‘What was that, good sir?’
‘There is an old woman that until lately came to prayer without fail. She didn’t sing the psalms, nor even did she appear to pray. Always she would sit at the back and watch, never said anything, never spoke. In the two years I have been here I have not heard her proclaim any word. Then recently she applied for the pensions list. Well, she was widowed many years ago and nothing had changed of her circumstances. She continued to earn money from the selling of meats, I certainly saw her doing so on several occasions. It seemed to me that she merely desired to stop working, and sought a pension to support her idleness. On that basis I turned her down.’ He looked away with pink cheeks.
‘And what was her response, sir?’
‘She made no response. She stopped coming to church,’ he answered severely. ‘I’ve seen her since, selling meat on the street. Why, then, did she stop coming to church? Only on the basis that she was refused a pension? After so many years? That indicates to me that although she said nothing upon being refused her pension, still she was maddened. Perhaps she cursed me. Maybe she has been cursed herself and can no longer stand to be in God’s house.’
‘Maybe she doesn’t like your sermons,’ said I before I could stop myself.
‘Exactly!’ exclaimed the rector, thankfully missing the point. ‘It is well known that she has a teat on her upper body from which she may give sustenance to whatever wicked spirits there are that may dwell in these parts, which God knows are likely very many. Never was she able to recite the Lord’s Prayer nor the Creed, not word for word.’
Witch-hunting was an old sport. An accusation would be followed by torture until a confession was obtained. Then the rector would be free to stage a public exorcism, a cleansing of his church and parish with him as blessed cleanser, and the poor wretch hung by the neck, burnt alive or drowned. I looked to Dowling for help. He sat expressionless and impassive.
‘Sir, I know you by your noble reputation,’ Dowling said cautiously. ‘I know you as a learned man and a wise man. I am much surprised to hear you talk of witchery. It is my understanding that the learned give little to notions of witchery and maleficium. These are the superstitions of the poor and uneducated, and the Presbyterian Scots.’
‘I think you are telling me your own views, sir,’ replied the rector firmly, ‘but they are not the views of the secular courts, one of whose tasks it is to ensure the prosecution of black magic and maleficium. God himself spake through Moses; “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.” Until two years ago this church was ministered by an Independent, I know not what he preached to these people, for none will relate it to me, so I must presume that it was heresy. Where there is the stink of heresy one cannot rule out that witchery has grown from the seed so planted. Give up witches, give up the Bible.’
‘I am a humble man,’ I said untruthfully, ‘but in my turn I also divine that you disfavour providence because of its consequences. How can you be sure that the slayer did not take the key from your desk?’
‘I cannot. That is my sadness, sir. Now that you bring it to my attention the theory of providence becomes strong again. I simply cast my net wide so that I might catch the right fish.’ The fisher of men ran his talons through the tight black curls upon his head.
‘The Devil needs no witches to do his deeds. He is able to do his own deeds.’ Dowling looked cross.
The rector nodded thoughtfully. ‘You may not dismiss maleficium so easily. The Devil uses witches because he uses witches. The issue of need is not at issue here. If you are investigating this murder, then you must consider witchery. Indeed, even if the key were stolen, it is just as likely to be maleficium as providence. You must agree!’
‘Very well,’ Dowling replied, before I could debate the point further, ‘but what of the key?’
The rector looked at us both with a slightly guilty expression. ‘You should know that I lost a servant three days ago, a poor, mean, dishonest young man who I would be rid of anyway. He departed without a word. Strange that he should leave about the same time the key is taken from my desk.’
God save my pickled soul! This was too much to bear! ‘It isn’t strange at all,’ I said slowly through gritted teeth. ‘Perhaps now we can dispense with all this talk of popery and witches. What’s his name and where does he live?’
The rector observed me thoughtfully before picking up his quill and writing. ‘His name is Simpson and he lives in a tenement near to St Martin’s. If any one of my servants took that key — it was he.’ He wrote some more. ‘And here is the name and abode of the woman that I suspect of witchery. If you do not pursue her then I will find others that will.’
‘Sir,’ I spoke carefully, ‘we visited your church yesterday, and examined it indoors and outdoors. We saw no evidence of witchery, no markings, no herbs or smells or concoctions. You should pay heed afore you accuse an old woman of witchery. Should you send one of your parish to the secular court only because you did not aid them when they demanded it, and they in turn went wanting, then we should take a personal interest and make full use of the Mayor’s influences. In this age, as you said yourself, there are many folks not to be intimidated by the word of the Church.’
The rector’s big eyes glistened. ‘Yea,’ he muttered, ‘but then you know little of witchery. Perhaps I should not raise the issue with you at all, but seek an audience with the Lord Chief Justice.’
Dowling coughed. ‘There is no need for that, good sir. We will find the woman. You in turn, sir, I think should be less hasty. You may be a great man. Certainly it would be a pity to be a small man with such a great head.’ Dowling gestured to all of the books. Indeed it was true — he did have an extremely large head.
The rector’s cheeks turned bright red and he clasped his fingers together just below his nose. ‘I read you and take you, Mr Dowling. Maybe I was not so much in need of your wise words as you would think. Meantime I hope you will indeed proceed hastily, for the sake of my parish, and I will do what I need to do, and I will thank you not to tell me how to go about my job.’
‘Aye sir, thank you, sir. We should take our leave now,’ Dowling exclaimed abruptly before seizing me by the arm and pulling me roughly. Though I was much offended I let myself be led. The rector waved a hand, dismissively. We hurried out the house and back onto Fleet Street.
‘You would remove one of my arms?’ I demanded, straightening my coat sleeve and checking that he had neither stretched the cloth nor left a print on it.
‘I know that man by reputation. Clergy can be dangerous, and the time was right to leave.’ He patted me on the shoulder like a puppy and looked up at the sky. ‘We must find this witch!’ he called, striding out ahead.
If you have the sense that you were born with, then you will have understood by now that neither Dowling nor I believed for a moment that a witch killed Anne Giles. I am intelligent and educated and the butcher can read and write. But it says in Exodus, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’. So if there are no such things as witches, then why does the Bible say so? The answer of course is that the Bible is both extremely long and very badly written; such that you can find in its pages whatever message you seek. This is not an argument worth pursuing in public, however, unless you are inclined to lose your liberty, selected pieces of your body or even your life. So we went to find the woman, whose name was Mary Bedford, on Fleet Street, to save her the role of rector’s scapegoat. This was a gallant deed that made me feel unusually worthy.
We walked the streets towards the west, for the City had choked up already, such that walking was the quickest mode of transport available. Dowling strode down the middle of the road by himself, oblivious to the evil broth that splashed about his legs, body and ears, while I trod the higher ground with those that knew the difference between man and dog. So it was that he crossed the bridge at Fleet Ditch before me, the filthy stream that served the slums of Alsatia and Bridewell.