Familiar Spirits (22 page)

He returned home in a gloom of dark thoughts. Joan was in the kitchen, the breakfast on the table. His uneasiness persisted. He felt like a man wandering in a thicket; whichever direction he took he was cut and scratched. Was he victim or victimizer? Were the sisters innocent or conjurers? He could not hide his gloom from Joan.

“How are the sisters?” she asked.

“Tired, confused. They want to go home. Even Jane now. They still don’t understand the danger they face—from the law and from their neighbors.”

“Poor Margaret, poor Jane. So dreadfully wronged.”

Her expression of sympathy surprised him, given what had happened the night before. Did she hold the women blameless even though she was convinced the apparition had pressed its face against
her
window? He asked her about it, wanting to know how she had clarified in her mind what was in his a muddle of conflicting facts and agonizing doubts.

There were dark circles of fatigue beneath her eyes, and he realized at that moment that he was seeing her as she would appear to him in—say—ten or fifteen years. But she spoke in a plain sensible tone. “I saw the shape of Ursula Tusser, just as Malcolm and Margaret Waite saw her. I cannot deny it, I will not—no, not if put upon the rack. Yet whether the apparition manifested itself at the Devil’s behest or came of its own accord, I cannot say. It does not follow in my mind that either Margaret or her sister beckoned that awful spirit from the grave, if that is the doubt in your heart. It could have been someone else who conjured.”

“Who else?” he asked dubiously.

“The Devil never wants for helpers,” Joan answered. “Keep an open mind, husband. Don’t condemn the poor women out of hand. There may yet be an explanation for these strange occurrences.”

“Which explanation I pray soon comes to light,” he said, “for them and for us all.”

He stroked her cheek affectionately. She grasped his hand. “God keep you, Joan,” he said.

“And you,” she answered.

Matthew felt the blessing was much needed.

At the manor house, Matthew found himself in an impressive gathering of gentry and public officials. There were several knights of the neighborhood, the aldermen of the town, the bailiff Moreau, various clerks and secretaries of the assize court, petty constables from surrounding villages, Parson Davis, and two gentlemen from London who had come at the behest of the Privy Council to observe the proceedings. The magistrate wasted no time in getting to the business at hand. He quickly summarized the strange and dangerous events that had occasioned the meeting, although few present had not heard of them. When he was finished, he announced that he had decided to charge both Margaret Waite and her sister with witchcraft.

“The evidence is more than sufficient,” remarked Aider-man Trent, flushed with pleasure at finding himself in such distinguished company. Words rolled off his tongue in a fluent baritone. “A hundred witnesses will testify if need be to their conjurings, their intimacy with familiars and like spirits, their practice of necromancy, as evidenced by the hideous and dreadful apparition of Ursula Tusser.”

When Trent had given this opinion, Matthew was asked for his views. Intimidated by the size and importance of his audience, Matthew struggled with his own contradictory impulses and what proceeded from his mouth was a testimony to how far he was from settling his doubts about the two women. “I have known both sisters for years,” he said quietly

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but firmly. “I am reluctant to think of them as anything other than decent Christian women who have been much abused by gossip and the malice of their enemies.” As he spoke, Matthew noticed the scorn on Trent’s face, the disapproval on the magistrate’s. “Yet this past night, while I was away, my own wife saw the apparition of which Alderman Trent has told us.”

That Matthew had spoken the truth gave him no satisfaction now that he had said it. Across the room he could feel the approval of Trent and the magistrate, and he flushed because he was disgusted with himself. He could not abide Trent, but suddenly he had joined his camp, or had seemed to. He had conveyed to the persons present more evidence to condemn the women, his friends.

“What did this apparition say or do?” asked the magistrate when Matthew made no effort to elaborate on his wife’s experience.

“Nothing was said. The shape appeared at the window. It only peered at my wife.”

“It was by such seeming innocent eavesdropping that the witch Margaret Waite murdered her husband,” declared Trent. “Perhaps that was her intent in sending this horrible shape to your wife, Mr. Stock, to scare her to death.” Offering his suggestion, Trent smiled mockingly and moistened his thick lips with his tongue. Anger raged in Matthew’s heart; gladly would he have killed the butcher-alderman at that moment, but he held his peace. Nor did he say anything to deny Trent’s suggestion, which others in the room were evidently taking with some seriousness. He could not deny what
might
be true, but he hated Trent for being the one to utter it and he understood the insidious pleasure the aider-man was taking in Matthew’s confusion and fear.

Then one of the London gentlemen remarked that the shire seemed to be cursed with witches. A local knight admitted this was so, and recalled several earlier trials that had achieved widespread notoriety. There followed a discussion of witches and their methods, during which the parson described a learned book on witchcraft he had recently read,

written by the Scottish King, wherein the royal scholar confounded the damnable opinion of a certain Englishman that there was no such thing as witches.

“He who would deny that witches be must needs be of the Devil’s party,” asserted the knight hotly. This knight esteemed himself a theologian and had accumulated a considerable library of books and tracts relating to the occult. His position was generally approved, and the London gentleman pointed out that the resolution of these matters was essential, since witchcraft was a kind of treason.

Then the magistrate announced that he had heard enough and thanked all those assembled for their very good counsel. The women, he said, would be charged as he had indicated.

“With what specific charge, sir?” asked the clerk of the court, preparing to draft the warrant.

“According to the Act of 1563,” the magistrate answered solemnly, “against conjurations, enchantments, and witchcrafts. Margaret Waite will also be charged with the murder of her husband, for it now seems it was to that end that she conjured Ursula Tusser’s spirit.”

Peter Trent wanted to know what was to be done about Thomas Crispin, whom he characterized as a notorious ruffian and seditionist, as his violence on the previous night made plain. But several of those present spoke up on the tanner’s behalf, including Matthew, pointing out that the man had acted in self-defense, and who could be blamed for that? Besides, the man he shot had only been slightly wounded and was one of the leaders of the riot as well. The magistrate considered the various arguments and then decided that he would bind the tanner over to the next quarter sessions on a charge of breach of peace—a charge that, were the tanner found guilty, would occasion only a small fine.

“The trial of the witches must take place as soon as possible,” the magistrate went on. “At a special session.” He looked in the direction of the clerk of the court, and the clerk nodded indicating that he had understood. “We cannot wait until the next assizes, not with the fear that exists in the hearts of the town.”

One of the London gentlemen suggested a certain famous witch-hunter as prosecutor.

“Who is this man?” asked the magistrate.

“His name is Roger Malvern,” said the gentleman. “He is a lawyer of note, much practiced in these matters.”

Moreau said he had heard of Malvern, and others in the room said they had too. All the gentry then approved the motion, and the magistrate said it was as good as done. “We shall send for the man, lay the facts out before him, and see what he shall make of them. An expert is what is needed here, no novice. In the meantime the women will remain confined under the watchful eye of our good constable. Until this business is concluded, I order every man to keep the peace and render whatever assistance might be needed to maintain order in the town. Be these women witches indeed, or merely victims of calumny, we shall have no more riots.” And on that note the company said their farewells and went about their business.

Matthew returned to town determined to shake off his black mood and settle his nagging doubts about the Chelmsford witches once and for all. He stopped at the Crispin house to see how matters stood there. The shop was closed and the shattered windows had been covered with boards and oilcloth. Sometime during the night—probably on toward morning—a vandal had scrawled the name Satan on the tanner’s sign with bright red paint. The tanner’s servants were sweeping up the rubble in the street, and Matthew thought he could hear one of Crispin’s little daughters call out for her mother from an upstairs window.

He went around to the back of the house, where he saw next door the charred smoking remains of the Waite barn. The poultry pen still stood, but it had been ravaged during the night and not a hen or a duck remained. The garden had been thoroughly trampled. Crispin’s servants followed Matthew; they wanted news. He told them that their master would presently return. They asked about Mrs. Crispin, to whom they were devoted. “She’s been charged with witchcraft,” he told them. “She and her sister too.”

They nodded their heads and returned silently to their work—except for Will Simple, who said beneath his breath, “Damn them all,” and continued to stare disconsolately at the ruins of the barn.

Matthew went next door. Susan let him in. He asked her if there had been any word of Brigit, and she shook her head but showed no pride in the fact that thus far her prophecy had been fulfilled. She said the remnants of the family were holding some sort of council in the parlor and she was not to disturb them, but she thought the constable would be welcome.

He went into the parlor and was coldly greeted by Margaret Waite’s sons and nephew. Matthew told them the ill tidings, which occasioned no surprise. The Waites’ original anger at the slanders levied against the family had now given way to a fatalistic sense that if it was not all God’s will that they suffer, the suffering was at least more to be borne than protested.

“We feared the worst from the beginning,” said Dick Waite stoically.

Edward Waite communicated his grief with a heavy sigh, while the nephew John, whose superior air seemed much diminished since the family disgrace, said he doubted his aunts would have a fair trial in Chelmsford. “The town has the scent and will not quit its baying until the prey is well chewed.” But he had also a word of censure for the accused women. “This is what comes of flirting with this foolish witchery in the first place. Aunt Jane should have let the damned girl go to hell before she allowed her to play the fool in her house, and Aunt Margaret should have shut the barn door against her. Now the barn is burned and my aunt’s imprisoned, and God only knows what shall be the end of it.”

“When will the trial be?” asked Dick Waite.

“Within the week, or so says the magistrate,” answered Matthew. “He’s called a special session.”

“A special session, is it,” remarked John Waite. “I trust it will be very special indeed.”

They regarded Matthew with hard, accusing faces, It was obvious they blamed him too for their troubles. He wished them well and left, more melancholy than ever.

During the next few days, there were no more disturbances in the town. The date of the trial had been firmly set and the witch-hunter Malvern had written to say he would gladly come to Chelmsford, weather permitting, and so there was great excitement in the air. The jury had been selected from the freemen of the town, and the citizenry was divided between those who, like Peter Trent, believed the sisters guilty beyond question and those—an embattled minority now— who, while not quite willing to proclaim the sisters’ innocence, were at least willing to grant them the benefit of the doubt. Meanwhile the families of the accused kept to themselves. Crispin’s tannery remained closed and his workmen idle, for it was clear that no business would come his way until the matter of the witchcraft was resolved. The only event that marred this peaceful interim was reported by John Waite, who came to the constable’s house early one morning to complain of a prowler.

“What sort of prowler was it?” Matthew wanted to know.

“A thief, I think, but he’s a fool if he thinks there’s anything left to steal. The mob made off with our chickens and ducks, and the horse, as you know, died in the fire.”

All the neighborhood was aware of the dead mare. Covered by rubble, the decaying flesh had been potent all week and was much complained of, but it was impossible to find anyone willing to do the work of uncovering and burying the animal. The Waites had only Susan to keep house for them, and almost all the Crispins’ servants had stolen away. Warmer weather coupled with frequent rains had made matters worse.

“Tell me if you see this prowler again,” Matthew said.

On Thursday of the week, Mr. Roger Malvern arrived in Chelmsford, bringing with him a scrawny boy whom he introduced as his assistant. Malvern was a corpulent man of about fifty, with ruddy smoothly shaven cheeks and bulging eyes that gave him a threatening, belligerent appearance. He