Death Magic by - (smart ebook reader .txt) 📖

her, pale and hunched, sat with three other stunned-looking women.

‘Doesn’t yet believe her fate. You wish to speak with her?’

Charlie nodded.

‘She’s in a low state of mind,’ said the vicar. ‘I think she believed God would intervene. Go to her. I’ll be sure the guards don’t trouble you.’

Charlie clapped him firmly on the shoulder in thanks. As he did, he slid a light pickpocket’s hand inside the holy man’s coat.

‘Will you watch the pyre?’ asked Charlie.

The vicar’s eyes widened in shock and Charlie quickly untied his hanging pocket.

‘I’ll be there with her,’ he muttered, ‘but I don’t mean to watch.’

‘Better that way,’ agreed Charlie, tugging the pocket free. He stepped back, passing it to John. Then he moved towards the cart.

The wagon was loaded with poor skin-and-bone wretches. Elizabeth was standing now, working a Bible in her hands. She gave a gasp when she saw Charlie.

‘Elizabeth,’ he said.

She made the ghost of a smile and moved forward.

‘Come to set me free?’ she asked. Charlie’s heart shrank at the tinge of hope in her voice.

‘No,’ he said regretfully.

She moved to the edge of the cart, out of hearing of the other prisoners.

‘You wouldn’t be here,’ she said, ‘if you understood the evil I’m capable of.’

‘You and Nancy were lovers,’ said Charlie. ‘I know it.’

Elizabeth’s hands trembled.

‘The vicar said that you thought Nancy possessed by the Devil.’

She nodded.

‘I do believe that,’ she said. ‘We both were. If we were not …’ Unexpectedly, her face reddened and tears sprang to her eyes. ‘If I were not,’ Elizabeth whispered, ‘how could she have made me feel … what I felt?’

‘You loved her,’ Charlie said simply.

Elizabeth wiped the falling tears away. Her hands reached for the string tied round her neck. She saw Charlie’s gaze follow her hands and drew them away quickly.

He thought he caught the edge of what the string held, tucked beneath her dress. It was a flash of silver.

‘And sometimes hated her too,’ she said haltingly. ‘Though we knew it to be wrong, Nancy was the greatest happiness I ever knew on this earth. But we knew, we both knew, it was the Devil …’ She stopped and took a shuddering breath. ‘He made us do those terrible things. But I loved her. God forgive me.’

‘Perhaps it isn’t too late,’ suggested Charlie. ‘If I can find the silver thimble it might help me find the killer. Nancy’s brother told me the vicar had it.’

‘Nancy’s brother?’

‘The red-haired apprentice.’

Understanding dawned in Elizabeth’s face. ‘That makes sense,’ she muttered. ‘The boy is her brother.’ Her green eyes lifted to Charlie’s. ‘But how would her vicar have the thimble? Such a thing isn’t possible.’

Guards were shoving extra prisoners onto the cart now. Elizabeth was jostled out of view. She pushed back to the front.

‘If the vicar was Nancy’s killer,’ reasoned Charlie, ‘he might have taken it from her body.’

‘No.’ Elizabeth was shaking her head. Her hand reached again for the cord around her neck. ‘It isn’t possible,’ she said with surety. ‘Nancy’s brother was mistaken.’

‘What makes you so sure?’ asked Charlie.

‘Because I …’ More prisoners pushed her aside. This time she was hemmed in tight on all sides. Her face set itself in piety.

‘I leave my fate to God,’ she shouted over the noise. ‘When Nancy died I resolved to meddle no more in earthly affairs.’

Charlie realised immediately.

She won’t tell me like this. Not shouted from a prison cart.

‘You must have some thoughts as to who murdered her,’ he urged. ‘Her killer came from inside the house. They used a candlestick or something like it. You can’t easily hide such a large weapon. The person would have been known to you.’

Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears.

‘At least confess,’ said Charlie. ‘Say you were her lover. They’ll hang you instead of a burning.’

She shook her head.

‘I won’t own to something I’m innocent of,’ she said loudly. ‘I trust in God. If he believes me innocent I’ll be saved.’ She looked uncertain suddenly. ‘If my love for Nancy was evil,’ she concluded, ‘then I must burn.’

‘God won’t save you,’ said Charlie. ‘Please. You’ve never seen a burning.’

But before he could say more, the cart lurched and guards pushed him roughly back.

Charlie backed away as Elizabeth was hidden among the new crowd of prisoners. John stepped to his side.

‘Is she guilty?’

‘If she is,’ said Charlie, ‘she’s a good liar.’

John pulled out the vicar’s hanging pocket.

‘Shall we find out?’ he asked.

He let the pocket fall open. Their faces dropped in disappointment.

‘It’s not here,’ said John, eyeing the meagre contents of the pocket. There were a few coins and a plain silver ring.

Charlie picked one out.

‘Patrick mistook,’ he said, disappointment flooding him. He’d pinned his last hopes on some evidence in the vicar’s pocket. ‘It could resemble a thimble from a distance,’ he added, dropping it back in the purse.

‘How could you mistake a ring for a thimble?’ protested John.

‘His sister had just been brutally killed,’ said Charlie. ‘Patrick believes a witch killed her. A witch who gave Nancy a betrothal thimble. He’s probably seeing silver thimbles everywhere.’

Charlie watched the cart lumbering slowly away. He called to the guard bringing up the rear.

‘Give this to the vicar!’ he called, tossing the pocket. ‘It fell from his coat. He should take better care in future.’

The guard caught the pocket and nodded, looking confused.

‘We wasted time,’ Charlie concluded sadly, ‘on a wild goose chase. If Elizabeth is innocent it’s too late to save her now.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Nineteen

‘Not going to watsh the witch-burning then?’ slurred the silversmith, already drunk.

‘No.’ Charlie was on his third tankard of ale. He’d hoped it would help him think, but it was having the opposite effect. Images of Elizabeth burning were running through his mind.

He took another swig. A clutch of stray puppies were racing around the tavern floor, growling and worrying furniture. The landlord was half-heartedly shooing them out.

John clapped Charlie on the back, jolting him free of his thoughts.

‘Don’t take it hard,’ said John. ‘There had to be one stolen thing you didn’t find. You’d end up accused of witchcraft yourself if it wasn’t so.’

Charlie managed a small smile.

‘I’ll find the thimble,’ he said.

‘Perhaps the wife did it after all,’ suggested John.

‘Looks that way.’ Charlie was playing the image of Elizabeth over in his head. Straight-backed and sober. She wasn’t a soft woman. But was she capable of murder? He tried to picture her wielding a weapon. Smashing it into her lover’s face. It still didn’t fit.

The murder weapon. It had always troubled Charlie.

A candlestick? What else could have done that damage?

He replayed the scene in his mind.

The window was open. Fitzgilbert claimed Nancy never opened the window.

The silversmith raised his tankard and took a deep draft. It clanked against the various wares strung around his neck. ‘Pass me the barrel so I might take the dregs,’ he said to Charlie. ‘Waste not, want not.’

Suddenly Charlie realised what had been bothering him about the missing thimble. And he knew where to find it.

He turned to John. ’How long until your fight?’

‘Long time,’ replied John. ‘Not till sunset. Perhaps later.’

‘We need to get to Tyburn,’ said Charlie. ‘To save an innocent woman.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty

Elizabeth Fitzgilbert stood tall on the pyre. Her eyes ranged the jeering crowd. Women were crossing themselves, holding up their children for a better look. The odd missile still flew her way, but mostly they’d been used up on the bumping cart.

She was grateful the bonfire was of a modest size. A neat fan of branches lifted her barely a foot off the ground and allowed her husband to stand almost by her side.

Fitzgilbert was a few feet from his wife, staring out into the crowd. His ratty features were frozen in shock, as though he expected at any moment to wake from a dream.

At the edge of the crowd she could see Lord Gilbert. His contemptuous expression was softened by drink. A goblin-faced prostitute hung off his arm, a barrel of wine tucked securely beneath her skirts. Lord Gilbert felt obliged to show disgust for his daughter-in-law’s crime by attending. But he’d brought the tavern with him.

‘Burn the witch!’ shrieked a woman with a face full of boils. ‘Burn them all!’

There was a murmur of agreement.

Elizabeth watched as the last convict was led to the scaffold. Nineteen bodies already hung limp. The women had gone first, out of compassion. But the pyre was being left until last. The executioner had a sense of theatre. He knew the people had come to see the witch burn. Bets had been made whether she’d survive the flames and fly to freedom.

Elizabeth looked up at the sky. It was a sunny day. A few clouds scudding across the heavens. In a sudden certainty, she knew what awaited her.

She watched as the noose was tightened about the criminal’s neck. The vicar stepped forward on the scaffold, his face earnest, and put a comforting hand on the condemned man’s arm.

‘Elizabeth.’ She turned distractedly. Her husband was looking at her devotedly. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Fitzgilbert. ‘For what I did.’

Elizabeth managed a half-smile.

‘It was arrogant,’ he said. ‘And cruel.’

His fingers twitched, but he restrained himself from pulling free the snuff box. His eyes drifted to Lord Gilbert, who was holding out his wine tankard for his half-dressed companion to refill.

‘I told myself I did it for your good.’ Fitzgilbert hung his head, shamefaced. ‘I know now,’ he said, ‘it was my own guilt and shame I tried to exorcise.’

Elizabeth slid out a cool hand. It closed on her husband’s.

‘You wronged me,’ she said. ‘But I forgive you.’

They were interrupted by the loud sound of the trapdoor opening. The mob shrieked and cheered as the convict swung.

Fitzgilbert stepped towards his wife. He brought forth a small bag of gunpowder, which he tied gently around her neck.

‘When the flames get high,’ he said, ‘it will be over quickly.’

‘It shouldn’t be allowed!’ shrieked a woman from the crowd. ‘Witches of good families should not be spared the full burning!’

Fitzgilbert kissed his wife and drew back, tears in his eyes.

The executioner began making his way to the pyre.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-One

‘I know where the thimble is,’ said Charlie as they raced west from Covent Garden.

‘Where?’ John’s face was red with the exertion of running.

‘It was right in front of us,’ said Charlie, weaving through the crowded roads. ‘The murder weapon too. And if I’m right, both will be at Tyburn with her.’

‘It’s already afternoon,’ panted John. ‘It’s a mile and a half away. Mistress Elizabeth will be aflame.’

‘We have to try.’ Charlie assessed the streets. ‘We’ll cut through Marylebone village,’ he decided. ‘Less crowds. From there it’s only half a mile on dirt tracks.’

John began to tire as they reached Marylebone. Charlie settled into a steady jog. On the outskirts of Tyburn they both realised it was hopeless.

The crowds