The Lady's Slipper (32 page)

Here Alice protested, but was warned by the judge to keep quiet.

‘I no longer wished to continue my association with her. One cannot afford unreliable associates in business,’ finished Geoffrey.

‘And do you think, as others have asserted, that she has been seduced by the dark powers?’

‘That I cannot say. Except that my horse always refused to go near her house–and on several occasions transactions over her paintings have gone mysteriously awry. Lord Shipley has thrown away the work he commissioned; he lost both his sons in a carriage accident since having them in the house and swears Mistress Ibbetson’s paintings are the cause of his misfortune.’

‘We cannot admit hearsay in court. Confine yourself to your own opinion, please. Have you any evidence of sorcery?’

‘Not actual evidence, no, but then sorcery is just that, is it not? Invisible, except in its results.’

The jurors conferred some more. Alice tried to catch Geoffrey’s eye. Did he not realize he was condemning her with every sentence he spoke? But Geoffrey continued to stare studiously ahead into the middle distance, scratching at his sideburns and tapping his foot. The noise of his heel was loud in the stuffy chamber.

‘No further questions.’ The prosecutor turned with eyebrows raised to the judge, who was in the process of opening a silver snuff-box. He plucked out the powder and placed a pinch on his hand, from where he snorted it noisily into his nostrils. ‘Call the next witness,’ he said, before sneezing.

Geoffrey glanced her way just once before striding out of a side door, but his face was cold, set, unreadable.

The scrivener’s quill scratched on, setting Alice’s teeth on edge, noting it all.

The last witness was Betty Tansy, the cook. Alice resigned herself to more hurtful insinuations. As Betty took the oath, Alice did not even raise her head. She was ashamed of her bedraggled and coarse appearance. The evidence was stacked like firewood at her door, ready to blaze up when the next witness should drop the taper. She shrank away, fearing to hear more bruising words from an old friend.

‘You should all be ashamed of yourselves.’ Betty glowered at the assembly and took a deep breath. ‘I have been in service to Mistress Ibbetson these five years, and found her always to be godly,’ she said, defiant. ‘A more caring woman I have yet to meet. She never killed her little sister–she nursed her, and comforted her. She was well near destroyed when she died. And it’s rank nonsense to say she’s a witch.’

‘Are you dismissing the testimony of your neighbours, then, Goodwife Tansy?’

Betty looked hesitant. ‘I don’t know about that. But my hens stopped laying one week and I did not look to witchcraft for the answer. I fed them better and brought them in earlier at night and they soon perked up. Seems to me, too much is being laid at her door that don’t belong there.’

The room was now full of whispers, a noise like wind through trees.

‘But on the night in question, you were out on the wagon with the Cobbalds and the rest of Netherbarrow, were you not?’ The prosecutor paced back and forth, his hands folded behind him under his coattails.

‘Aye. And I did see Mistress Ibbetson right enough. She was bending over something in the ditch.’

‘Was it the body of Margaret Poulter?’

‘It could have been–but then again, it might not have been. It was dark.’ Further rustling from the benches and muffled talking caused the justice to admonish the people to be quiet.

‘What of the knife? Did you ever see her with this knife?’ The prosecutor pointed to where it lay on the bench before him.

Betty stuck out her chin. ‘That knife could belong to any one of us here. Ask them–go on–how many of the men own a knife exactly like this one? With a bone handle and all?’ She looked round the room, a pugnacious glint in her eye. ‘How do we know it is hers? I know I’ve never seen a knife like that in her house. She had a little penknife for cutting flowers and such. Not one like this. Nor her husband. What use would they have for such as that?’

‘I think we know what use she made of it.’ The prosecutor shared the joke with the crowd. ‘Are you quite sure you have not seen this before?’

‘I didn’t say I hadn’t seen one. Like I said, I’ve seen many a knife exactly like that one–my lad has one, and most of his friends too, and I dare say half the men in the village. But I’ve never seen one at the Ibbetsons’.’

Alice’s eyes were full of tears. Dear Betty, she was the only one who would vouch for her.

Betty stood up straight and valiantly went on. ‘And another thing. You don’t want to believe everything that Ella Appleby says. She’s a conniving—’

‘You old cow!’ shouted Ella jumping up out of her seat. ‘What have I ever done to you? You plague-ridden old—’

‘Enough!’ The justice’s voice silenced them. ‘It is not Ella Appleby who is on trial here, but Alice Ibbetson. Kindly keep to the point.’

‘That is the point,’ said Betty stubbornly, refusing to be browbeaten.

‘But you did tell the constable earlier that you saw the accused in a violent argument with the deceased only last week?’

‘It was just a disagreement, such as we all have sometimes.’

‘Other people’s disputes do not lead to murder, though, do they, Goodwife Tansy?’

The prosecutor waved a signal to the clerk, who brought forth another black-covered bundle. The noise in the room increased as people shuffled or leaned forward to see what the cloth might contain.

‘Show them to Goodwife Tansy.’ The clerk let the cloth drop to the floor to reveal a pair of yellow satin shoes.

Alice’s hands came up to her mouth. The clerk held out the shoes by the heels so that Betty could see them.

‘Well, if you do not recognize the knife, do you recognize these?’

Betty looked imploringly to Alice, and Alice nodded. Whatever the cost, the truth was all they had to hold onto in this world turned bedlam.

‘They are Mistress Ibbetson’s.’

‘And these stains–’ he held out one of the shoes–‘we have already ascertained that they are blood–they were not there before?’

‘No, sir. I never saw any marks on them afore now.’

‘So you have no idea how the marks got there?’

Betty shook her head. The judge went on, ‘Or that they were found by Ella Appleby, hidden in your kitchen, on the morning after the murder?’

‘That’s not true! I hid them before that after I had taken the—’

Alice tried to speak up but was immediately silenced by the judge. ‘Quiet. Or I will have someone stop your mouth.’

The prosecutor went up to Betty and with his face close to hers asked, ‘Did you help Alice Ibbetson by finding a hiding place for these after she had murdered Margaret Poulter?’

Those on the front row of seats with Ella began to boo and hiss and cat-call, shouting insults.

‘No, no.’ Betty became more and more flustered. She looked to Alice in confusion. Then loudly, above the hubbub, ‘No, I don’t know anything about it.’ She looked back to Alice, distressed. The prosecutor dangled one of the shoes from his index finger.

‘Look at the blood-stained shoe, Goodwife Tansy.’ He turned to the jury. ‘Surely a lady with nothing to hide would simply leave her shoes in her closet?’ He wagged a cursory hand in Alice’s direction. The jurors nodded one to the other and whispered between them selves. ‘You may leave the stand, Goodwife Tansy.’

‘But I’m not done—’

‘That will be all.’

The scrivener paused from his writing and dipped his nib into the inkwell, ready for the summing up.

Justice Lackwood’s voice was devoid of feeling, like reading a list of groceries. ‘I ask you to consider all you have heard, and indeed there has been a fine body of witnesses for the prosecution. Any one of the offences is a hanging offence, so be certain of your decision before you return your verdict. Weigh in the balance all the testimonies you have heard today. Consider also, before you reach your final verdict, the evidence of the knife and of the lady’s shoe. I trust you will reach the right decision. All rise.’

Alice was returned to the holding cell to await the verdict. The holding cell was crowded with damp prisoners; the smell of urine permeated the cold air. They stood, not because the floors were running with water, as in the gaol, but because there was no room to sit. They were packed closely like skittles in a box, all the women together, lank-haired and filthy.

Alice wondered if Hannah was on her way by now to the courthouse. She worried whether she would manage to stand up for the journey. All the Quakers were to be tried in the afternoon but she fretted that Hannah might not be able to survive rough treatment. Her husband, Jack, would be in court too for the trial, and it was this, the prospect of seeing her husband again, that had shored Hannah up.

Alice had long since given up hope that Richard Wheeler would arrive with the help he had pledged to her. She should have known his friendship would not stretch to a thief and a liar, no matter what Hannah said. There had been no sign of him at the trial. Maybe after all, she thought bitterly, he has thought better of his promise, and does not wish to become associated with a woman accused of witchcraft and murder.

When they called out her name again, she was surprised. She guessed it was less than one hour of the clock. Were her supposed crimes worthy of so little consideration? She had to extricate herself from the press of bodies and, as she did so, one woman took hold of her hand and squeezed it tight, making the sign of the cross in front of her.

‘God save you, mistress, good luck.’

When she emerged into the courtroom again, flanked by two guards, she could see brisk trading going on in the hall; peddlers were still selling tobacco and oranges, others hawking the usual grisly pamphlets detailing the crimes of notorious felons. There was much tattle and jesting as she was led up to the dock.

‘All rise,’ said the clerk, and the congregation rose as one body, with scraping of boots, jostling and elbowing, whilst the procession of the jury followed by the frail-looking Justice Lackwood filed in. All eyes were nailed fast to their faces, Alice’s included–all hoped to discern from their bearing a clue as to the verdict. The jurors took their time sitting, lingering to whisper to each other as they slid into position behind the table.

‘Spokesman for the jury, have you reached a verdict?’ asked Justice Lackwood, wiping a dripping nose and squinting at them under lowered brows.

‘Yes, it is unanimous.’

‘Alice Ibbetson, you are accused of the murders of Margaret Alice Poulter and of Flora Longley.’ Alice stared ahead at a spot in the wall over the heads of the crowd but her hands were tightly knotted together. ‘Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?’

There was an expectant hush.

‘Guilty.’

The room erupted as spontaneous cheering broke out in the gallery. This could not be happening. Up until this moment there had always been hope of reprieve, some small faith in the triumph of truth over falsehood, in the righteousness of English law. Alice almost sank to her knees, but caught a glimpse of the white flash of Ella’s chemise above the blue dress. She would not fall before her, would not give her the satisfaction.

The judge was continuing to speak, to add the word ‘guilty’ to a longer list of supposed crimes, but his words fell empty around her after the first pronouncement. She clung onto the table, her veins standing out on her thin hands, and remained shakily upright as the justice placed the black cloth over his wig. There was silence then, for although everyone knew what the gesture signified, all wanted to hear him speak the words.

As he spoke them, it was as if she had lost her hearing. She heard nothing, merely saw the faces of those she knew suddenly loom vivid from the rest of the pack–Betty, with her hand over her open wailing mouth, Sir Geoffrey, his familiar long, thin face half hidden, his hand over his brow, head downcast towards his knees. But sharpest of all was Ella, tossing her hair back from her face, showing her white throat, brazenly watching Alice through narrowed eyes, a self-satisfied smile playing on her lips. It was as if Ella was illuminated, every detail keen as cut-glass; Alice could not even blink as Ella hefted up her fine new skirts, turned away and swaggered out through the open door into the fresh air of the street outside.

Geoffrey exited the courtroom, his heart beating like a hammer, his underarms damp with sweat. That expression on Alice Ibbetson’s face when they said she would hang–it sent a peculiar feeling along his spine, as if he were a dog and all the hackles were standing on his back. He went straight across the road to the Ring O’ Bells tavern and ordered a flagon of ale. Many other people had had the same idea and soon the little taproom was full to overflowing with a noisy crowd, all vociferously discussing the titbits of the case.

‘Ah, Geoffrey. There you are.’ He looked over his shoulder at the sound of the voice. It was Robert Rawlinson in his best suit, his face red above the white cravat. He had been acting as usher for the proceedings and was keen to dissect the case with a fine blade. Geoffrey found he had no taste for it, to hear over and over the minutiae of the evidence.

‘I am sorry, Robert, I am on my way,’ he said curtly, and pressed past him. At the door he found his path blocked by two old women. He tried to force his way past but there was no room, they were literally shoulder to shoulder. He rammed one of them hard and her ale washed over the edge of the glass and down her front.

‘Say pardon,’ said one of them indignantly. Geoffrey ignored her and pushed against the door, but it would not swing open.

The woman brought her wizened face close to his. ‘A bit of courtesy costs nothing,’ she said.

He noticed the faint outline of her skull, pink beneath her white hair, and the room began to swim around him. Her face seemed to take on Margaret Poulter’s, dark beneath her hood. He had to get away.

Geoffrey tried again to push the door before realizing that it opened inwards. He pulled it and blundered through, hearing it slam behind him. On the pavement, he stooped to be violently sick.

Ella had taken her time in the bar of the Ring O’ Bells, revelling in being the centre of attention. Thomas must have been stricken with cold feet, she thought. She had been nervous about his testimony, although she had told him of the discovery of the bloodstained knife. He would maybe take it hard–the dishonour of being associated with such a wife. Perhaps that explained his curious absence from the trial. Ella had almost, but not quite, forgotten she was responsible for the whole trial, so taken was she with playing out her part. But Thomas would come round, if she warmed his bed right.

Afterwards she travelled back in a carriage with the others from Netherbarrow, alighting at the crossroads to walk back through the village to the house. She was in truth a little nervous about telling Thomas the verdict. Her stomach fluttered. It was getting on for dusk but the lamps had not yet been lit and the houses appeared gloomy with their black windows, the trees and shrubs in the gardens almost bare except for one or two shreds of leaves still clinging to the branches. There was a nip in the air and the fine rain had given way to a murky fog.

She pulled her new shawl around her. It was a good thick wool, dyed a sumptuous berry colour. She felt the warmth of it around the back of her neck, her fingers teasing the soft tassels. A week ago when she had asked for it Thomas had asked her whether there was any cheaper sort to be had. She had cajoled, and bullied, and pouted, and finally he had smiled good-naturedly, said he couldn’t be bothered to argue any more and reached into his pocket for the coins. Ella had almost loved Thomas at that moment, but not quite as much as she loved that shawl, its warmth and colour, its soft texture, its luxuriant fringe.

Ella walked more briskly, her pattens clopping on the cinder paths. She wished the hanging was over. In the back of her mind she knew a woman was about to hang for a crime she probably did not commit, but that thought seemed distant, disconnected from here and now. Alice Ibbetson’s fate was nothing to do with Ella’s walk home through the misty lanes, was quite unrelated to the feel of her soft wool dress and shawl, a thousand miles away from the warm fires of the house and Thomas’s waiting and urgent embraces. It was as if she had put Alice into a magic cabinet inside her head and waved a wand to make her disappear.

The only slight apprehension was that someone else might discover the real killer before the hanging could take place and Alice be pardoned, but that seemed unlikely as no one had come forward before now. She could not imagine going back to being a mere maidservant, or giving up her new clothes and her place in the master’s bed. Those things had always been hers by rights. That other life she had had before, well, that was a mistake on the part of the Almighty. She had always known it was this she was born for, to be comfortable, to grow old and fat with a man who could provide a good solid living. If he was dull, then so much the better, she would make sure he would have eyes only for her, that she, and only she, would have access to his cock–and his purse. Then she could get her sister Sadie away from Da, provide a proper place for them both.

The lingering idea that the real killer, whoever he may be, might still be abroad somewhere was a sobering thought, and Ella glanced right and left as she hurried along. The fog was thicker as she went over the bridge by the river, but now she could see the lighted windows of the house ahead of her, and twin lamps as if on the side of a carriage. She wondered who could be visiting, for Thomas always rode, never took the carriage. As she got closer she saw that all the rush-lights in the house had been lit. The news of Alice’s impending execution must have travelled ahead.

She went up the front path and opened the front door. This small act gave her great pleasure, for previously she had been used to going around the back through the dark passage between the wood store and the yew hedge. She hooked her shawl on the pegs behind the door. Several of Alice’s things still hung there, a wide-brimmed hat, a navy shawl, a bee-keeping gauze and a parasol. They would have to go, thought Ella.

‘And who might you be?’

Ella jumped–the woman’s clipped voice had startled her.

‘Ella.’

The woman looked her up and down, questioningly.

‘The housekeeper,’ Ella was obliged to continue.

‘Come along then, we will need you. The surgeon is with Mr Ibbetson now. I’m the vicar’s wife, Mrs Goathley. There was not a soul around when the alarm was raised, except that half-witted scullery maid, and she was about as much use as a pig in a basket.’

Mrs Goathley led the way into the parlour where the local surgeon and barber was bending over Thomas. Thomas was propped up with cushions in a boat-backed chair. The physician had hold of a curved bottle and struggled to administer some kind of drench.

‘Help me hold up his head,’ he said, beckoning impatiently at Ella.

Ella hurried forwards and took hold of Thomas by the shoulders. ‘Master,’ she said, looking into his face, ‘what’s the matter?’ Thomas was grey with a faint blueish outline to his lips. His face sagged, one side of his mouth hung open, a string of spittle like a cobweb dangled to his collar. His eyes were opaque. He showed no sign of recognizing Ella. Ella turned to the doctor, angrily. ‘What’s happened to him?’ she said.

‘An attack of the dropsy,’ said the doctor. ‘The scullery maid found him lying on the floor. He must have been there since this morning, poor man. He could not get up again or tell her what happened. Now, take hold of him and tilt his head back for me.’

Ella went round the back of the chair and, resting his forehead in the crook of her arm, drew back his head. The skin near his ear was stubbled and rough, and clammy with cold sweat. She let his head drop back onto the cushion and rushed to kneel in front of him. Putting her hand on his knee, she looked into his face.

‘Master,’ she said in a rising panic, ‘Thomas!’

She implored Mrs Goathley, who was standing rigidly to one side. ‘Tell me he’ll be all right.’ She did not answer, so Ella pawed at her, grabbing hold of a handful of her sleeve. ‘He will be all right, won’t he?’

Mrs Goathley detached Ella’s hand from her sleeve and dropped it as if it were something odious.

‘’Tis too early to say. We will see what this drench will do for him.’ Ella stood whilst the doctor poured a stream of thick liquid into the back of Thomas’s throat. Thomas struggled and coughed and tried to speak, so most of the liquid fell out of his mouth and down his vest front, making a foul-smelling brown stain. Mrs Goathley took one of the protruding gloves from his pocket and mopped and rubbed at the stain.

‘Leave him alone!’ snapped Ella. But Mrs Goathley was already stepping away with distaste, wrinkling her nose and frowning. Ella noticed his breeches were damp too, and there was a faint whiff of urine.

‘Master,’ said Ella, moving round proprietorially to hold his head, ‘be still now. The doctor is giving you some physic to make you well again.’

Thomas did not respond, but Ella pulled his head back and the dose was administered again. This time the doctor clamped his jaw shut whilst Thomas writhed and made noises like a mare in labour, until at last he lay still, his eyes dull and his mouth slack.

‘He will be quiet now. But we need to get him upstairs to his bed. You–housekeeper, go down to the alehouse and bring back a strong man to help me.’

‘No,’ said Ella. ‘I’m staying here. I’ll not leave him.’

The doctor sighed and raised his eyebrows to the vicar’s wife. ‘Mrs Goathley, be so kind as to go down the lane and fetch help.’

Mrs Goathley opened her mouth about to protest, but then, seeing the mutinous look on Ella’s face, nodded, squashed her hat back on her sparse brown hair and went out through the open door.

The doctor began to put away his equipment in his greasy holdall, the bottle of leeches, the bone spatulas, several dark glass bottles, the tweezers and the blood-letting scalpel. ‘How much help is there in the house?’ he said without looking up, his grey wig lowered over the task of fitting so many objects into such a small bag.

‘Myself. April, the scullery maid, and a stable lad that tends the master’s horses. Our cook’s just done the dirty on us and quit.’ The physician looked up as if expecting more, and Ella added, ‘Lottie Jennings helps out when there’s a need.’

‘There’ll be a need,’ said the doctor. ‘It looks severe. He’ll need nursing. There’s no telling when he might be up and about again, if at all.’

Ella stared at him. She did not know what to say. ‘You mean, he might die?’

‘Best to send out for his next of kin anyway. He will need someone to take charge of his affairs. Mrs Goathley told me about the shocking business with his wife, that she’s to hang. My physic may not be a match if there’s sorcery involved. The outcome is much more–how can I say–unpredictable.’

From the chair in the corner came a low bleat. Ella rushed over. Thomas leered at her, his face purple, trying to speak, but his words were thick and indistinct. She leaned in to hear better what he was trying to say, and his left hand shot out and clutched her by the wrist. His face was contorted down one side, the other flaccid and useless. His speech would not come, his lips unable to form the letters, his hand squeezed the bones in her wrist till she thought they might snap like kindling.

She dragged her hand away just as the door opened and the purse-lipped Mrs Goathley and the farrier arrived. The last time she had seen him was the night of the cuckolding. This evening he was sober and rubbed his calloused hands together.

He approached Thomas’s chair and doffed his cap. ‘Mr Ibbetson,’ he said.

Thomas lay inert in the chair, not responding.

The doctor exchanged a meaningful look with the farrier, and they approached the chair. ‘Come on now, sir,’ said the farrier.

The doctor and the farrier levered him up with difficulty, for although the farrier was strong as a bullock, Thomas had always been well fed and portly, and he was now a stupefied dead weight. They threw his arms around their shoulders and hauled him up the stairs by the armpits, his ankles catching and banging on every step. Ella and Mrs Goathley followed, picking up the rolling coins from his pockets and his eyeglasses. Finally the men dumped him onto the bed and left him there. Mrs Goathley and Ella looked on from the landing, Mrs Goathley sucking on her own lips as if on a lemon.

As they came out of the room, the doctor nodded to Ella. ‘Get him changed and into his nightshirt. I will call on him the morrow to see if my physic has taken effect, to bleed him if necessary, and to see how he does.’

Ella regarded the lifeless figure on the bed. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said.

‘Oh, and try and find out if there’s a relative with access to his funds. I will need paying for my duties.’

Ella inclined her head, having no intention whatsoever of sending for any relative. As far as she knew, Thomas had a mother and a twin brother somewhere in the south, but the mother was rumoured to be a proper termagant and the brother cut from the self-same cloth. The last thing Ella needed was to have them both here, lording it over her and telling her what to do. No, she would take charge herself, and if there were any bills to be paid, then she would make sure she got the wherewithal out of Thomas to pay them.

Mrs Goathley smiled thinly at Ella. ‘When his family have arrived, we will see you in church, no doubt. I will ask my husband to remember Mr Ibbetson in his prayers. You know you can call on us for help at any time.’

Ella was shrewd enough to know that this speech was purely for the physician’s benefit.

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ she said with over-obvious deference, curtseying so low that Mrs Goathley coughed in embarrassment.

When they had gone out through the front door she slammed it behind them and clattered up the stairs to the bedroom. Thomas had not moved. He lay there looking up at the ceiling, a bubble of saliva on his lower lip.

‘Thomas,’ hissed Ella, ‘speak to me.’

He made a gargling sound, but no words came.

‘Thomas,’ she repeated, shaking him urgently by the shoulders, ‘what is it? Just tell me what ails you, what I can do?’

Thomas flailed his one working arm in her direction and mumbled something unintelligible. Ella strained to understand him but could make no sense of his words. They were like bedlam talk, just sounds, not words at all.