwin?”

“Hell! Is
he
coming, sir?”

Roger laughed.

“Aye, he’s coming, Jim. But he’ll be no plague this day. There’s a warmth come upon our Richard.”

“Lord of Mercy! But come you in--all.”

There was proud welcome from Mistress Wilsey, high of heart at having two Esquires in her house together, and anxious to prove the worth of her October; and a few minutes more brought the jingle of horses as Frank came cantering in with Richard Baldwin at his side. Then the Wilseys’ trim parlour took the semblance of a Justice Room as the table was moved and chairs were set. Roger took the centre, with Nick at his side. Margery took the end of the table, laid out her paper, opened the inkhorn, and took knife to a goose quill. Then all was ready.

“Which first, sir?” asked Tom Peyton.

“Jemmy.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

By the time Margery had her pen trimmed to her liking Jemmy had been set before the table, and she looked at him with surprise and a touch of pity. Something had worked powerfully on Jemmy Device, and such poor strength as he had once had was now quite gone from him. He was sagging limply, and Tom Peyton’s arm had to support him; his head was lolling, and only the whites of his eyes could be seen.

“So you bury teeth at your house?”

Roger’s crackling tone showed that he meant to make an end. Jemmy twitched and rolled, and Margery had to remind herself that pity for him must not be overtly shown. Jemmy was an unsavoury thing, but the fates of some she cherished might hang upon his words this day.

His head was nodding feebly, and Roger evidently took this for assent.

“Whence came those teeth?”

Jemmy twitched and muttered something about the Newchurch. Across the room a chair creaked where Richard Baldwin sat, and Roger took one fleeting glance at him and hurried on.

“And pictures wrought in clay--whose pictures?”

Jemmy gaped as the question cracked, and then he became incoherent. Roger stopped him and made him start again, and slowly his meaning was made out; some of the pictures had been of Anne Nutter, and some of a certain Robinson. At once Roger was pressing him on that, and soon Jemmy had said that he meant John Robinson, a kinsman of Kit Swyer of Barley. Roger turned to Richard Baldwin.

“The man’s dead, is he not?”

“Aye, three years agone. But he was mostly called Swyer.”

Roger nodded and turned on Jemmy again; and in two sharp questions he had it from him that Squinting Lizzie had herself made, and crumbled, these images of the departed Robinson.

“Set that down,” said Roger grimly, and Margery put it down in detail; clearly it promised to be useful.

“What pictures did
you
make?”

Roger was inexorable, and Jemmy was far beyond resistance. In another minute he had admitted to making an image of Mistress Towneley of Carre.

“Who died twelve months agone,” said Roger. “Set that down also.”

He waited till her pen had finished scratching. Then, coldly and at his ease, he surveyed the twitching saliva-dubbed face before him.

“So you
did
have Jennet Preston at your house on Good Friday?”

His tone had relaxed a little, and Margery stole a glance quick at his face; something of pity, she thought, was blended with its stern authority now. Jemmy was nodding weakly, and at once Roger was pressing him further.

“Did she go outside during dinner?”

Another nod gave assent to that. Soon Jemmy had confirmed all that little Jennet had said; his mother had been called from dinner to speak with Alice Nutter on the grass outside; but more than that, Jemmy did not know. He called Alice Nutter an evil woman, and he was plainly in fear of her; but of facts he had none.

“Take him away,” said Roger at length, and turned thoughtfully to Nick Banister. “You see how it is? Fingers, fingers and fingers, and they all point to Alice. But of facts there’s never a one. Do we commit this Jemmy?”

“We must. He’s admitted to making images of Anne Towneley, and they’ll call that murder since she died thereafter.”

“Aye. And at the least he meant it so. Make it out so.”

Margery busied herself in doing it. She was getting used to drawing a Mittimus now, and she had the forms by heart. She wrote it quickly, and in silence the two Justices signed.

“Elizabeth Device,” said Roger curtly, and Tom Peyton hurried out. Margery smoothed fresh paper and began the cutting of a new pen.

“Squinting Lizzie!” called Tom Peyton cheerfully, and a sullen scowling woman was hustled in.

She limped to the table and glared at them with one eye while the other rolled its white to the ceiling. But Squinting Lizzie was not the woman she had been. Her walk from Trawden had tamed her, and she had no longer the force that commonly gave sting to her insolence.

Roger’s hostile stare seemed to disconcert her, and for once she fidgeted and looked uneasy.

“It’s sworn against you that you did murder one John Robinson, at times called Swyer.” Roger’s voice rang coldly. “What do you say to it?”

Elizabeth Device said nothing to it. She stood in a sullen silence, and Roger turned to Margery.

“Read what her son has set against her.”

Margery sorted her papers, found the one she needed, and read from it in dry and formal tones.

“And the next day this Examinate saw his said mother take clay at the west end of her said house, and make a Picture of it after the said Robinson, and she brought it into her house, and dried it some two days; and about two days after the drying thereof, this Examinate’s said mother fell on crumbling the said Picture of clay, every day some, for some three weeks together; and within two days after it was all crumbled or mulled away, the said John Robinson died.”

Margery’s clear voice stopped, and the woman by the table puckered her face in anger.

“Loose-tongued bastard,” she muttered savagely.

“Since he’s your son, we’ll suppose you to know---”

Her eyes rolled in a streak of white.

“Him!” Her contempt for Jemmy was scorching. “Who speaks of him?”

“Who else?”

“Jack Swyer it is, and he’s in Hell for it.”

“For what?”

“Called me a ditching whore, he did. And him no better than---”

“Why did he call you that?” Roger spoke coldly as she grew heated.

“Because of Jack Seller, and he was a better man than---”

“Enough. We’ll spare your amours. Swyer called you whore, did he? So you wrought him in clay and he died. Is that it?”

“I was meet with him for it.”

“Meaning that you did. Quiet---” He turned again to Margery. “Set that down.”

Again she plied her pen, well knowing that what she wrote would hang this woman. But there was no help for that. And Pendle, she thought, could well spare Squinting Lizzie. Then Roger was at it again.

“You’d guests at your house on Good Friday--feasting while others fasted. And you plotted to kill Master Thomas Covell? Is it so?”

“No.” She was sullen, but the word was clear, and she stuck to it against all Roger’s pressure. She admitted the meeting, but she denied the plot. Squinting Lizzie might have lost her impudence, but she was far from pliable, and Roger again changed direction abruptly.

“What of Master Lister of Westby? There was talk of killing him?”

“Not me.”

“Who then?”

“The Preston bitch.”

“She spoke of it, did she? To whom?”

“She bawled it like a crier.”

“To all and sundry? I see. But who was it who spoke with her apart?”

A malignant shadow crept over the scowling face. But no answer came. Then Roger’s hand slapped on the table, and the woman jumped nervously. “Who was it?”

The blaze of anger in his voice was too much for her shaken courage, and suddenly she answered him.

“Alice Nutter.”

She almost spat it out, and there was malice mingled with her compliance. But Roger was impassive again, and at once he was pressing her for details. He had it from her that she, too, had talked apart with Alice Nutter and Jennet Preston, but that was all. Lizzie had recovered her courage, and she was as stubborn as Roger. She stoutly denied all intent to harm her mother, and swore that she had thought the apple tart to be sweet and good. Alice, she said, had chatted to her and Jennet Preston only about the trouble Jennet had been in at the York Assizes; and it was only because of that, said Lizzie, that she had gone to Gisburn to give talk and comfort to the woman. She had almost a leer as she said it, but she stuck stoutly to it till Roger’s patience was out.

“It’s enough,” he said at last. “Take her away.” He pushed his chair back and stretched his long legs as she was hurried out. There was a general stir. Wilsey was pouring ale, and Richard Baldwin had moved to join the Justices. Hargreaves went to join them while Margery busied herself with drafting the inevitable Mittimus.

“Are we any nearer, Nick?” Roger spoke doubtfully.

“No,” came the prompt answer. “They’ll hang Jemmy over Anne Towneley, and Lizzie over this Robinson. But in what might touch Alice Nutter we are no inch nearer.”

“Could they have told no more?” It was Richard Baldwin, and he spoke angrily.

“They’ve spoken enough to hang themselves. Can we ask more? Which sets me in mind, we’ll need a Mittimus for her.”

In silence Margery passed it across, and in the same silence Roger signed it. Nick Banister took the pen; and as he ended his signature there was a clatter of hooves outside and his eyes turned quickly to the window as a slim rider swung from a lathered horse. Then the door swung open, and with neither manners nor ceremony Miles Nutter burst into the room.

“What the Devil!” said Roger, and Miles halted abashed. Richard was the first to find speech.

“What is it, lad?” he asked anxiously. “Is aught amiss?”

“Aye--or it may be.” Miles halted again, tongue-tied, and remembering perhaps his forgotten manners. Jim Wilsey pushed him into a chair.

“Sit you down,” he said gruffly. “A sup of ale’s what you need.”

Roger nodded permission, and Miles drank thirstily. Then he came to it.

“It’s my mother,” he said briefly. “She came to me at Wheathead--at the mill, where I then was.”

“What’s that?” Richard Baldwin sounded startled.

“She came to the mill,” repeated Miles patiently. “She—she said---” He stopped, and Margery felt sharp sorrow for him; the tale he was trying to tell was, after all, of his mother. But he drew himself up and plunged at it. “She told me I’d be wise to leave my uncle’s house and return home directly. Else, she said, it might appear I’d--I’d had some hand in what ailed my Uncle Tony.”

“What’s that?” Roger’s voice came softly in the stunned silence of the room.

“Aye--and there’s worse.” His voice cracked as he stumbled for words. “She said it was my father who put juice of herbs---”

He stopped again, and licked at dry lips. Nick Banister went quietly to him, and his hand was on Miles’ shoulder as he spoke.

“It’s a foul tale, lad,” he said quietly. “But you may take heart. You may count us your friends here. There’s nothing lies against you or your father. I’ll warrant that from all of us.”

There was a murmur of assent in the room, and then Roger’s voice came steadily.

“By what reasoning was so much fastened on your father?”

Miles turned to face him. He seemed to have found new courage, and his voice was steady as he explained it.

“There was venom in a syllabub, and I carried it to my uncle the day he was most stricken. But--but it’s true my father handled it first.”

“Handled it? How?” Roger spoke very quietly.

“It was a Sunday. My mother rode to the church at Whalley, and she was the first to go. Then my father rode for the Newchurch, but it was he, before he went, who handed the syllabub to me.”

“But your mother had first handed it to him?”

“That she now denies.”

“The Devil she does!” said Roger. “So your father handled this, and is now ridden out of Pendle?”

“Aye--as she said.”

“Aye aye.” Roger nodded. “I think we have it plain.”

He sank into silence; and Margery, looking at Miles, went suddenly to his side and pressed his hand in her own. Frank came to his other side.

“Count me your friend at need,” he said simply.

Miles looked from the one to the other in mute gratitude; and then, surprisingly, Richard Baldwin spoke softly.

“Get you back to Wheathead, lad. There’s matter here to hurt Grace as well as you. Go comfort her.”

Roger, brooding by the window, turned quickly.