Mist Over Pendle (47 page)

“It’s new,” said Roger grimly. “And Tom Covell’s mighty proud of it. Takes six at a time.”

Margery looked at the thing and had a quick, unhappy thought of Alizon. Then she looked away, and she said no more till they were safely into Lancaster.

The
George
made them welcome, and Edmund Covell, portly, rubicund, and with a professional suavity which his brother lacked, came in person to inquire their needs and see to their comforts. Edmund, said Roger in his most sardonic tone, knew to a nicety the rent-roll of every gentleman in the County, and saw to it that each had a welcome that exactly matched his worth. So they supped amply and in comfort; and then, fortified by that, they went out together into the darkening streets and sought the great stone cross that stood before Tom Covell’s house by the church.

He greeted them noisily, and he plied them with wine by his warm fireside. Himself, he stood by his hearth with his feet planted apart and his gown swaying--just as his rain-splashed cloak had done at Marton, so long ago on a Christmas Eve. His face was as red and his laugh as rich as he looked down now at his seated guests.

“Aye,” he said jovially, “the beldame’s gone. That was on Sunday afternoon, and none thought to tell me of it till Monday morning.” He grinned happily at them. “I hope you could read what I sent you. I couldn’t. It’s ill work cutting quills on a Monday morning, with the sabbath ale still swilling in your guts.”

Margery spluttered, and her wine splashed on her kirtle. Roger laughed openly.

“Aye,” he said. “I read it--in the end. But what took this Demdike? Your fever?”

“My
fever?” There was mock indignation in the jovial voice.

“Say the gaol fever if you wish.”

“What a plague has you? You chatter as though there was naught but fever that empties gaols.”

“Your pardon, Master Gaoler.” Roger’s bantering tone fairly matched his. “How is it then in yours?”

“Indifferent well. We’ve changed our ways these last years. Now, with clean straw every quarter, and thyme and rosemary fresh each year, a gaol’s not what it was. These days there’s scarce one in three dies of the fever.”

“Then what do the rest die of?”

“Rope, mostly. Did you mark our new timberwork?”

“We did. But touching this Demdike--what took her?”

“Who’s to say? It was not the fever. From what I’m told, she--she wilted, and was gone.”

“Wilted?”

“Like a salted slug. Shrivelled within herself, and with that was gone. And so she looked when they showed her to me.”

“Did she so?” Roger was growing thoughtful. “Had you seen any before that looked so?”

“None that I call to mind. Those others you sent here say the Devil whistled her soul.”

“Very like.” Roger looked across at Margery, and she saw that his thought was matching hers. Then he turned back to Tom Covell. “Can I see her tomorrow?”

“You’ll need a spade.”

“So soon?”

The big man grinned happily.

“It was that or salting. Not a keeping carcase, that one. And it’s April.”

“Aye. But---”

“I’ve asked the questions for you.”

Margery sat up sharply, for Tom Covell’s voice had wholly changed. It was quiet, and it had lost every trace of banter; and Margery, looking with surprise, saw that the whole man had changed. He was looking steadily at Roger with eyes that were suddenly very bright and shrewd; and his voice was grave when he spoke again.

“In the common run I’d have plagued none with questions on this,” he said. “All being said, your Demdike had some four score years, and such as she don’t last long in any gaol. But I had your message. And if it was of moment to you that she should talk, it must be of moment to some other that she should not.”

“Exactly so. And I could guess a name. But you’ve learnt something?”

“It might be so. Though what it means---” The big shoulders shrugged. “But on Sunday afternoon she was visited---”

“Visited? When it’s witchcraft and murder?”

“All men must live. And an honest turnkey’s not yet born---”

“Bribes, do you mean? Your turnkeys---”

“Are like others. They have itching palms. And a silver crown will loose most locks on a Sunday.”

“Why on a Sunday?”

“They know I’m with my wife. And so it was this Sunday. But Monday, when I’d heard of it, I first sent word to you-, and then I called for certain of my rabble. They did not bluster long---“

There was nothing jovial in the Tom Covell who said that, and Roger was smiling grimly.

“And they told you?”

“In short, this: there was a woman came out of Pendle, and desired to see your Demdike. Who she was, you may perhaps guess. My rogues, who’ve wits like addled eggs, say she’d the evil eye--a black-visaged slut with a rolling squint and a screech like a moonlit cat.”

“Squinting Lizzie,” said Roger promptly, and Margery nodded agreement. It could be no other.

“And who might she be?” asked Tom Covell.

“Demdike’s daughter.”

“Very like. That’s what my beauties thought. And she brought, it seems, some comforts for her mother. Small things--but there was an apple tart.”

“What?”

Margery had interrupted quickly, and both men turned to her in surprise; she saw that she must give some explanation.

“It’s a family weakness,” she said. “Young Jennet dotes on apple tart, and she once told me her grandmother had a greed for it too.”

“That’s justly said, by what I’m told,” said Covell. “For it seems the old dame guzzled the whole tart in a couple of minutes. And in another hour she was dead.”

“In an hour, was it?” Roger spoke thoughtfully. “And how did Lizzie take that?”

“Lizzie wasn’t there. She stayed but a few minutes, it seems, and then she was at horse while the Demdike still picked her teeth.”

“Horse? I did not know our Lizzie had a horse.”

“She had one on Sunday--a likely foal, they tell me.”

“I’ll remember that. Meantime, I’m in your debt once more. You’re supposing there was some poison in this tart?”

Tom Covell shrugged his great shoulders again.

“As to that, who’s to say? You may guess as shrewdly as I. Yet it’s sure that she’ll keep her secrets now. And sure also that I’d seen none before who wilted in just that manner.”

“I believe you. There was none of this tart left? None that could be tried on a dog?”

“Not a crumb. As I’ve told you, she guzzled. If there was venom used, the thing was shrewdly done.”

“It would be.” Roger rose to his feet. “There’s no more to be done then. But you’ve been my friend in this. Count me yours at need.”

“I’ll remember that when next you’re Sheriff.” The rich laugh rolled out again as Tom Covell shed his earnest mood. “How’s young Hilliard? He’s delivered no more papists, I hope?”

“You think he did deliver one?”

“At the least he’d a softness for the rogue. You should have seen milord’s anger. Like a studding bull.” The laugh came again as Tom Covell pulled the bell-cord. “I’ll give over furnishing milord with gentlemen. Tell him it’s time he was wed. Then another may have care for him.”

He saw them jovially from the house, and Roger had no more to say on it till he and Margery were back in the snug comfort of the
George.
Then he showed that he had missed nothing.

“Touching that apple tart,” he said. “You questioned it sharply. Is there more to it than you then chose to say?”

“Something. Jennet said that her grandmother had this greed for apple tart. But she said also that such things are not to be baked at the Malkin Tower. There’s no oven there.”

Roger stared at her.

“Meaning that this Lizzie brought a tart that could not have been of her own?” He nodded. “It fits neatly.”

“More neatly than that. From the way Demdike guzzled, we may suppose that this apple tart was a good one.”

“What of it?”

“Only that Alice Nutter is known for the rare excellence of her apple tarts. Myself I’ll bear witness to it.” Roger’s low whistle was eloquent.

“Then we need not doubt further how Demdike died. Nor whose secrets had to be preserved. But what a breed these Demdikes are! This Lizzie must have known what it was that she came to do.”

“Or was sent to do.”

“It’s all one. Though sent is no doubt the just word. We may even guess what took Alice to the Malkin Tower on Good Friday. If Lizzie had guests there, she could not well go to the Rough Lee. But she must have her orders--and on Saturday she must have started for Lancaster.” He was smiling grimly. “So Demdike’s dead, and Alice prospers still.”

“But could not--could not this be brought home to her?”

“How? There’s no tart left. Its excellence made sure of that, so we cannot show that it was hurtful. And even if we could, we could not show that Lizzie knew it to be so. It was not of her baking, remember.”

“Precisely. So if it could be shown that Alice baked it?”

“She’ll have foreseen that. As I’ve said before, she’s no fool. It would turn out that others had handled it, and we’d end by hanging some kitchen wench--and Alice would have compliments from the judge on her charity to the aged poor.” Roger shook his head decisively. “All that remains is to get us back to Pendle with what speed we can.”

“For a word with Lizzie, let us hope.”

“If she’s there. I’ve doubts of all things now.”

His doubts were justified the next night, and as soon as they were back in Pendle. They came to Read at Daylight Gate, and Margery was tired enough to be drooping in her saddle; but Frank was out on the gravel to meet her, and behind him, in the arch of the door, she saw Nick Banister framed against the candle-light within. Roger waved in greeting, and he called his question before he was out of the saddle.

“Where’s Squinting Lizzie?”

“Run.”

Nick’s one word was enough, and Roger stared grimly. Then he held his peace till supper was done; and even then he waited till he had told of the doings in Lancaster and the way of the Demdike’s death. Nick Banister listened in silence, but he exchanged an understanding glance with Frank. Then he came to it crisply.

“A haunt of peace, this Pendle,” he said, “until yesterday, a little before noon. And then, of a sudden, there was a most woe-begone child flitting in your shrubbery yonder---”

“Child?” Roger was quick on that, and Nick Banister had his slow smile.

“As you’ve guessed, Roger. A child of this Lizzie’s--a little maid called Jennet. She played games with your servants when they would have chased her away, and then Frank here went to her alone. At which the child let herself be taken, and it soon came out that she was in search of Margery.” He laughed softly at the memory of it. “Woebegone, did I say? When she had last eaten, I do not know. And for dirt--I’ve cleaner beasts in sties. But soon, when she had bitten something, she had a word to say. She has keen wits for her age---”

“So we’ve noted. But her tale?”

“The child, it seemed, had been near starving these three days, her mother being from home and she being left with a brother she plainly thinks a lack-wit.”

“From home three days?”

“Just so, Roger. It fits, and there’s the mark of truth in the child’s tale. For her mother, she said, came home Monday night. And the next day--being yesterday--the child was pulled from her bed at dawn and bidden walk to Whalley to beg a loan of butter from some woman there.”

“Butter! From Whalley?” Roger was incredulous, and Nick was smiling at him.

“Again just so. The child did not believe it either. I’ve said she’s sharp-witted. She did not go to Whalley. She made some pretence of so doing, and then she lay hid. And soon she saw mother and brother come forth with shawls and bundles, as if on a journey. They made down towards the river, she said, and after that Mistress Jennet waited for no more. She put aside all thought of Whalley and came marching sturdily here.”

“But now, sir?” Margery spoke urgently. “Where is she now, if you please?”

“In bed I hope--at her age.” The smile was on Nick’s face again. “I gave her in charge to your own woman, with some round orders for cleansing as well as feeding.”

“But then?” Roger spoke steadily.

“Then I sent for the Constable, and with no needful delay we were all at the Malkin Tower. And I took it upon me to bid him force the door.”

“It’s well that you were here, Nick. And within?”

“Silence--as the child had said. All deserted. The hearth cold. No food and no fuel. But Roger---” Nick paused, and then his tone became grave. “It’s a mud floor there, and in a corner it had been dug. So we thought well to dig there also. And what we found was human teeth--a bagful.”

“God’s Grace! That’s a foulness to keep beneath one’s floor.”

“Hidden in haste by the look of things. And also some small images of folk, wrought in clay and crudely done. You may guess what
they
were for.”

“I can. But what was done with these things?”

“Hargreaves took them to Baldwin. As a Warden he may take order for their burial decent.”

“Of the teeth, that is?”

“The clay as well, Roger. Is not a body clay, when all is said? A prayer said over these may quiet some soul’s rest.”

“Ye-es.” Roger nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll not gainsay you in that, Nick. So now?”

“So now the hunt is up. I had indeed no great matter to bring against these Devices, but that, I thought, might well be left. So I drew a Warrant and sent word to all parts. Did I well?”

“Excellent well, Nick. Is there more?”

“Not from me. But Margery looks concerned?”

She almost flushed as she found his shrewd eyes on her. Then she came to her feet.

“I’m concerned for Jennet, sir. I’ve a softness for the child. Will you give me leave?”

She was away for a quarter-hour, and when she came back to the room Nick Banister eyed her with amusement.

“How’s your Jennet?” he asked. “Is she clean?”

“Clean! She’s scrubbed and shining, and she’ll not forget it readily.” Then Margery grew serious. “She was asleep, sir, but she roused for me and she’s wide awake now. And it’s her wish, I think, to talk.”

“Talk? Of affairs, you mean?” Roger was speaking gravely.