Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense (26 page)

The three boards that made up the stocks were fitted into slotted timbers set deep in the clay soil. As Norman sat down on the hard wooden bench, the guard slid the two top planks upward, leaving a gap of about nine inches. Norman extended his legs and laid his ankles in the two worn semicircles cut into the wood. The guard lowered the center board, pinning the ankles in place.

“Now the wrists, neighbor.”

Norman had to stretch forward, like an oarsman at the beginning of his stroke. The top section was lowered, clamping his wrists securely. From his pocket the guard took a pair of padlocks, clicking them into hasps at the top of the stocks.

Finally he stepped back. “There we are, sir. How do you feel?”

“Completely ridiculous,” replied Norman. “Absolutely helpless. And slightly uncomfortable.”

“The discomfort will get worse, I'm afraid. Still, it's not like it used to be. In the old days the townspeople would sometimes throw offal at a man in the stocks. I don't think any of the present villagers would try that.”

“I imagine Justice Sawyer would be delighted if they would,” said Norman. “Just to make things completely authentic. Say, how long have I got to stay in this thing?”

“Just until sundown. And I feel you should know, you've made Justice Sawyer very happy. He's always wanted to sentence someone to the stocks. For realism, you know. But none of the local people would agree to it.”

“Speaking of realism, those padlocks are modern. In colonial days, wooden pins were used to hold the boards in place.”

“Thank you. I'll mention that to Justice Sawyer. He's interested in keeping everything as accurate as possible. Oh, there is one other thing. I hope you won't mind.”

From his pocket the guard drew a large sheet of foolscap paper and unfolded it. On it was printed in ornate letters a single word:
DRUNKARD
. The guard set it in place on the far side of the stocks.

“Thumbtacks,” chided Norman. “No fair.”

“Yes, I'll have to find some other way.”

The guard strode off.

Norman sighed and wriggled unseen fingers. He glanced up at the sun and estimated it to be about ten o'clock—and the sun wouldn't set until nearly eight. It was going to be a long day, he decided. He hoped that not too many of the townspeople would laugh at him.

Within the hour there was a decided crick in Norman's back, and the sun was beating down fiercely on his bare head. A single bead of sweat dribbled down to his chin and hung there. At the same time, his nose began to itch.

A second hour passed. Norman made ineffectual passes at his shoulder with his nose, but the itching spot was just out of reach. He'd often spoken about the stocks to his classes, but until now he'd never realized the exquisite torture of actually being confined in them.

About him, the village had stirred to life. A clanging was coming from the blacksmith shop, and a girl passed by with a yoke on her shoulders from which hung two water buckets. Seeing Norman in the stocks, she tittered gleefully and then offered him a drink. At his request, she even scratched his nose. He accepted gratefully, too thirsty to be embarrassed at his helpless condition.

It was shortly after one o'clock, and fiery lances of pain were darting up Norman's back when he heard the voice behind him. “Hurts, doesn't it? Maybe this'll make you feel better.”

Then hands started kneading at the aching muscles. Norman wriggled under the pressure of the fingers, moaning his pleasure at the wonderful relief.

The massage stopped, and the man walked around the stocks to face Norman. He was dressed much like the others but wore a belted greatcoat, odd for such a warm day. On the opposite side of the village green, two young men were carrying a huge timber at least ten feet long in the direction of the church.

“I'm Reverend Dabney,” said the man. “Thomas Dabney. Hope I made you feel better. That's my job, and there's my factory.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the church.

“Oh, yes. You are truly a lifesaver, Mr. Dabney. When I get out of here, I'm going to buy you the biggest drink—”

“Better not. I understand that's what started this whole thing. Besides, the grog they serve at the inn tastes like dishwater. I can't wait until this month is over and I can mix myself a decent cocktail.”

“You mean you can't even—”

Dabney shook his head. “‘The colonial ways are our ways,' as Jonathan Sawyer's fond of saying. That's how we live for a month out of each year.”

“But isn't it kind of silly to carry it too far?”

“No, I think it's worthwhile to live as our ancestors did and accept their values. And I must say, it ups attendance at church when the law says everybody has to attend.”

“But to go to such extremes seems …”

“You mean the stocks? It seems to me that Sawyer could have been a lot harsher. Sixty days in jail would about ruin your vacation, wouldn't it? And I daresay when you get out of there you'll think twice about drinking and driving at the same time.”

“I only meant that—”

“Look, if a thing like this colonial business is worth doing, it's worth going all the way. The clothing and these stocks are only a small part of it. It's the traditions that count. Living exactly as our forebears did for a full month makes us appreciate the other eleven months even more. But you've got to do it right, everything just as it was. It's a little like climbing a mountain. What challenge would there be to that if the climber knew he had a safety net under him all the time? The experience has got to be totally real to have any meaning.”

“I must say, you do try hard. I pointed out a few errors to the guard, and he acted as if I were proclaiming Holy Writ.”

“Yes, I heard about that. Justice Sawyer will have them corrected by next year, never fear. Maybe you'd like to come back and visit us then, and see the improvement.”

“I don't know if I'll be able to stand up in a year when I get released from this thing.”

Dabney chuckled and turned to watch three men pass by. They had crude racks on their backs, piled high with pieces of firewood.

They greeted Dabney cheerfully and paid no attention at all to Norman.

Then, from behind Norman, there came a sound like a stifled scream of pain and outrage. Vainly he turned his head. Finally he caught sight of a figure running toward him, a woman in a bright pink dress of modern styling—Betty.

Yet not the Betty he knew. The figure seemed to be grasping and clawing at something on her head and at the same time emitting strange, muffled groans and cries.

She rounded the stocks and looked grotesquely down at Norman. Her head was encased in a tight cage of rigid flat strips of iron. To the base of these strips was riveted a metal collar, now closed and padlocked securely around her neck, making it impossible to remove the apparatus. From one of the strips that ran down across her lips, a knobby tang of metal extended deep into her mouth, preventing coherent speech. With bloodied hands, Betty Kaner tore in vain at the thing that caged her skull.

“Gunhh … Og … Hurrr … Og …”

“That's a brank!” Norman yanked to free his hands but only succeeded in rubbing his wrists raw in the stocks.

Dabney nodded. “Gossip's bridle, they called it in the colonies. I understand Justice Sawyer warned her several times about shouting out in his courtroom before having it put on her.”

“But it—it's inhuman.”

“Fiddlesticks. If she'd just calm down, she'd be fine. She can breathe well enough. It's just talking that's impossible. And she has the run of the town. It's not as if she'd been shut up somewhere.”

“But that—that thing on her head!”

“Og hurrr! Og hurrr!”

“Of course it hurts,” said Dabney. “Stop pulling at it, and you'll be fine.”

“Dabney, can't you see she's almost out of her mind with fright and shock?”

“All the better for you, old man. I guarantee when that comes off, she won't be nearly the shrew she was when it was put on.”

With a moan of pure misery, Betty sank onto the dusty earth, wrapping her arms tightly about Norman's extended leg in pleading.

“Dabney, I've had enough of this. To blazes with our vacation. I intend to see the authorities about these … these outrages.”

“Nonsense. Look at it this way. Think of the added value to your history classes. Now you can speak to them from firsthand experience about colonial punishments.” Dabney rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You know, that brank's been in our museum for about two hundred years. I didn't think we'd ever actually get to use it.”

“It's monstrous!”

“No, Mr. Kaner, it's not. It's simply the way we were, more than two hundred years ago. Oh, we're not perfect in our re-creation of the past. But we're getting there.”

Dabney turned to look across the village green, where a group of villagers were heading for the church, uttering loud shouts.

“I must go,” he said. “I have other business.”

“How can you see two fellow humans being tortured and then tell me you have other business? Don't you find that odd for a man in your line of work?”

“Not torture, Mr. Kaner. Punishment. Punishment for acts against the general welfare of the commonwealth. Punishment that is just. The punishment of our forefathers.”

Something nakedly evil gleamed behind Dabney's eyes, like a snake lying in wait.

“It may interest you to know,” he said, “that just before noon our local physician visited the Sawyer household. The justice had begun feeling poorly, as did his wife and both sons.”

“So?”

“Measles. The doctor said he'd never before seen the disease take a whole family so suddenly.”

“What's that got to do with my wife and me?”

“Not you, Mr. Kaner. And not your wife.”

“Then who …”

“Think on it, Mr. Kaner. Think on it.”

Dabney shouted at the crowd of villagers and then trotted off to join them.

Madness; the whole village was mad with their lust for historic accuracy. Betty looked up at him, her eyes pleading behind the iron cage. A slight moan came from her throat.

Moments later, from the churchyard behind the maple trees, a faint cheering came to their ears. A pall of black, greasy smoke streaked the blue sky, and then, hanging in the air like a palpable thing, was heard a single shrill scream, torn from the throat of someone tortured beyond endurance.

Norman knew then who had screamed, and in his mind the same voice came to him, snapping harshly at a little fat man in a black robe and an oversized wig: “A pox on you, Sawyer! And on all your brood, too!”

Measles!

Even as his stomach heaved at the thought of what was happening up there on the hill, a single irrelevant thought came to Norman's mind—another historical error.

In the colonies, hanging or pressing to death with great rocks were the punishments.

In the entire history of New England, there was not a single recorded case of a witch being executed by burning.

He was a
thin young man in a blue pinstripe suit. His shirt was white with a button-down collar. His glasses had oval lenses in a brown tortoiseshell frame. His hair was a dark brown, short but not severely so, neatly combed, parted on the right. I saw him come in and watched him ask a question at the bar. Billie was working afternoons that week. I watched as he nodded at the young man, then swung his sleepy eyes over in my direction. I lowered my own eyes and looked at a cup of coffee laced with bourbon while the fellow walked over to my table.

“Matthew Scudder?” I looked up at him, nodded. “I'm Aaron Creighton. I looked for you at your hotel. The fellow on the desk told me I might find you here.”

Here
was Armstrong's, a Ninth Avenue saloon around the corner from my Fifty-seventh Street hotel. The lunch crowd was gone except for a couple of stragglers in front whose voices were starting to thicken with alcohol. The streets outside were full of May sunshine. The winter had been cold and deep and long. I couldn't recall a more welcome spring.

“I called you a couple of times last week, Mr. Scudder. I guess you didn't get my messages.”

I'd gotten two of them and ignored them, not knowing who he was or what he wanted and unwilling to spend a dime for the answer. But I went along with the fiction. “It's a cheap hotel,” I said, “They're not always too good about messages.”