“He opposed the idea? Why?”
“Because I could not persuade him that he was under any obligation to the girl. A damnable nuisance, if I may say so.”
“So that’s it? No body?”
He looked despairingly at me. “Even if I got her, I’d have to give her over to the pyre when I was finished. The magistrate would only allow me temporary possession. But even that would have been better than nothing. I’m going back to him later to see if there is some way of persuading him.”
He glanced at the gardener, who was now well into the third quart of ale. “Oh, come on. Let’s get on with it before he’s insensible. Do you know,” he said as we pulled the wretch up, “I am getting heartily sick of this family? The sooner they are both dead, the better. Oh, damnation! Oh, Cola, I am sorry.”
Both his explanation and his apology were justified. For the half-wit must have been drinking even before Lower brought him in, and the three quarts he drank while we talked were too much. With a foolish smile on his face turning to a look of alarm, he slid to the floor, then vomited on Lower’s shoes. Lower jumped out of the way and looked at the sight with distaste, then kicked the wretch to confirm his insensibility.
“What do we do now?”
“I’m not going to use him,” I said. “We’d have to carry him there ourselves. It’s difficult enough with someone who is cooperative.”
“He seemed sober enough when we left the college.”
I shook my head sadly. “This is your fault, Lower. You knew how important this was, and you have failed me.”
“I have apologized.”
“That serves me nothing. We’ll have to postpone the treatment until tomorrow. And hope she survives that long. The delay may kill her.”
“I think your treatment will accomplish that in any case,” he said coldly.
“I did not hear you saying that before.”
“You never asked.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but gave up. What was the point? For reasons I could not fathom, almost everything we said to each other was taken as a slight or an insult. As he would not explain his behavior, and I could truly find no fault in my own, there was nothing I could do.
“I will not argue with you,” I said. “You have undertaken to supply me with some blood, and I hold you to that promise. Then our association can end, as you clearly wish. Will you bring him tomorrow, after the trial?”
He bowed stiffly, and he promised he would not fail me again. Once the trial was over, I should go to Mrs. Blundy’s cottage and await him. He would come with the gardener, and we would perform the treatment. There was enough time.
17
At one o’clock the following afternoon, the trial of Sarah Blundy for the murder of Dr. Robert Grove began in the assize court of Oxford. The crowd was eager; not only did the trial promise much scandalous entertainment, the previous day had seen not a single hanging verdict, and ended not with the judge wearing a black cap, but being presented with the traditional pair of white gloves to show that his hands were clean of blood. But such mercy was considered dangerous, for the awful majesty of the law needs sacrifice. One maiden session (as they are called) was merciful, two in a row would seem weak. What was more, Wood, an assiduous attender of trials who spoke to me briefly before the pushing of the crowd separated us, told me that the judge realized this—someone, that day, would hang. We both knew, I think, who it would be.
There was a murmur of anticipation as Sarah, terribly pale, was led before the court, to stand facing the crowd and listen to the sonorous charges against her. That she, Sarah Blundy, not having the fear of God before her eyes, but being moved and seduced by the instigation of the devil, in the fifteenth year of our sovereign Lord the King, at New College in the City of Oxford, did make an assault upon the Reverend Robert Grove, fellow of that place and formerly her master, feloniously, willfully and traitorously. And the said Sarah Blundy did feloniously, willfully, traitorously and out of malice, did place arsenic in a bottle and cause the said Robert Grove to drink it, of which poisoning the said Robert Grove died. So that the said Sarah Blundy in manner and form aforesaid, feloniously, willfully, traitorously and of malice aforethought, didst kill and murder, against the peace of our sovereign Lord, his crown and dignity.
Mutterings of approval, which caused the judge to look up with warning in his eye, erupted from the mob as they heard this accusation read; it took some time for order to be restored—not that there is ever very much in an English court. Then the judge, who did not strike me as very fearsome in aspect, turned to Sarah and asked her to plead.
She did not reply, but stood with head bowed.
“Come, girl,” the judge said, “You must plead, you know. Guilty or not guilty, it is all the same to me. But you must say something, or it will go ill with you.”
Still she said nothing, and an expectant hush fell on the audience, as they looked at her standing there, head bowed to hide her terror and shame. I felt a wave of sympathy for her, for who would not be silenced by facing, all alone, the formidable power of justice?
“I’ll tell you what,” the judge said, a look of concern on his face that the proceedings were about to be disrupted. “We’ll run through the charges and the evidence against you. See if that’ll make up your mind about your chances of escaping justice. How about that? Sir? Are you ready?”
The prosecutor, a cheerful soul retained by the magistrate to do such business, bounded to his feet and bowed obsequiously. “Your lordship’s reputation for kindness is well deserved,” he said, and the mob burst into applause to echo the sentiment.
The man next to me, squeezed against me so tightly I could feel every breath he took, turned to me and whispered in my ear that this was no more than the truth; by rights, the law is most harsh on those who flout its authority by refusing to plead, shackling them with weights until either they give in, or die from the pressure upon their chests. Nobody liked this proceeding, but it is the only solution for recalcitrance. By giving the girl a second chance, so to speak, the judge was indeed exceptionally merciful. My neighbor—evidently a regular at trials—said he had never heard of such kindness before.
The prosecutor then began to explain his case—he said that, although he was not the victim of the crime, in matters of murder the victim could obviously not appear for himself; hence his presence. It was not an onerous task, for it was simple enough to see who had committed this foul deed.
In his opinion, he said, the jury would have no trouble at all in bringing in the right verdict. For it was obvious to all—and the town knew well enough already, without having to remind them of it—that Sarah Blundy was a whore of intemperate and violent parentage. So far was she from knowing her correct place, so badly trained, and so unknowing of all morality and decency, that the idea of murder did not shock her in the slightest, such are the monsters produced when parents turn their face from God, and the country from its rightful king.
The judge—clearly not a cruel man, and scrupulously fair—interrupted to thank the prosecutor and wondered if he might proceed. Fine speechifying could take place at the end, if they got that far.
“Certainly, certainly. Now, as to her being a whore; it is well attested that she had seduced poor Dr. Grove and lured him into her power. We have a witness to this, one Mary Fullerton” (here a young girl in the audience smiled broadly and preened herself) “who will swear that one day she delivered some food to Dr. Grove’s room and he, mistaking her for Blundy, grabbed her and started fondling her in a lascivious fashion as though she was well used to it.”
Sarah looked up at this point and stared sullenly at Mary Fullerton, whose smile disappeared when she felt the gaze upon her.