Familiar Spirits (13 page)

Matthew bristled at the criticism but let it pass without rebuttal. Moulsham was at hand, the bottom of High Street. Within minutes the three men would part company.

Walsh joined in with similar counsel. He mentioned the names of several persons who he claimed had personal knowledge of Margaret Waite’s witchcraft.

“The persons you name,” replied Matthew stonily, “I know as well as you, and will consider whatever information they can give. Don’t worry, either of you. I’ll satisfy the magistrate’s expectations.”

“Well, sir,” said Trent as the three men crossed the bridge, “it is not only the magistrate you must satisfy but the town. You saw the mood of the people. They are deathly afraid and beyond patience with this tribe of hellcats and

their familiars. They'll brook no more, believe me. They will not be satisfied unless your inquiries uncover what their fear tells them is fact—that there is more than one witch in Chelmsford and of them Margaret Waite is chief. The serving girl is but a disciple, believe you me. As to what punishment awaits them, the law is clear.”

Though Matthew sought to defend Margaret Waite of what he believed was an unfounded and malicious charge, the aldermen would not be persuaded otherwise but that she was a pernicious woman as these recent events made plain. They also made it clear they thought the less of him for disputing about it. “A fine investigator you will make, Mr. Stock, of this filthy business,” said Trent. The three men stopped in the street. Trent began railing. “What? Does Margaret Waite already have you in thrall? Has she put a spell upon your cow and caused its milk to curdle or its teats to wither? Why else, pray, should you be so vocal in her defense, she who has been visited by a malign spirit, as a dozen honest citizens and more of the town are prepared to testify?”

“Ridiculous! It was Brigit Able at the window, I tell you. I saw her myself,” answered Matthew, growing heated.

The two aldermen regarded him with the implacable countenances of men determined in their convictions and outraged that they should be questioned. “You are a fool, Matthew Stock, and as easily led about as a lamb,” said Trent. “Watch that you are not served up for sacrifice.”

“Would you have me arrest the woman forthwith?” Matthew asked caustically. “Or at least wait upon the magistrate’s warrant? I have been commissioned to investigate. I shall do it, God help me. Let me remind you this is my commission, Mr. Trent, not yours.”

“We well know it is
yours”
said Walsh, “but wish only that you carry it out. There are tests to prove a witch beyond reasonable doubt. Her body may be searched for the Devil’s mark, or she may be dunked, for a witch cursed to scorn the waters of baptism may not sink in the water. God will aid the innocent, if Margaret Waite and her servant be so.” “Shall I then persecute the poor woman that grace may

abound?” asked Matthew, not bothering to hide his contempt for the alderman’s suggestions.

“We ask you to persecute no man, nor woman either,” replied Trent, whose flushed sweating face indicated his own temper was mounting. “We ask only that you do your duty. I hope you don’t suppose that excludes inquiries at the Waite house just because you and the Waites happen to be old friends.”

“I suppose no such thing,” answered Matthew hotly. “But neither do I think my commission a license to undermine the reputation of a family just because some in authority in this town like them not.”

“Just what are you implying, sir?” said Trent, glaring at Matthew. Trent was a big man, nearly six feet in height, with the broad heavy shoulders of a laborer. One of his thick black brows was lifted dangerously.

“I imply nothing,” said Matthew, trying to keep his voice calm and assured in the face of these hostilities. “I do nothing more than answer the questions you put to me. I hope, my masters, that there have been no complaints abroad about my constableship. I am useless in his trust without your confidence and support.”

“There have been no complaints we know of,” said Walsh, apparently mollified by Matthew’s soft answer. He glanced sideways at his colleague and seemed relieved that the larger man appeared ready to give over this quarrel, which by now was beginning to draw the attention of passersby.

“There have been no complaints,” Trent agreed coldly. “See, now, we three are making a public spectacle of ourselves. I have said what I have said, Mr. Stock. A wise man need only once be warned of his duty, or of a peril. Let us be on our way, Mr. Walsh. Good day, Constable.”

“Mr. Trent, Mr. Walsh.”

Matthew watched as the two men proceeded quickly up the street. His heart beat rapidly with his anger and his mind raced with arguments and rebuttals, proofs and stratagems, so that there was no help in the sharp autumn air, in the familiar street, or in the thought that he would soon be at his

own house and hearth. There was only frustration and determination. He knew what he had seen, and he would be damned if he would let any alderman, parson, or magistrate—if it came to that—tell him otherwise. Nor would he allow himself to become the instrument of another man’s personal vengeance just because the present atmosphere of fear and danger gave occasion for it.

On his way home he stopped at the Waites’. He was relieved to find all as he had assured the magistrate it was, calm and ordinary. Arthur was still at his station. The young man looked very bored.

“Calm, is it, Arthur?”

“The usual comings and goings, Mr. Stock. Your wife paid a call on the glover’s widow.”

“Did she?”

“About four o’clock it was, sir.”

“Is she still within?”

“No, sir. She’s gone home now.”

“Very good, Arthur. I suppose you’ll want your supper too?”

“Yes, Mr. Stock.” Arthur rubbed his right elbow and winced, as though an ague had settled there.

“Some trouble with your arm?” asked Matthew.

“It’s been bothering me all afternoon,” Arthur said. He cast a worried look at the house. “You know, sir, I was thinking about the glover’s house and what has transpired there. Mr. Waite’s death, I mean, then Ursula Tusser having lived right next door. They say a witch can curse a body and make the limbs shrivel up like a prune.”

“That’s what they say.”

“My arm never hurt till now, sir,” said Arthur,

“Maybe it’s the cold weather,” suggested Matthew.

Arthur shook his head doubtfully. Matthew patted him on the shoulder and told him not to worry. But the idea had wormed itself into the young man’s brain and would not be dislodged by easy assurances. He had been on duty since noon and had heard all the stories, twice over. He wanted to know what the constable made of them. The whole town

knew what had happened. Wasn’t he in personal danger standing there outside the house the half day, exposed to evil eyes and God knew what spells from within? “They say she’s a witch,” Arthur whispered.

“Who?”

“Mother Waite.”

So it was
Mother Waite
now. Not Mrs. Waite or Dame Margaret or any other name suited to her place as a freeholder’s wife of a respected Chelmsford family.

“Only now you thought of these things?” asked Matthew.

“Oh, sir, I have thought of them since hearing that I was to stand here.”

“Well, I am heartily sorry for your arm’s discomfort, Arthur, but, as I say, I think it will be right as rain soon enough.” Matthew told his deputy to go home to his supper, and advised him that his services might be needed on the next day at Malcolm Waite’s funeral.

A worried look crossed Arthur’s face. “The funeral?”

“Malcolm Waite’s funeral, lad. A piece of churchyard fits every body.”

Arthur cast an anxious look at his arm, which did not seem to hang as straight as before. “Yes, sir,” he said without enthusiasm.

“And, Arthur ...”

“Yes, sir?”

“Your arm will mend in God’s time. Don’t worry. Say your prayers when you get home and have a good supper. A full stomach and an easy conscience will set the worst fears to flight.”

“Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Arthur.”

Matthew watched him as he walked down the street. Arthur moved slowly in the fading light, as a man does when the activity of the mind robs the legs of their strength and one foot shuffles before another out of mere habit. While he walked, his good arm held the other protectively.

•
NINE
•

Matthew
looked for his wife and found her at length in the garden, where she was watching the last glow of day far in the west under the mass of ragged, smoky clouds. He greeted her and asked if she was not cold standing there. She seemed to be meditating something. She returned his kiss but in a distracted way; her mind was elsewhere.

‘Tm not cold,” she said. “The kitchen was like a furnace. Betty has held supper. A shoulder of mutton.”

“Arthur Wilts told me you had visited Margaret Waite.” “I did. A disturbing visit in every way.”

“How so?”

Joan held nothing back, not even the alarm she had felt in the barn loft.

“You’re sure it wasn’t Brigit or Susan—or perhaps John, the nephew?”

“Susan was in the house, except when I saw her journey out to the privy. My oath upon it that she was never in the barn. When I returned to the house, Brigit was still out with the nephew at the tailor. No, I don’t think it was John.” “The mare stirring . . . perhaps the cat you saw . . . Strange how it regarded you,” he murmured, visualizing the scene.

“No,” she said positively. “It was neither cat nor horse.” “I’m quite at a loss then,” he admitted. “But they were just whispers—human voices—and footsteps and a creak and a thud, you said.”

“The strangest feeling of dread came over me while I was in the loft, a horrid place. I found this wicked thing.”

“What wicked thing?

She described the image, its grotesque parody of the human form.

“A wicked thing indeed,” said Matthew, “but it was not that alone that frightened you, nor the whispers and noises.”

“No, it was not those. It was a
presence
... a
presence
of something not of this world.”

“A ghost?” he asked lightly.

But she was entirely serious. She looked at him reproachfully, with an expression that suggested her disappointment. As though to say, “I thought you would understand, but you do not.”

He recognized her seriousness. It fell like a pall on them both as they walked back to the house and entered the kitchen. Betty was standing at the hearth. Joan told her to serve the supper. Husband and wife sat down at the table and waited before speaking again until the food had been served, Matthew had carved, and Betty was excused to other labors.

Joan broke their long silence with a question about his afternoon. Where had he gone?

“To the manor. I and Trent and Walsh and the parson.”

“The aldermen?”

“To report to the magistrate. About the gathering in front of the Waites’ this morning.” He told her about the meeting and the walk home, how the two men had pressured him regarding Margaret Waite.

“A fine pair of birds,” she said scornfully. “A pox on them. No wonder they spoke against Margaret. A fox will prove no harmless dog if it does take a dozen years. Trent is out to settle an old score against her husband. Him dead, the widow must serve.”

“What old score?”

“Don’t you remember? It’s been some twenty years. Malcolm Waite served his time as town searcher, in the course of which duties he brought our good butcher, now alderman, to account for his tossing of bones and other filth in the river, a

thing expressly prohibited by law. His transgression cost the butcher three shillings and some odd pence.”

“A paltry sum,” snorted Matthew. “I had forgotten the story, if I ever knew of it. But who would nurture a grudge like that for twenty years?”

“Peter Trent, our most revered alderman, that’s who. The butcher has never forgot the incident. I myself heard his wife speak of it and claim the charge was all trumped up out of Malcolm Waite’s envy. Now Trent bullies the widow. I’ll wager it was Trent who was the most obnoxious on the way. Walsh is made of water compared to his fellow.”

“It was Trent for a fact.”

“He made threats, didn’t he? He’s a bully.”

“I wouldn’t call them threats,” said Matthew.

“Not threats?” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing dangerously. “Why, husband, what else would it be called?” “Strong admonishment,” he said, pursing his lips to indicate he agreed it was something more.

“Marry, husband, well may you make such an antic face when you speak nonsense. Of course it was a threat. These are aldermen your plain honest dutifulness has offended, no mere town tipplers or errant knaves. Their displeasure might well be your undoing. Yet I like not their boldness. I would fain know where good Alderman Trent feels free to speak for me and the rest of the town. If I want the Waites persecuted for witchcraft or other high crimes and misdemeanors, I will tell him so myself and am not about to have such a clodpole upstart alderman as he is, who cannot rule his own house and lets that wastrel son of his haunt every alehouse in Moulsham until I know not what hour and—”