The Maidservant and the Murderer (2 page)

With Mr. Hooke in the lead, the four of us made our way down Walmgate Bar and out the gate to St. Leonard's Green Dykes. Once there I saw why we'd come. A gallows had been built on the green and we would watch them put it to use. We arrived early enough that Mr. Hooke was able to find us a spot on the green, and we laid a blanket on the ground. I had packed dinner and–to be truthful–we spent an entirely pleasant morning together as we waited for the hangings to begin. Victualers did a fine business, as the crowd's appetite for blood was matched by its desire for a good meal. But the true profits were had by the ale-sellers who had carried their caskets out of the city. Full of meat and drink, the crowd was in a festive mood, and from time to time they would break into ribald song.

I do not know how anyone could tell that the time for the hanging had drawn near, but while we were in the midst of eating, the crowd started to buzz and seemed to grow threefold. There could be no mistaking that the hour had come. We all stood and peered toward Walmgate Bar, and within a few minutes two carts came through. I could hardly see the prisoners, but the hangman towered above them, his head already covered by his black mask. Members of the Town Watch cleared a path through the crowd, and soon the carts reached the gallows.

I had thought that they would proceed straight to the hangings, but while the hangman busied himself tying nooses, another figure stood on the cart and began to preach to the crowd. I could hear snatches of the sermon–words such as
sin, damnation,
and
perdition
–but the crowd soon grew restless and shouted for the hangman to get to business. When an apple flew past the minister's head he hastily concluded his sermon and stepped down.

The first two to be hanged were notorious robbers who–according to the hangman–had committed a barbarous theft, breaking into a gentleman's house and helping themselves to his silver plate. I did not see the barbarity in mere theft, but the crowd did not seem to mind. The condemned tried to speak, but the crowd would have none of it, and they were shouted down with even more gusto than the minister had been. The hangman turned them off their ladders, and after a few minutes of jerking back and forth both were still, the life choked out of them.

The next man to be hanged was one Henry Ash. According to the hangman, he had been convicted of raping a maiden as she traveled on the highway from York to Hull. I watched in awe as the hangman dragged Ash up the ladder, set the noose around his neck, and unceremoniously pushed him off.

I cannot adequately explain the sensation I felt at the moment the rope snapped tight. The very second that Henry Ash began to die, the child within me began to live. Miraculously, Ash's first kick was entirely coincident with my child's quickening, and Ash's last moments mirrored my son's very first. But the effect was more than this. It was not just my child who was quickened at that instant, but also my plan to escape Mr. Hooke's ravishment and see justice done. If Henry Ash should die for the rape that he had committed on the highway, shouldn't John Hooke die for the dozens he'd committed in his own home? Did the law stop at the Hookes' gate?

A few more felons were hanged that afternoon, but I paid them no mind. Rather, I told the Hookes I felt unwell and slipped out of sight. I circled through the crowd and made my way to the carts where the prisoner's bodies had been put. Henry Ash lay next to the two robbers, his face now purple, his half-lidded eyes bulging from their sockets. A well-dressed man stood next to the cart haggling with the hangman.

“I'll give you a penny more than the last time, but that is all,” he insisted.

After a moment's thought, the hangman agreed, and the gentleman waved to two lads behind him. The youths stepped forward, took Ash by the arms and legs, tied him to the back of a sad-looking mule. Once their load was secure the boys led the mule toward the gate and back into the city.

I looked at the gentleman who had bought Ash's body. He read the question in my eyes.

“I am a surgeon,” he said. “The court said I could anatomize him once the hangman was done with him.”

“Anatomize?” I asked. I thought I knew what he meant, but it seemed too terrible to be true.

“I'll cut him open and examine him on the inside.”

I continued to stare at him. Why in God's name would someone do such a thing?

“I'm exploring,” he announced. “With enough hangings, I'll be able to map the muscles, sinews, and arteries of all mankind.” The surgeon's voice rose with excitement as he spoke. “You cannot fathom the discoveries that we are making every day. The world's greatest anatomists–Andreas Vesalius! Helkiah Crooke!–have remade the human form. We live on the edge of a world that is new and utterly unexplored. The body is a grand thing, encompassing worlds of its own. And I will discover its secrets.”

“And then what?” I asked.

The surgeon looked at me blankly. “What do you mean?”

“What will happen to his body after you've cut him up?”

“He'll be buried I suppose. I hadn't thought much of it.” He looked at the sun, which now hung just above the horizon. “I must begin my work. The brain is the first organ to rot, and I should like to have it out as soon as possible.”

With that, the surgeon turned on his heel and strode off in the same direction that the mule had taken Ash's body.

As awful as it sounds, my body shivered with excitement at what I'd seen and heard. I felt a terrible joy that Henry Ash, a man who was joined to my own master in his depravity, would not only hang, but be subjected to the indignity of anatomization. The anatomist said that we lived on the edge of a new world, and in an instant I felt as if I had joined him on the precipice. The only question was whether I had the courage to step into the wilderness and do battle with the savages that lay in wait.

From where I stood, the safer path seemed clear enough, but it ended in ruin. If I did nothing at all, Mrs. Hooke soon would discover that I was with child and expel me from the household. Mr. Hooke's rapes would stop, but I would nevertheless be lost, for a poor, bastard-bearing woman was the most despised creature in all England. After being whipped bloody, the very best I could hope for was to marry a doddering pauper. I then would have the pleasure of watching him die, even as my youth and beauty wasted away into nothing. Such was the fate that awaited a fortunate bastard-bearer. If I were unfortunate–and since coming to the Hookes' when had I been otherwise?–I'd find myself living on the highways. My child soon would die, and I would be subject to assaults far more vicious than Mr. Hooke's. In the end I'd face the choice between constant hunger or a short and ugly life as one of England's whores.

But I chose a bloodier and more valiant path, one which would provide a better future for me and for my unborn child. You might fault me for taking this route, or say that there were other choices. But this is how the world appeared to me as I watched the anatomist walk toward Walmgate Bar.

As if summoned by my thoughts of doing battle with savages, Mr. Hooke appeared at my side and took my arm. “There you are, Rebecca,” he slurred into my ear. His speech and breath made it clear that he'd paid more than a few visits to the ale-sellers. As I felt his arms snaking about me, I forced a laugh and skipped away as lightly as I could.

“Not here,” I chided him. “There are too many people.”

I could see his surprise at my friendly response. To his lustful brain, now sodden with drink,
Not here
could only mean
Somewhere else
.

“Nobody here knows us.” He reached behind me and seized my buttocks. “We'll find a quiet spot in the city. There are so many alleys.”

“Not now,” I said. “If Mrs. Hooke should see us…” I slapped playfully at his hand, and for the first time he was pleased to let me go, for I'd never been so agreeable. And so I played the coquette all the way home, and for days after. I found such acting disagreeable, but my scheme required his trust, and this was the surest way that I could get it. If he'd not been such a fool, or so easily led by his yard, he might have wondered why I had changed my stripes. But he never did. One afternoon Mrs. Hooke sent me into the city, and I slipped into an apothecary's shop where I bought the next piece of the puzzle. Then all I needed was the chance to act.

My opportunity came when Mrs. Hooke decided to take Richard to Halifax for a few days. She knew of a young woman who might find him agreeable, and she was eager to make a match for him. I felt a flicker of doubt at this news, but pushed it aside. A hasty marriage would present problems with my scheme, but I could not let that distant possibility blow me off course.

The night before Mrs. Hooke and Richard were to leave, I lay in bed and wondered at what I was about to do.
Murder
. I turned the word over on my tongue and whispered it aloud. But was it really murder? Henry Ash had been hanged for the same crime Mr. Hooke had committed. And for all I knew Ash had only done it once. How many times had Mr. Hooke raped me?
No,
I decided.
This is no murder. He has earned his fate. He is simply going to his death without the trouble of a trial. And what man would argue for his innocency?
Setting aside
murder,
I tried other words
: justice, retribution,
and
righteousness
. They sounded better when I whispered them to myself. They sounded right.

Almost before Mrs. Hook and Richard had passed out of sight, Mr. Hooke had his hands on me. Once again I slipped away.

“Why so fast?” The sound of my laugh grated on my ears. “We have days, if not a week.”

“But my master will not wait so long,” Mr. Hooke protested, grabbing at himself.

“Let us have some wine,” I said as I dashed to the kitchen. “You go to your chamber and I'll come up.”

From the sound of his footsteps, I judged Mr. Hooke had climbed the stairs at a full run. I took my time preparing his wine, making sure that the concoction was entirely mixed. He had just a sip before leaping upon me. I clamped my teeth together, and told myself that I had survived worse, and this would be the very last time I'd suffer in such a fashion. Once Mr. Hooke had finished, he reached for his glass and drank it at a draught.

I watched his face closely, wondering when the signs of what I'd done would appear. He'd just closed his eyes–perhaps he was falling asleep–when the pain gripped him. He rolled onto his side, grasped his belly, and vomited onto the floor.

“Good lord, what is wrong?” I leaped to my feet and circled the bed so I could take his hand. “Are you unwell?”

“Oh God, my guts,” he moaned. “What is happening?”

“Lie back,” I told him. He did and for a moment the pain seemed to ease. For the next hour or so I sat with him, wondering if I'd used enough poison to kill him. By evening he seemed to be recovering, so I gave him another dram, and the next morning he was cold as a stone.

As I gazed at his body, my only regret was that I could not have him anatomized.

*   *   *

My first task was to convince the neighbors that he'd died of a sudden stroke. To accomplish this, I washed and dressed his body, and then scrubbed the chamber floor for hours. It seemed that the poison I'd used had caused him to bleed into his stomach and then he'd vomited up the blood. The consequent mess had been something to behold. But by the time I dragged him to the barn and lay him in the straw, who could deny my claim?

Well, you can imagine the scene when Mrs. Hooke and Richard returned from Halifax. They had missed the funeral, of course, and for a woman who had been cuckolded, Mrs. Hooke played the grieving widow perfectly.

Richard was heartsick as well, and I could understand. For all the wrong he'd done to me, Mr. Hooke had shown his son nothing but love. I even felt a moment's guilt when I saw Richard's tears. I told myself that Mr. Hooke would have died eventually, and that Richard's grief was no greater because his father had died this week rather than next, or because I had murdered him. Dead was dead.

And more important, with Mr. Hooke safely in the ground, I could begin the next part of my plan.

II

A few days after his return from Halifax, I saw Richard standing at the edge of the hay croft south of the house. He gazed out at the horizon, lost in his thoughts. I came upon him unawares and took his hand in mine. He jumped, but did not take his hand away.

“You miss him, don't you,” I said.

That was all it took. Moments later, he was sobbing like a child. I put my arms around him and let him weep. When his tears had stopped, I put my lips to his. After a moment, I led him to a spot behind the hedge where none would see us.

Some might cast stones at me for all that followed. And I will admit that my scheme did not proceed as I'd hoped. My own suffering is testament to that. At the outset, my intention had never been to kill anyone besides Mr. Hooke, and to this day I would swear that I never meant to harm Richard. Despite his doltishness, he was a kind boy, utterly without his father's cruelty. If all had gone to plan, we would have married and I would have had a quiet, uneventful life. That was all I wanted. The mistake I made was in misjudging Mrs. Hooke entirely. I would lay the blame for all that followed at her door.

A few weeks after I lay with Richard for the first time, I took him by the hand and led him back to the croft.

“Richard, I must tell you something. I am with child.”

He took my hand and put it to his lips. “You are?” he asked in wonder.

“Aye,” I said. “What will we do?”

“We will marry,” he said without a moment's hesitation. “We will tell my mother and we will marry. If we tell her we were betrothed before we lay together none would call our child a bastard. It is but a small lie and for the best.”