The Lady's Slipper (31 page)

‘Beg pardon.’ Ella elbowed her way roughly to the front of the crowd where she could get a better view of the passing procession. Today was the day of the quarter assizes and most of Lancaster had turned out to watch, so there was not much room on the narrow streets. Ella wanted to position herself on the hill leading to the castle, where she would be able to see the cavalcade wend its way up. This was always the slowest section of the route as several of the men were very elderly and the whole cavalcade had to pause whilst they caught their breath. But this was the best vantage point to get a look at them, so it was popular.

A tall woman in a voluminous shawl tried to block her with her shoulder, reluctant to lose her front-row place, but Ella pulled a face at her and wormed her way past. She felt herself to be a cut above, now that she was dressed in a warm woollen dress befitting her new position as housekeeper to Thomas Ibbetson. She had cajoled and pressed him about a new dress as soon as she had started to live in. She withheld her attentions until he gave way, though she had decided to go to the seamstress herself–he would have had her in some dark, unbecoming servant’s colour.

She looked down at the fine lawn chemise jutting out over her bosom, and at the full warm skirts of a bluish-grey, like the blue of the Welsh slate on the church roof. She was sure Thomas had meant her to have a grey like a wet Maundy Monday, but when he saw her in her new dress it was not on her shoulders long enough for him to disapprove. She smoothed her hands down the bodice and assumed an air of superiority, glaring up at the lofty woman whom she had forced to shuffle aside.

The town bells pealed out, the eight-note toll repeating over and over, signalling the arrival of the sheriff’s party, with all the judges and dignitaries arrayed in their scarlet robes and full-bottomed wigs. Amongst the parade Ella was quick to spot Justice Rawlinson, his paunch almost bursting out of his robes, and pug-nosed Constable Woolley from her home town of Netherbarrow. Following the office-bearers was the Commission of the Peace–made up of the local gentry, who strutted past in all their finery, feathered hats perched on their heads despite the drizzle, pastel-coloured embroidered vests making a bright splash beneath their top-coats.

Ella craned her neck and saw Sir Geoffrey Fisk approaching, with his friends Sir John Fairfax and Lord Kendall, poor old soul, who kept halting and leaning on his stick, causing those behind to almost trip over him. They paused right in front of her and she managed to catch Sir Geoffrey’s eye and throw him what she hoped was a winning smile. Sir Geoffrey ignored her. He turned his eyes sharply away and chivvied Lord Kendall into movement by grasping him firmly by the arm and propelling him forward–quicker than he would have liked, judging by his protestations–up the hill.

Ella knew she had been snubbed but she did not care. She turned away, picking up her skirts, thinking to hurry up the hill and try to catch sight of them further up. As she squeezed past the tall woman she came face to face with Tom and Audrey Cobbald.

‘Thought it was you,’ said Audrey. ‘You might have let us in.’

‘They have moved on up,’ said Ella, noticing for the first time how down-at-heel the pair looked. ‘Best place now will be near the gates but we will be lucky to find a perch.’

‘Woolley was round yesterday, asking us about what we saw on the night of the cuckolding,’ said Tom. ‘But we kept mum about what we were up to. Told him we were out celebrating a birthday. All of us have done the same. None of us want to be branded as trouble.’

‘What else did you tell him?’

‘The truth–that we saw Mistress Ibbetson bending over the body with a knife, clear as I see you now.’

Audrey nodded. ‘He asked us if we were sure of it, given that it were dark. But I told him we saw her face plain, and that she had run off away from us like a dog with its tail between its legs.’ Her face held a kind of appeal.

Ella reassured her. ‘Just the same as we all did.’ She was satisfied; she was even beginning to believe she really had seen the body of an old woman in that ditch. After she had claimed to see it, six more of the villagers, including Audrey and Tom, had unaccountably confirmed they too had seen the mistress bending over the body.

‘They are to call us as witnesses,’ said Audrey, looking proud at the prospect.

‘What about him?’ asked Tom.

‘Who?’ said Ella.

‘The master. Is he going to stand for her?’

‘No,’ said Ella, shortly. ‘He stands against her.’

Tom and Audrey looked at each other and shook their heads, as if this was hard to believe, then looked back to Ella for more information. She kept her mouth tight shut. For Thomas had refused her in his bed, and had gone to the gaol to ask after his wife only that morning. He had returned looking haggard, saying they would not let him see her until after the trial. He had shut himself in Alice’s chamber and would not admit her. But there was time yet to work on him. If he went against her, she would withdraw her attentions, and she had discovered he was a man of strong appetites. She changed the subject by motioning at Audrey and Tom to follow her up the hill.

As they trod on the heels of the jostling crowd, accompanying them to the gates, they heard the noise of raucous shouting as a great surge of angry people pressed their way up the hill, led by a huge fellow and several scrawny bird-like women. Ella and the Cobbalds were just in time to dodge out of the way as the crowd swarmed towards the gates.

‘What’s going on?’ said Audrey.

A woman called back, ‘It’s Margaret Poulter’s son. He’s sworn to see Mistress Ibbetson hang, and her head on a stake like them others up there.’

Ella raised her eyes to the top of the ramparts, where the decomposed grisly remains swayed on their poles like lightless lanterns, a halo of flies, as yet unsated by blood, buzzing around each one.

The day after the burning of the tithe barn, Stephen woke with his eyes dry and his throat like parchment. He had arrived home late, stumbled through the dark corridors to his chambers and fallen into bed, still fully dressed, too tired to think. In the morning light he saw the sheets were tangled from his restless movement. As he sat up in his creased breeches and rumpled coat, the blankets slid to the floor in an untidy heap. In amongst them he made out the brown moleskin of his Quaker clothes, which he had left lying on the bed before he had gone down for dinner the night before.

He stood and rubbed his hand over his face. His clothes reeked of smoke. The night’s events came to him in a strange rush. He sat down hard on the bed, the wind knocked out of him.

Eventually he got up, washed half-heartedly and changed into another suit of clothes. He did not feel like shaving and could not find his wig. When he went downstairs to the dining room, his eyes prickly and his limbs stiff and sore, his father was reading dispatches from the city. When he saw Stephen enter, unshaven and pale, he frowned at him blearily from over his plate.

‘I am called to the assizes,’ his father said, ‘but there is much to be done here. Go to the overseer and tell him to get the tithe barn cleared and swept. See if there is anything that can be done with those wagons or whether they are past repair.’

Stephen stared at his plate, though he did not see it. A clink as his father set down his knife, and said, ‘Stephen. Put last night behind you. The troublemakers will be tried over the next few days and then sentenced.’

‘What will happen to them?’

‘They will be charged with treason.’ Stephen looked up to see his father watching him to see his reaction. Treasonable offences were punishable by death, and they both knew it. There was a moment’s pause before Geoffrey continued. ‘They will get the punishments they deserve, of course.’

Stephen watched his father refill his plate with kidneys and eggs, and load his fork before taking a sloppy mouthful and wiping his lips with the corner of his napkin.

‘I have decided we will sail for New England the day after tomorrow,’ said his father. ‘The
Fair Louise
was bound for the plantations anyway on a trade passage, so it will be a fine opportunity for me to show you our land there. And it will do us both good to get away from Westmorland for a while.’

Stephen started and sat back in his chair. ‘What’s this? Are you telling me I am to sail with you?’

Geoffrey nodded, his mouth full.

‘No, Father.’ A flush spread over Stephen’s cheeks. ‘I’m not leaving. I know what you are trying to do, and it’s no use.’

‘You need to get to know my holdings abroad, or how will you manage them else? Of course you will come with me, we will travel out together.’

‘I won’t go.’

‘Now, Stephen, don’t be so damned awkward. It is all arranged.’

‘Then unarrange it. I’m serious, Father. I am not leaving Westmorland.’

His father wiped his hands on his napkin before speaking. His lips were tight. Two red spots of anger flared in his cheeks. ‘In that case we will see how useful you are on the estate. I will tell the overseer you will give the orders this morning for the clearing of the tithe barn. And you will go with him to collect compensation for our losses from the families of those responsible.’

‘But—’

‘It is high time the men saw you taking more responsibility–after all, you will be master of Fisk Manor one day and the people must learn to bend to your word, just as they do to mine.’

‘No.’ The word was almost a shout. ‘I do not want to be like you.’ His father blenched. ‘Fear runs ahead of you like a snake. I want to earn their respect through fairness, not rule through terror.’

‘Are you telling me the people do not respect me?’

Stephen saw the wound in his father’s eyes but he pushed the knife in further.

‘They laugh at you. They point behind your back, and scratch themselves and call you names. But they would not to your face because they fear your bullying ways.’

His father sat stock still a moment, then stood, swaying slightly.

Stephen went on, his voice rising. ‘I do not want this mausoleum. I do not want to see people grovel and squirm wherever I go. You wanted a different son, one you never had, and you cannot force me into his mould. Why could you not see me?’ He pointed to himself. ‘Me, Father?’

His father simply stared, a look of incomprehension on his face. ‘But you have had everything,’ he began.

‘Everything? Did you ever ask me what I wanted? Did you really want to know me, what sort of a person I was? No. You never have, and I don’t suppose you ever will. We’re finished, Father.’

Stephen strode from the room and back to his chambers. There, he ripped off the moiré suit, the buckle shoes and the shirt with Brussels lace cuffs and picked up the brown moleskin trousers.

Once dressed, he surveyed himself in the glass. Sam Fielding looked back at him and smiled. He left the house, tacked up his faithful bay mare and put her in traces to pull the wood sled up to the top pasture.

An hour later he rode slowly into the yard at Lingfell Hall for the morning meeting. Sam dismounted and waited. Before long the small band of subdued Quakers had assembled, fewer now that many of their company were in gaol. They gathered around the sled, where Isaac lay, his face appearing peaceful in the morning sun.

Stephen listened as Dorothy said a few words. Then the company fell silent.

Stephen breathed a long sigh and let his hands fall loose by his sides. The weight that had been lodged under his ribs for as long as he could remember, that restless unease in the pit of his stomach, was suddenly gone. He rested in the silence, empty, yet full in spirit, knowing he had finally come home.

It was the middle of the night when Alice was roughly dragged from the cell and fastened into a set of hand irons, which hung from a neck brace in a position that made it impossible to lower her arms to rest them without jolting her neck or wrists. She had no time to embrace Hannah or wish her well, for she was sleeping when they came, and she was stumbling half out of the door before she realized what was happening to her. But she heard Hannah’s voice calling with all her strength after her, ‘God be with thee, Alice,’ as she was pushed down the corridor with the cold muzzle of a musket at her back.

When she was thrust out into the morning air she screwed up her eyes, blinking through the gauze of her eyelashes, for the light dazzled her after the dark of the cell, even though it was hardly dawn and the sky wet with drizzle. In the yard was an uncovered cart made up of a flat platform with high hurdles as sides. Several other bedraggled, raw-boned prisoners were already standing inside, and had probably been there some while as they were soaked with rain.

The gaoler jabbed at her from behind with the barrel of the musket when she struggled to climb into the cart, but the prisoner in front reached out his calloused hand as far as he could to haul her up. She smiled her thanks at him, for old habits die hard, and he smiled briefly back at her with a tight mouth. She guessed few of them would be smiling after the verdicts were read.

The journey to the courthouse was mercifully short. Alice kept her back straight and her eyes downcast despite the hubbub surrounding them as they passed through the busy streets. Every first-floor window seemed to house another vociferous heckler, who would emphasize his or her opinion by throwing down culch or the dregs of swill buckets down upon their heads. Her dress was filthy and the bodice hung loose in a way it had never done before. Her boots were grey with mildew; they looked like someone else’s feet, not like her own at all. She resisted the temptation to look up at the harrying crowd that followed them, jeering and throwing missiles. Something hard, like a stone, cracked into her temple and she reeled, then winced, but remained nonetheless fixed, ignoring them.

Outside the courthouse, the cart rattled to a stop and Alice felt herself grabbed violently by the arm. Unbalanced she fell forward, nearly toppling over the side of the cart. A woman screamed at her, words that were coarse and unintelligible, grasped a handful of her hair and, wrapping her fingers in it, tried to jolt her out of the cart. Alice cried out and pulled away, to find herself looking into the wild-eyed face of a woman incensed by pain and hatred. For a moment she feared to be consumed by the crowd and torn limb from limb, but a group of soldiers pressed in and forcibly lugged the distraught woman away, still screaming. Alice stood shakily, heart thumping, blood racing like quicksilver in her veins, haunted by the woman’s malevolent expression.

When the back hurdle was unlocked and they could descend, she looked up briefly and caught a glimpse of the assembled people. There was a man close by, his face bright with curiosity and expectancy, and filled with thinly veiled avarice. The crowd was almost as ragged and ill-fed as the prisoners. After a life of scraping and service to their superiors, most people loved to hear a death warrant; it somehow made them feel more alive. She saw the people pointing and heard the swell of the whispers, like a wavebreak on shingle, as she raised her head. Her eyes combed the crowd desperately for Richard or any of the broad-brimmed hats of the Quakers. But there were none. Quickly she lowered her eyes again and gripped her hands tightly together to prevent tears. She had hoped to see a friendly face; her husband, a neighbour, someone who knew her well–someone who would reassure her that the nightmare was over and they were going to take her home. Home to her airy summerhouse with the jar of paint brushes stood in the sunshine and the vase of sweet-peas on the table.

‘Do you promise on this holy book to tell the truth, failing naught, and that it shall be the only truth?’ Justice Lackwood of London, who looked as if he should have retired long ago, held out the scuffed Bible on which she was to place her hand.

‘I swear,’ she said clearly, for the room was packed to bursting, so much so that the smell of unwashed linen gagged in her throat. Even the nosegays carried by the justice and the jurors could not mitigate the stench of sweat, and the air throbbed with an almost palpable air of agitation.

‘You are indicted with the murder of one Margaret Alice Poulter. How do you plead?’ He glanced perfunctorily in her direction. She was startled, and looked back into his fish-like eyes, watering in his yellow face.

Her own name. Margaret had her own name. Alice took this in before replying firmly, ‘Not guilty.’ The room buzzed with outraged whispers.

‘And also with the murders of your sister, Flora Longley, your father James Longley, your mother Anne Mary Longley, and divers people unknown?’

‘Not guilty.’ She was firm. How could she confess to murders of people ‘unknown’? It was absurd.

She looked at the jurors, who were seated at a long table to her left. They shook their heads and leaned in to confer, their dusty, white-wigged heads close together. They were a sombrely dressed group–all old men, be-whiskered, their pursed lips working as if chewing on invisible cud.

When they asked her where she had been the night Margaret died, she told them the truth. That she had been out cutting flowers and had got back late. When asked if anyone could vouch for her, she said there was no one, except the villagers who had been out on the wagon. It sounded lame even to her own ears.

One by one the witnesses were brought. Alice watched the drama unfold as if it was a stranger they referred to and not herself at all. She could barely grasp what was being said, it was so outlandish. The first witness was Ella, who took to the stand proudly as if she was indeed a strolling player on a stage, smiling around at the packed benches and the galleries, smoothing her glossy brown hair on her shoulders. She looked different. Alice saw straightaway that she was dressed becomingly in a slate-blue dress with an improbably white chemise.

Alice’s downcast eyes took in her own filthy skirts and she immediately saw the contrast between them. She knew she no longer looked to be mistress of this maid, nor of this situation. But she was not going to be made sport of by this sow’s purse. Determinedly, she drew herself up taller, looked at Ella straight, her eyes never moving from her face as Ella began her testimony. If indeed it could be called a testimony, riddled as it was with lies and suppositions and slanderous implications. She listened to Ella reel off a series of accusations, which would have been pitiable were it not for the way the jury hung on her every word–outrageous claims, such as how she had turned good milk sour, made ale go black, caused women to miscarry and men to keel over and die. How she prayed to the Devil; how she had poisoned her own sister, mixing the noxious poisons in her summerhouse.

Eventually Ella was asked about the night Thomas went to dinner at the Fisks’. Alice remembered the bizarre cavalcade that had passed her in the night and heard Ella describing it as a birthday celebration. The prosecutor asked Alice why she had not accompanied her husband to Fisk Manor, and she replied that she no longer wished to dine with Sir Geoffrey because of a disagreement. When asked what this might be, she replied that ‘it was a disagreement over business’. The prosecutor returned to question Ella further.

‘You are quite sure this is the woman you saw wielding the knife on that night?’

‘Oh yes, milord. For I know her very well. I were her loyal maid and servant these past eighteen month, and now I am keeping the house going as best I can.’

Alice stared at Ella for a moment, uncomprehending. ‘You? Back in my house?’ She began to protest. ‘I do not want you in my house.’ She managed to keep her rage under a lid. ‘I tell you, from this moment forth, you are dismissed from my employ.’

As Alice spoke, Ella’s voice cut over hers. ‘You cannot dismiss me, mistress. I don’t take orders from you no more, only from the master.’

‘And we all know what sort of orders they will be,’ said Alice bitterly.

‘Are you calling me?’ Ella shouted. She turned to the justice with indignation. ‘Sir, she is blackening my character.’ She widened her eyes. ‘Her–the woman who has poisoned a babe and cut the entrails from an old woman.’

‘You vixen.’ Alice lost her temper; the words flew out of her mouth before she could prevent them. She was silenced by the banging of the mallet on the table and the justice’s cry.

‘We will have order. Remove that witness from the stand and call the defendant’s husband, Thomas Ibbetson.’

Alice turned and appealed to the justice, raising her arms in a gesture of supplication. ‘Milord, it is all fabrication. I was out gathering flowers. I did see the procession pass by me, but I would never have harmed Margaret. She was my friend.’

There was a muffled reaction from the gallery, which was hastily quashed by those others who feared missing the justice’s response.

‘I said, hold your peace. Call Thomas Ibbetson.’

Alice heard the call go out for Thomas, a booming voice outside. The crowd craned round behind them, anxious not to miss a glimpse of the unfolding action. Alice searched the pews for his familiar balding head. Despite their recent differences, he would surely vouch for her. His name echoed again in the corridors outside the room, until the court official returned and whispered briskly to the judge.

‘Thomas Ibbetson does not appear to be here, so we will proceed without him.’

‘But, sir, surely I have the right…’ Alice pleaded that she wanted her husband present, but at the same time there was a commotion in the stalls at the front where Ella was still being escorted to her seat.

‘He will be here, sir. Give him a little more time,’ shouted Ella, standing up and calling out despite the two people either side attempting to restrain her. ‘He said he would be here.’ Her voice tailed off. ‘He was to say that—’ The crack of the justice’s mallet silenced them both. He pointed to Ella.

‘If you disturb us once more you will be put below in a cell. Hold your tongue.’ He turned to the jury. ‘If Ibbetson cannot grace us with his presence at his own wife’s trial, then we will proceed with the next witness. Constable Woolley, please take the oath.’

When Woolley had been sworn in, Alice saw the clerk bring an object wrapped in a piece of black cloth to the jury’s table and place it before them.

‘This is the knife you found at the defendant’s house, is it not?’ asked the prosecutor.

‘Yes, sir, there were three of us present when we found it–concealed in the back of a drawer in Mistress Ibbetson’s summerhouse. You can see the blood on it right enough.’

The clerk unwrapped the object and Alice caught a glimpse of a large hunting knife with a curved blade and a bone handle. She had never set eyes on it in her life. The members of the jury passed it along the table, most holding it at arm’s length with distaste, and then it returned to the clerk.

‘Hold it aloft,’ said the justice. There was a gasp from the crowd at the size of the blade.

‘Lord have mercy.’ A woman’s quavering voice rose above the uproar. ‘It is a gutting knife. You killed my sister with this? Like an animal?’ A large man was holding onto her arm, trying to quiet her. ‘Shush, Hetty. Let them get on with it. She will hang soon enough.’ Alice recognized the tortured eyes of the woman who had tried to drag her out of the cart.

Alice stammered, ‘But how did it come to be in—?’

‘Be silent,’ cut in the prosecutor. ‘Three people will attest that they found this in a drawer in your summerhouse. A building for which you, and you alone, have the key. How do you account for that?’

‘I have no idea, perhaps one of them put it there.’

The justice laughed. The whole room took his cue and erupted in guffaws.

‘Are we to believe that Justice Rawlinson, Constable Woolley and the eminent Sir Geoffrey Fisk would conspire to pervert the course of justice? Is not the more likely explanation that you hid the accursed object yourself?’

Alice was unable to answer, and was forced to swallow the unpalatable fact that her guilt was a foregone conclusion. She watched with a sinking heart as one by one the villagers gave their testimony. She found it impossible to believe that the safe haven she had lived in for so many years had turned tail and become another place completely, where all those she had known and loved were ready to turn traitor.

She endured the testimonies, as one by one they corroded any remaining dignity and redrew her as a different woman. Every ill in the village was somehow attributed to her, from breech-birth lambs to chimney fires. It seems she never passed anyone by without some disaster should befall them, as barley makes malt. She was an evil influence. This from Sir Geoffrey Fisk. Surely a man of his intelligence would refuse to believe these outrageous claims?

He took the oath impatiently, as though he could not wait to get it over, rushing through the affidavit in stuttering haste. He appeared uncomfortable on the witness stand but answered all the questions briefly. It appeared he had been called upon to witness to her character, and she found herself horrified by the picture he painted.

‘Yes, she went into a decline after her sister’s death.’

‘As one who knew her well, do you think—’

‘Oh, I did not know her too well, she is a difficult woman,’ interjected Geoffrey.

‘Is it likely then,’ went on the prosecutor, ‘that she was suffering from grief, in your opinion, or could it have been remorse or guilt?’

‘Well, it is difficult to say. But she kept painting portraits of the dead child, as if she would make amends and bring her back to life.’

Whispers ran round the gallery.

‘May I ask what your relationship was to Mistress Ibbetson?’

‘She painted wild flowers for my clients on commission.’

‘And you had a cordial relationship?’

‘Not of late. Mistress Ibbetson’s work had become somewhat unpopular. She became erratic, subject to moods and vapours. The quality had gone from her work.’