‘Yelling? What was he saying?’
‘Nothing that made much sense, at first. Just sounds, like. But then he started saying my husband’s name, over and over again.’
‘What did you do next?’
My heart drummed in my ears. The edges of my vision grew hazy. I wished for some water. I wished that none of this had ever happened. That I was safe in childhood, climbing trees with Grace. Pointing out the finches, the shining beetles; her laughing wonder in my ears.
‘I went outside, sir.’
‘And what did you see?’
‘The cows were all scattered in the field. Some of them had heaving flanks, wild eyes, as if they’d been running. The Kirkby lad was still yelling, bent over something on the ground. At first I couldn’t see John. But then I saw that he … my John … he was the thing on the ground.’
Grace’s voice grew thick with tears. She took a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. The gallery murmured with sympathy. I felt their eyes on me; heard the hiss again. Witch. Whore.
‘And can you describe to the court your husband’s condition at this point, Mistress Milburn?’
‘He was – he was not recognisable as himself, sir.’ She paused and licked her lips, steadied herself.
‘In what manner?’
‘His arms and legs were all twisted, sir. And his face. It … weren’t there no more.’
A memory rose up, like vomit in my throat. That face, bruised and pulped as damson jam. The teeth gone. One eye split and oozing.
‘My John was dead, sir. He was gone.’
Her voice broke on the last word. She cried prettily, the head bowed in its white cap, the slight shoulders hunched with pain.
She had the courtroom rapt. In the gallery, men comforted their wives who wiped away tears in sympathy. To the jurors, she presented a perfect picture of grief. Even the judges looked softened.
The prosecutor – mindful of this, no doubt – went on gently.
‘Could you tell me what happened next, please, Mistress Milburn?’
‘It was then that I saw her, running towards me from the trees.’
‘Who?’ he asked.
‘Altha,’ she said softly.
‘Please, Mistress Milburn, would you point her out to the courtroom.’
She looked at me, raising one hand slowly. Even from where I was sitting, I saw the delicate fingers were shaking. She pointed at me.
The gallery erupted.
One of the judges called for order. Gradually, the shouts fell away.
The prosecutor continued.
‘Were you surprised to see Altha Weyward standing there?’ he asked.
‘It was all a blur, sir. I can’t remember what I felt when I saw her. I was – overcome.’
‘But it would have been an unusual occurrence, I assume, to see the accused standing on the edge of your field, not so long after daybreak?’
‘Not so unusual, sir. She is known for taking early walks.’
‘So you had seen her before, then? Taking walks of a morning, near your farm?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Regularly?’
‘I wouldn’t call it regular, sir.’ I saw Grace’s tongue dart out to moisten her lips. ‘But once or twice I’d seen her, yes.’
The prosecutor frowned.
‘Would you continue, please, Mistress Milburn. What happened after you saw the accused standing on the edge of the field?’
‘She rushed towards me, sir. She asked me what had happened. I can’t remember what I said all too well, sir. I was just so – shocked, you see. But I remember, she took off her cloak and threw it over his body, and then she bade the Kirkby lad to fetch the physician, Doctor Smythson. She took me inside to wait.’
‘And when did the doctor and the Kirkby boy arrive?’
‘Not long after, sir.’
‘Did the doctor say anything to you?’
‘Just told me what I already knew, sir. My John were gone. There were no bringing him back.’
The little head bowed again. The shoulders quivered.
‘Thank you, Mistress Milburn. I can see that having to relive this grave tragedy has been wearing on your spirits. I thank you for your courage and assistance in this matter. I have only a few more questions to ask before I can release you.’
He paced back and forth before the bar, before speaking again.
‘Mistress Milburn, how long have you known the accused, Altha Weyward?’
‘All my life, sir. Same as with most others in the village.’
‘And what has been the nature of your relationship with her, during your acquaintance?’
‘We were – friends, sir. As children, that is.’
‘But no longer?’
‘No, sir. Not since we were thirteen, sir.’
‘And what happened, when you and the accused were thirteen, that caused the friendship to abate, Mistress Milburn?’
‘To – what, sir?’
‘To end. What caused the friendship to end?’
Grace looked at her hands.
‘My mother fell ill, sir. With the scarlatina.’
‘And what did that have to do with the accused?’
‘She and her mother—’
‘Jennet Weyward?’
‘Yes – she and Jennet, they came to treat my mother.’
‘And could you tell the court, please, the outcome of that treatment?’
Grace looked at me before she spoke, so quietly that I had to strain to hear her.
‘My mother died, sir.’
14
VIOLET
Violet was looking for something to wear.
Father had said that they were going to go clay pigeon shooting with Frederick after breakfast. Violet wasn’t fond of shooting. She’d never shoot real pigeons, of course （even Father knew better than to ask her to do that）， but she still didn’t like the way that the gunshots startled the birds in the trees. Besides, she always worried that a bullet intended for a clay pigeon would find a real one instead. She loved wood pigeons, with their pretty plumage and gentle songs. She could hear them now, cheering the morning.
She wondered if Frederick liked birds and animals as much as she did. The thought of Frederick – the heat of his eyes on her – made her stomach flip. She both dreaded and longed to see him. The previous year, she had read about magnetic fields in one of Graham’s schoolbooks, and it seemed to Violet that Frederick had his own such field; that it pulled at her like a tide.
She could speak to him today. Over breakfast or while they were shooting. But would he want to talk to her? She may have been sixteen, but Violet still felt – and, worse, looked – like a child. She frowned at the looking glass. She had put on a scratchy tweed skirt and jacket, with her stiff brogues. The jacket and skirt were slightly too large for her （Nanny Metcalfe ordered everything a size too big, promising that Violet would ‘grow into it’）， which made her seem even smaller than she was.
Her hair fell past her shoulders in shiny dark waves. She wished she knew how to put it into an elegant chignon – or even pin curls, like the modern-looking women who smiled from the advertisements in Father’s newspapers – but the best she could manage was a clumsy plait. She could have passed for twelve.
Before giving up and going downstairs, she made sure her mother’s necklace was tucked securely beneath her blouse. Father didn’t even know she still had the necklace. He’d made Nanny Metcalfe confiscate it when Violet was six （fortunately, the nursemaid had taken pity on her sobbing charge and returned it）。 Had it pained him to see it, she wondered now?