The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunnits by Mike Ashley

Author:Mike Ashley [Ashley, Mike]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781780333540
Publisher: Constable & Robinson

She’s gagging, but trapped in her own vile stench.

And still the sack keeps on swinging –

“How long did you stand there laughing at her, Mary? How many hours did you watch an old woman struggle for breath and for dignity, until she finally confessed to her sins?”

The brodder had recorded it in delicate detail, insisting the witch give up the name of her accomplice, who in turn, of course, gave up the names of others.

“They call it the witch’s cradle and, just like the tying of bonds for ducking the witch, it was designed with great care,” she told Mary. “The dice are suitably loaded.”

Often the victim suffers hallucinations as well, which was how Lucy Hewitt, eighty-two years old, admitted convening with the coven at the crossroads at midnight, conjuring the dead round the compass of death as they copulated with Satan in turn.

“That’s not all.”

Anger was rising like a rip tide inside her. She could no more hold it back than turn push back the sun.

“Before hanging, it is the witchfinder’s solemn duty to wash away corruption and redeem the soul, and do you know how he does that? Do you, Mary? The brodder ties his victim to the boards naked – oh yes, naked, he’s vicious to his core – and then he pinches their nose until they can stand it no more, and when they frantically open their mouth to gasp for air he stuffs a funnel in it and pours scalding water down their throat.”

Mary gulped but quickly recovered. “All right, I admit it got out of hand, but I don’t see what this has to do with you –”

“No? Well, that’s the interesting part, Mary. You see, if you’re going to accuse someone of witchcraft, you really ought to know who and what you are dealing with.” Eleanor smiled. “Me, Mary. I’m the real thing.”

Her face went white and her mouth dropped. “Dear God in heaven!”

“Somehow I doubt that. In the same way that I can’t accept cloven-hoofed monsters prancing around waving pitchforks, I find it difficult to believe in a god who idly stands by while decent women suffer the most abominable torture in his name, either.”

“So –” For the first time, Mary was worried. “Are you going to make a wax image of me and burn it slowly to twist up my body and make me suffer pain?”

“Worse,” Eleanor said, because there was no point in telling the girl that witchcraft had nothing whatsoever to do with the black arts, but revolved around health and wellbeing. “My curse upon you is a conscience. Every day for the rest of your life, Mary Bellingham, you will wake up with a body every bit as sturdy as it is today, and every day you will relive Betsy’s torment, your role in it and the tragedy you brought upon not just thirteen innocent women, those who had loved and depended on them.”

For as the brodder himself proved, if you plant an idea in a gullible brain, that idea will quickly take hold.

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