Page 33 of The Magpie Lord
Miss Bell went a deeper red. She spun and led the way with angry nervous steps to one of the cottages. The boy ran up to her as she walked; she said something quietly to him and he hurried away.
The cottage looked neglected, the plants outside withered and dead, and the door stood open.
They filed inside, Merrick leaning against the door to discourage eavesdropping. It was dark and dusty with an accretion of spider webs in the corners, smelling of dead fires and some acrid scent Crane couldn’t place. The air felt withered and old and greasy. Crane, who was starting to recognise some things, darted a look at Stephen and saw him rubbing his fingertips together like a pastry cook at work.
Miss Bell said, “This was Gammer’s cottage. What do you want here?”
Stephen ignored her. He was walking around, touching walls, running his hands over furniture, testing the air. He stopped for several minutes in the tiny kitchen, hands planted on the table, quivering slightly, returned to an old oak dresser, pulled out just one drawer, which seemed to be full of bits of fur and leather, and rummaged through it.
It took about ten minutes, and in that time nobody spoke. Miss Bell adopted a neutral expression and seated herself, on an uncomfortable straight-backed chair instead of the rocking chair that stood in the corner. She sat, looking into nothing, as though she wouldbe happy to stay there all day. Crane leaned his shoulders against the slightly damp plaster of a wall and watched Stephen’s intent face and searching, restless hands.
Finally Stephen looked round.
“It was her. Gammer Parrott. The Judas jack was made in the kitchen. The ivy wood came from the lychgate. It killed two men, nearly killed a third. Tell me, when did she turn warlock?”
“She did not turn,” said Miss Bell fiercely.
“I took that jack apart. It wasn’t a novice effort. She’d done it before.”
“She never did! She didn’t turn!”
Stephen looked at her assessingly. “Why did she do it?”
Her lips were pressed together tightly. “What’s the good in me talking to you?”
“Miss Bell, if I’d already made my mind up, you would already know about it. And Lord Crane spent two months under a vicious jack. He’s got a right to know why.”
“He’s got no rights. None.”
Stephen’s voice was measured, implacable. “You will answer me.”
She gave him a long, considering look. There was another lengthy silence. Finally she sniffed and began, speaking to Stephen only, without a glance at Crane.
“Gammer Parrott had two daughters, my ma and my Auntie Effie. And Effie had two daughters too. Liza Trent, you saw her outside, and Ruthie, Ruth Baker. Ruthie was the child of Effie’s age, she was forty-six, and Baker long dead. Too old for childbearing. She died in her labour. She never named the father, but we all saw Ruthie’s looks.
“She was a pretty girl, but she didn’t have enough brain to know which way the sun rises. And when she was fifteen, Hector Vaudrey got her with child.” She looked at Crane for the first time. “Maybe he didn’t know she was his daughter, maybe he didn’t care if she was. Maybe it was what he wanted from her.”
Crane shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the plaster wall.
“Was it by force?” Stephen asked.
“No need,” said Miss Bell shortly. “He told Ruthie he’d marry her. She wasn’t a clever girl.”
“Clearly,” Crane said. “Let me guess the next part. She finds out she’s expecting, goes to Hector demanding the promised marriage, he laughs in her face, she goes to my father for justice and he sends her to the Magdalen. Yes?”
Miss Bell shook her head. “She didn’t go to the Earl. What would be the point? Nobody went to him for justice against Hector Vaudrey, because nobody got it. No. Ruthie told Gammer about the baby. Gammer was angry. She’d have come round, she loved Ruthie, but things were said. And then...Ruthie learned who her father was.”
“How?” asked Stephen and Crane simultaneously.
Miss Bell’s jaw jutted. “I could never find that out.”
“And what did Ruthie do when she knew?”
“She hanged herself. She was six months gone.”
Stephen nodded slowly. “When?”
“Candlemas two years since.”
