Defending the Dead (Relatively Dead Mysteries Book 3) (28 page)

Abby had really warmed to her subject by now. “Ah, I have a theory about that too. I discarded the idea that Tituba was some kind of drug dealer handing out hallucinogens to innocent girls, but she could well have been an herbalist. And there are a lot of uses for herbs. I picked up a nice book from England about medicinal herbs, and one thing I noticed when I read through it was how many warnings there were not to give a lot of the decoctions to pregnant women, because they can bring about miscarriages—or help a woman deliberately end a pregnancy.”

“Oh, wow,” Sarah said, with a gleam in her eye. “So you’re suggesting that not only was Reverend Parris sleeping with his ward, for want of a better term, but he may have gotten her pregnant?”

“It’s a theory. It’s a little late to prove it—unless, of course, Abigail was shipped off to who knows where to have the baby. But say it’s true. Say Tituba knew what was going on in the household—in a house that small, with so many people living in it, it would have been hard
not
to know. And say she figures out that Abigail was in the family way. She could have gone to either Abigail or to her master and said, I can help you take care of this.”

“But Tituba was accused too! By Abigail!” Sarah protested.

“Yes, she was. Maybe her brews didn’t work. Or maybe it was a ruse to draw attention away from her by focusing on her, if you see what I mean. Make Tituba the villain, leading the girls astray. Or maybe she threatened the reverend with a bit of blackmail about the possible baby, so it was important to get her out of the way. It worked, in that she got shipped off to the Boston jail.”

“But not hanged?” Leslie asked.

Abby shook her head. “No, or not according to any record. She confessed, which in those days meant she would be spared, so presumably they didn’t hang her. Like Abigail, she disappears when the fuss dies down and never reappears in the story. I’m still puzzled by why nobody seems to pay any attention to those
two
disappearances. It’s easier to accept losing sight of Tituba, and maybe her husband, because they were slaves and Parris could have sold them. He was hard up for money, since most of the time the village wasn’t paying him his salary, or even providing the promised firewood. Records for slaves in those days were probably sloppy, so Tituba kind of fell through the cracks. But Abigail? Both of them?”

Ned leaned back in his chair and stretched. “So you’re saying that Parris wasn’t sleeping with his wife but being a lusty man he was sleeping with Abigail, under his own roof?”

“It’s a hypothesis,” Abby reminded him.

“If you say so. And Abigail
may
have gotten pregnant, and either Parris or Abigail may have recruited Tituba to help her end the pregnancy, or Tituba volunteered to help?”

“Yes.”

Ned shook his head and went on, “Then, Abigail, pregnant or not, is first shipped out of the Parris house to Salem, away from Parris but not too far away, in the home of a convenient relative, and a few months later, she disappears forever?”

“You’ve got it,” Abby said.

“Well, it’s an interesting theory,” Ned said, looking unconvinced.

“So how do you fit in all the other accusers?” Leslie demanded.

“That’s a little trickier,” Abby admitted. “There were around twenty of the girls, with an age range spanning the teen years—and we shouldn’t read too much into that description, since that age isn’t what it is today. I don’t know how that number fits with the demographic of the village—I mean, was that all the girls in Salem Village, or if not, what percentage? Half? A quarter? Anyway, there were enough girls of a certain age who obviously knew each other, had probably grown up together, and might have been interested in being part of a rebellious little plan during a boring winter. They might not even have known about the whole pregnancy thing. Abigail could have recruited them and told them a different story. Although I’m still boggled that so many girls could have been spared from household chores and such to hang out and get into trouble. This wasn’t the rich end of Salem, this was the farming end.”

“The pregnancy is still just a theory,” Ned interrupted.

“Yes. If there was a pregnancy, maybe the rest of the girls didn’t know, or maybe they were all interested in how to stop a pregnancy. Either way, it’s not necessary to the plot. They were a gang, led by one manipulative little schemer, who was probably encouraged—and given instructions—by Samuel Parris, and they were probably happy to have a reason to cut loose. What it comes down to is this: I refuse to believe that Abigail, whatever her age, was smart or savvy enough to create this whole elaborate scheme—it had to be Parris. I’m willing to guess that once things got started, she really enjoyed the attention, and it made it easier to recruit other girls. Strength in numbers, you know? And then maybe the whole plan took on a life of its own, and got out of hand.”

“Whose idea was it to go after Burroughs, then? What had he done to anyone? If that was Parris’s idea, wouldn’t that cast his own standing in doubt? If it was accepted that a minister could be in league with the Devil?” Sarah asked.

“But Burroughs was long gone by the time the witchcraft thing started up. It was easy to accuse him of who knows what, when he wasn’t there to defend himself, and Parris took control by leading the charge, through his puppet Abigail. Remember, it was Abigail who spoke out against Burroughs, and it’s pretty good odds that she was coached by Parris. Don’t you think?”

“You make it sound plausible, Abby,” Leslie admitted. “But why have people glossed over a lot of these things?”

“You tell me,” Abby said. “Each generation views the past through its own lenses. I found it fun skimming through the histories of Salem, and nineteenth- and twentieth-century interpretations. I’m not saying any of them is wrong, but they each had a viewpoint specific to their time, that they couldn’t escape. And our generation will probably be just as right or wrong in its own way, and we just keep moving further away from the event, with no way to glean any more real information until somebody invents time travel.”

“I think you’re as close as they come, Abby.” Leslie hesitated, then said softly, “What did you see?” Her tone was almost wistful.

Abby glanced at Ned and Sarah, and they nodded encouragement. “Ned and I went to Salem on Saturday. I was looking for where the early trials were held, in the historic district, the old meetinghouse and the First Church. Of course, the buildings are long gone now, but we found the site. And I ‘saw’”—Abby made air quotes—“parts to two of the trials. As I told you, I can only see things through one of my ancestors, so in a way I got a bonus: I was seeing one of my ancestors testifying at a trial. He gave his name, which is how I knew who he was. He gave testimony at only one trial, in defense of Elizabeth Proctor, so it was easy to narrow that down. But I was watching him through someone else’s eyes, so I knew another member of my family had to be there. And that’s where it ended—just a minute or two. But I could see the judges—and the accusers. Abigail Williams was there, in the front row, looking very pleased with herself. She really liked all the attention.”

“Was that all?” Leslie asked.

“No. I came home and did some more research, so I’d be better prepared. Then on Tuesday I asked Sarah to come with me to Salem. We stopped again in town, and I saw part of Sarah Cloyce’s hearing, through her eyes. Then we went looking for Gallows Hill, where the accused witches died. And we found it.”

“There’s a park there,” Leslie said.

“Yes, but it’s in the wrong place. The real hill was smaller—it’s right behind the Walgreen’s there, not far from the official park.”

“So what happened?” Leslie was watching Abby intently.

“Samuel was there again, but this time he was with me, or the me I was seeing through—a woman, and she was very upset. Samuel kept trying to get her to leave. He called her Hannah, and I came back and worked out that she had to be his wife, Hannah Bridges. And when I worked my way up the line, I found that her mother was Sarah Towne, and what we were seeing was the hanging of Hannah’s aunt Rebecca Towne Nurse. It was awful. And then some car in the parking lot blew its horn and it was over.”

Leslie stared at Abby, uncertain. Then she glanced at Sarah. “You were there?”

Sarah nodded once. “I was.”

“You don’t see these things?”

“I see some things. I didn’t see anything at Salem.”

“You believe Abby? She’s not just going into some phony trance and making things up? Or fantasizing the things she’s read about?”

Sarah responded quickly. “Leslie, how can anyone answer that? Abby didn’t know who Samuel Barton was until she saw him in Salem. She didn’t know who his wife was, or that she was descended from the Townes. And why on God’s green earth would anyone make up things like this? I know you don’t want to believe it, but you’d better get used to it. Do you not believe your own daughter?”

Leslie shook her head without looking at anyone. “I swear, I thought she was just an imaginative kid. I’d say something vague like, ‘sure, that’s nice,’ and I probably sounded dismissive. After a while she stopped telling me about what she saw, and I thought I was right—I thought she’d outgrown it. I guess the reality is that she saw how I reacted and she just shut up. Until Abby came along.”

“Leslie, I—” Abby began, but Leslie stopped her.

“No, this is nothing you did. I suppose I acted by the book with her, but that wasn’t right. But you know how hard it is for me to wrap my head around this? To sit here in this room and have you tell me that you had a conversation with people who have been dead for centuries?”

“Leslie, I’m not there! I’m just seeing
through
people. I can’t talk with them, and they don’t see me. I’m like a passive receiver.”

Leslie waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever. It doesn’t make a lot of difference, you know? I can’t do this thing that you can. I’ll never be able to do it. I don’t have the gene or whatever it is. I can’t buy it, or practice it. But my child can. And that scares me.” She stood up abruptly, almost knocking over her chair. “I’m sorry, but I have to think this through. Thank you for sharing it with me, all of you—I do appreciate it. This is my problem, not yours. Abby, you can keep seeing Ellie, and we’ll eventually figure out how to tell her where Ned fits in the picture. But right now I’m going.”

Ned stood up and followed her to the door. He said something in a voice too low for Abby to catch the words. Abby felt exhausted, even though all she’d done was talk. “Was I making any sense?” she asked Sarah.

Sarah smiled briefly. “As much sense as those people who described the Devil in minute detail. Seriously, I think you pulled a lot of details into one package. Is it perfect? No, but it’s not bad for a week’s worth of research. What are you going to do now?”

Abby sat back and said, “I’m going to write it all down, and then I’m going to stick what I wrote in a drawer and not think about it for a while.”

“That’s probably sensible. But don’t you have some unfinished business with your Samuel Barton? Now that you know him, kind of?”

“Probably. But I’m going to worry about that tomorrow. Will Leslie be okay with all this, do you think? You’ve known her longer than I have.”

“That was years ago, and before she was a mother, which changes things. I think Leslie is an intelligent, practical person. She liked and trusted you before all this started, and you haven’t changed as a person. She’ll come around, eventually. As she said, she doesn’t really have a choice. And she left the door open. I think she’s listening to you.” Sarah glanced at her watch. “Oh, shoot, look at the time! I’d better get back and start dinner. I really did appreciate you including me in this—it was fun, and at the same time I think you may have discovered a few kernels of truth, although we’ll probably never know for sure.”

“That’s all right with me. I’ve learned a lot.”

“Don’t get up—I’ll say good-bye to Ned on the way out.”

29

Abby mustered up enough energy to take the remaining tea things back to the kitchen, where Ned joined her. “So, what’s your verdict?” she asked.

“About Leslie, Mom, or your Salem hypothesis—or multiple hypotheses? I’ll take the easy one: Salem. I think your ideas are more rational than a lot of theories that have been tossed around. Funny how so many historians treat those people like actors on a stage and forget that they were ordinary humans—cold, scared, angry, sickly, scared of Indians, whatever. As you pointed out, it’s very hard to accept that a twelve-year-old Abigail could have not only started this mess, but sustained it over time. One incident, maybe two, most people could buy—but over months? And then she recruited her friends? It doesn’t feel right. There had to be a stronger mind behind it, and Parris as puppet master makes sense. But if it was him, he pulled it off—he even kept his job, until the townspeople got tired of him, which seems to have been a regular occurrence in the village.”

“You’ve been doing your homework,” Abby said.

“I have, a bit,” Ned admitted. “Are you satisfied with what you’ve found?”

Abby perched on a stool. “I think so. I feel privileged to have seen even a fragment of what happened—and that was probably more than enough. I don’t want to see any more hanged bodies. And I really do admire Samuel Barton, who stood up for his family, and I’ve learned that when things didn’t improve, he gathered them together along with the other affected families and took them to a safer place, where they thrived. I’m proud to be descended from him.”

“So you’re done?” Ned asked.

“Almost. I have one more thing I want to do, but after that I’ll give it a rest. Does all this bother you?”

“Honestly? A little. I know that you’re completely sincere, since I’ve been watching you since this began. You’re not just looking for attention, either consciously or unconsciously. In a way I envy you—you’ve embraced this thing, and you’re working hard to learn more about it. I don’t think I can ever catch up, since I’ve spent a lot of my life suppressing it, not cultivating it—maybe it’s atrophied.”