Familiar Spirits (29 page)

“I ask you, Mrs. Roundy. Is this the girl you saw in your garden, beneath the lime tree?”

Mrs. Roundy squinted and looked at Susan. She shook her head. No, Susan was not the one she had seen. She was very positive about that.

“But what of the hair, this wig. Was not the hair of the apparition of the same length and straightness as you see before you?”

“Why, yes, I believe it may have been. But the face I saw was definitely Ursula’s.”

“Or that of someone with like countenance,” suggested Matthew.

“Well, it wasn’t this girl,” Mrs. Roundy said positively, frowning at Susan. “She doesn’t resemble Ursula at all.” “No, she does not,” conceded the constable.

Matthew said the baker’s wife could return to her seat, and she did, a smug look of vindication on her face.

The magistrate now asked somewhat impatiently where Matthew had come by the wig he held and what it had to do with the accused women. Matthew said his question would be answered shortly, and the clerk called Arthur Wilts to the stand.

“Explain, Arthur, how you spent your morning while the rest of us were here in the Sessions House.”

Arthur turned to the jury and told how he and the clothier’s apprentices had cleared the rubble of the Waite barn, and of the finding of the two bodies in the cellar. “And who were these bodies, Arthur?”

“One was the Waites’ servant that ran off, Brigit Able.” As he said this, a moan of grief could be heard from Margaret Waite and there was a flurry of whispers in the court. But the clerk had no need to call for silence. The spectators quieted of their own accord. They were eager to hear the identity of the second corpse.

“And the other body?” Matthew asked.

“We thought it was a woman,” said Arthur, “for so he was dressed, but when we lifted him up we discovered that he had male parts.”

“He was a man?”

“Yes, sir, he was indeed.”

“But at first you thought it was a woman—because of its dress?”

“We did. He was wearing this woman’s garb, you see, and also the hair—or the wig, as I should say, for a wig it proved to be. The man was wearing a wig, and he was wearing a gown, sir, such as Ursula Tusser used to wear.”

“In fact the garment was Ursula’s, wasn’t it? And the wig the body wore, that was Ursula’s wig, wasn’t it—made of her own hair?”

“I wouldn’t know about that, sir,” said Arthur.

“No, you wouldn’t. But here is Susan Goodyear, who, as all the world knows, was a good friend once to Ursula. She can testify it is true.”

Susan nodded. In a thin nervous voice she declared the wig was Ursual’s, made of her own hair. “Ursula when she cut her hair would save it, and in time made a wig of it.”

Matthew turned his attention to Arthur again. “Now, Arthur, tell us whose body it was that you found in the cellar beside that of Brigit Able?”

“It was her brother’s, sir. Ursula’s brother, Andrew Tusser.”

The chamber resounded with loud murmurs of amazement. The clerk called for silence.

“Another ghost, Mr. Stock?” asked the magistrate when the audience had grown silent again.

“No, sir,” answered Matthew. “Andrew Tusser died in the fire, just as Brigit Able did. Those who think what we found was a spirit may trouble themselves to go to the churchyard, as Arthur and I did shortly before coming hither, and look in his coffin. You’ll find there no body but two bags of rocks and sand drawn from our own Chelmer. What’s left of Andrew Tusser is laid out in the Waites’ back yard.”

“You mean, then,” said the magistrate, “that the person the baker’s wife saw was no ghost, but the dead girl’s brother, who we all thought was dead himself?”

“Yes, sir. That is what I mean. Wearing his sister’s gown and wig, he much resembled her, especially to those not close enough to detect the down on his chin, and full of the expectation of seeing Ursula and not him.”

The prosecutor, who had been sitting impatiently during these revelations, rose to protest. “Come now, Mr. Stock. This is all very interesting, and were this lout you speak of— Andrew Tusser—alive, we could have him up on some charge or another, if only for parading in female attire. But he is dead. And whether by fire or otherwise, I see no way this bears upon the case against the witches.”

“I beg to differ, Mr. Malvern,” Matthew said. “The prin-

cipal charge against these women is necromancy and murder. If there were no ghost, as it now appears is the case, there is no necromancy.”

“There may yet be murder, however, Mr. Stock,” interjected the magistrate. “Malcolm Waite was deprived of his life by a fearful shock of seeing what he thought to be Ursula Tusser at his window. The brother was dressed as his sister. Such imposture was as deliberate as it was deadly.”

“I think, sir,” said Malvern in his ponderous tone, “that it is a plain fact that the women made use of this wretched boy, who, by what I have heard tell, was too simpleminded to have plotted this himself. Whether they paid him money or granted some favor is immaterial. They had the motive and the opportunity. See now, the boy was found with the serving girl of Margaret Waite. And in her barn! Doesn’t that argue complicity? What more proof is required?”

The magistrate stroked his chin thoughtfully and regarded the prosecutor first, then Matthew, as though he were trying to decide which counsel to follow. Then he said, “I think, Mr. Malvern, that our good constable has thrown enough light on this darkness that we should allow him to hold his lamp a little higher. Proceed, Mr. Stock. What other revelations do you have for this court?”

Matthew asked the clerk to call the next witness. Thomas Crispin rose in response to his name and made his way forward to the witness stand. His rage at the mistreatment of his wife, so evident in the strong set of his jaw and his blazing dark eyes, had now been replaced by a more complex set of emotions. He walked with a kind of reckless swagger, as though he were prepared to tell the whole court—and, indeed, the whole world—to go to hell.

“Andrew Tusser was your servant?” asked Matthew when the tanner had taken his oath.

“He was. All the town knows it,” Crispin answered brusquely.

“You were present when he died, weren’t you?”

Crispin hesitated at the question, then said, “He was dead when I got to the field where he’d been playing football. I 
was in your custody as a prisoner when the fire broke out that killed him, if you're implying I had anything to do with his death.”

“I mean the day he collapsed and we
thought
he had died,” replied Matthew calmly. “You remember, Mr. Crispin. You carried the body off.”

“I did.”

“You confirmed he was dead.”

“Well, I thought he was. I’m no physician. He
looked
dead.”

“But how could you have made such a mistake?” asked Matthew.

“You made it yourself, Constable Stock,” Crispin responded curtly. “You told me he was dead, in fact. There was not a wisp of breath, no pulse. The flesh was growing cold. We thought the great exertion—or perhaps the blow— had killed him. It had happened before, even to young men of strong constitutions.”

“I don’t blame you for mistaking his death,” said Matthew. “As you point out, I made the same error. I accuse you of concealing the fact that he later revived.”

“That’s not true!” shouted the tanner, his voice reverberating in the court and his great chest heaving. “I thought he
was
dead.”

“And you saw to his burial?”

“I did. Ask the church warden. Ask the parson, who blessed the grave and said words over the body. I paid a shilling for the stone.”

“The parson said words over two bags of Chelmer sand and rock,” said Matthew, “sufficient in weight to give the impression there really was a body inside the coffin. There was no body because Andrew Tusser was alive. The bags were canvas. They bore
your
mark!”

“They did not!” Crispin said resolutely. “They bore no mark at all. They—”

Crispin stopped in mid-sentence, realizing his fatal error.

Matthew turned to the judges and spoke quietly: “Either Mr. Crispin has eyes that can travel far beyond the walls of this room, or he knows exactly what bags I speak of. He has said truly. The bags bear no mark—no mark at all. But how could he know
that,
save they were his and he filled them and put them in the empty coffin himself?”

A
murmur
of confused speculation swept over the room, engulfing the jury and judges as well, and it was some time before order was restored and the trial could continue. But the focus of attention had clearly shifted. Both Margaret and Jane, still under guard on the prisoners' bench, had become anxious spectators to the case building against Jane’s husband.

“You revived Andrew Tusser,” Matthew said.

Crispin made no answer. Beads of sweat could be seen on his brow.

“Speak, Mr. Crispin,” the magistrate said. “The constable has put a question to you.”

“I did
not
revive him,” said Crispin through clenched teeth. “Like everyone who saw the body, I thought he was surely dead. I carried him back to the house and laid the body out. He was an orphan, but he was my servant. No one else in the town would have paid for his burial. I was putting him in his coffin when I heard him moan and then gasp for breath. He had been in a sleep. A very deep sleep. But he awoke.”

“But you concealed the fact of his being alive and perpetrated the fraud of his burial?”

“Yes, I did that.”

“Why?”

Crispin shook his head. “I’ll say no more than what I have said.”

The magistrate said, “I warn you, Mr. Crispin. You are in considerable peril in the law’s eyes. You had better answer the constable’s questions or be prepared to endure the penalty.”

“I know the penalty,” replied Crispin obstinately. “And I will suffer it, but I will say no more about Andrew Tusser. No, nor about his sister either.”

Matthew walked up to where the tanner stood and looked at him keenly. “Your wife, sir,” Matthew said slowly, “is on trial here for her life. Your silence will do her very little good. What, would you compound her suffering when there is a possibility that through your confession her reputation may be cleared, her life saved? Think of your wife, sir! And of your children! These must endure the obliquity of having a convicted witch for a mother unless you speak and cause these mists of confusion and error to disperse.”

Crispin winced at Matthew’s words. A little pulse twitched in his broad, sweating forehead, and his jaw locked firmly. Matthew realized that what was now in Crispin’s eyes was not wrath but suffering. The man was in agony, his dark eyes bright with anguish. It was not death he feared—Matthew knew that now—but something worse. What was it? Whatever it was, Matthew realized that he had found the one argument that would break the strong man’s resolve: his love for his wife. Now Matthew was sure Crispin would speak.

Since beginning his testimony, Crispin had not looked at his wife. After the constable’s words, he did. Matthew watched as the hardness in the man’s face began to dissolve. His broad shoulders slumped and he let out a heavy sigh.

Crispin said, “Whichever course I take, I lose. I will speak, and may God forgive my ill intents, even as he rewards the good.”

Everyone strained to hear the tanner’s words, which were softly spoken now, heavy with defeat. Tears glistened in his eyes. “I must go back . . . tell my story from the beginning,” said Crispin, drawing his hand across his brow as if to clear his thoughts. “Else the story will make no sense at all.” The tanner paused, struggling to control his emotions. “My 
wife once had a brother, whom she loved greatly. Some of you here today will remember him. His name was Philip Goodin. He was a hot-tempered youth, much opposed to my marriage with his sister. He died—was killed—some dozen years or more not three miles from this place. The Elephant. The tavern still stands.

“The night before my marriage was to be solemnized, I and a few of my friends went to this same tavern. I was the only single man among them, and it was their intent to celebrate the last night of my bachelorhood with good fellowship and drink.

“It was late unto the night when my wife’s brother appeared among us. At first I thought that there would surely be trouble, but it was otherwise. He was in a companionable mood. He said he wished to make amends for our previous disagreements, join hands in friendship, and drink to my marriage to his sister. Because I never bore him the ill will he bore me, I did not hesitate to take his hand. Whether he was sincere in his profession or not, I do not know—neither then or now. But while he sat with us he drank long and deep. In his drunkenness our old quarrel flared. He called me names, defamed my trade, and said his sister might find a better man to father her children. He challenged me to step outside and prove myself other than a craven coward. I refused. I told him to go home and sleep away his drunkenness. I reminded him that his father had given consent for his sister’s marriage. Within twenty-four hours we would be kinsmen. Brothers. This only made him the more belligerent.