The chapman must have seen the look of disgust on my face, for he stepped in front of me and snatched the sheet from my hands, even as he doffed his cap. “Not what you are looking for, my lady?” he asked. “Not to worry, for I’ve got other news as well.” For a man who must have lived much like a vagabond, travelling from town to town, he seemed almost respectable. He kept his clothes clean, knew a gentlewoman when he saw one, and had shaved that morning. He pulled a stack of pamphlets from his pack and with a flourish fanned them out before me. Now, rather than tales of witchcraft and monstrous births, I was confronted with the bloody acts of men, as the titles shouted of recent battles between King and Parliament, including one that had taken place at Marston Moor, not far from York. I started to push them aside when one title caught my eye: God’s Terrible Justice in York.
Martha saw it as well.
“Oh, God!” she moaned.
The chapman misread her reaction as one of surprise rather than dismay.
“Oh, you never heard of the murders?” he asked. “You must be a stranger to the city, for all the North knows of the killings.” His voice rose in excitement and the words poured out like water through a breached dam. It did not take long before a small crowd had gathered around him, ready to hear a tale they already knew.
“It was a horrid summer indeed!” the chapman cried. “Death himself stalked the city’s whores; there were murders upon murders, hangings upon hangings.” To my surprise he broke into song, telling the story of Betty MacDonald, a girl who had come to York in search of work, but fell into whoredom and met a dreadful end in the room where she plied her trade. It was close enough to the truth that I could not fault him overmuch.
“The shame of it is,” he continued, “how many innocents lost their lives, and how many murderers went free. And the entire story—including the song I just sang—is here.” He held up a pamphlet for all to see. “And it can be yours for just a penny.” It was a masterful performance. A half dozen people stepped forward, eager to buy the pamphlet. Hester Jackson’s hanging had not provided blood enough, it seemed.
Before Martha and I could escape the crowd, the chapman stepped in front of us and held the book before Martha.
“Surely you will buy a copy,” he said with a smile.
“We know about the murders,” Martha said. “We saw the bodies.” Even over the hubbub of the crowd the chapman heard the steel in Martha’s voice, and it brought him up short. He looked at us for a moment and then realized who we were.
“You’re the midwife,” he said to me as he bowed. “You’re Lady Hodgson.”
I nodded.
“And you must be her deputy,” he said to Martha. “You found who killed these women. The two of you are famous, even in London!” I had not known that the news of the murders had spread so far, but it made sense that a man who carried books on his back would be the first to hear. He seemed thrilled to be in our presence, and I could not help wondering what mix of truth and fancy had found its way into his blood-soaked books.
“My lady,” he said, nearly in a whisper. “I have a proposal.”
Despite myself I leaned toward him, straining to hear his words.
“Have you ever tried your hand at writing?” he asked.
I started to respond, but he held up his hand—he’d not yet finished making the sale.
“I have friends in the Stationers Company, and they would pay handsomely for your account of the killings. It is better to tell your truth than let the vain scribblers tell their lies.” He looked expectantly at Martha. “Surely so beautiful a woman as you could use a few shillings for your dowry. All you’d need to do is tell your story. We could go to an inn. I would even pay for the wine. My name is Peter Newcome, by the way.” He offered us what he hoped would be a winning smile. I admired his audacity, but I had no desire to revisit the killings.
“It is a generous offer, Mr. Newcome,” I said. “But we must decline.”
Newcome took the news with good grace, bowing yet again. “In the event you change your mind, my lady, I hope you will search me out.”
“I don’t think we will,” Martha replied for both of us. “We have dwelt long enough on that summer.”
“Very well,” he replied. “But if you won’t tell your story, perhaps you’ll buy another man’s.” He leaned forward again and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “Have you heard of the witchings and hangings in Suffolk?”
Without meaning to, I shook my head.
“Ah, it’s all here,” he said. He held out yet another book, this one called The Discovery of Witches. The author was called Matthew Hopkins, and described himself by the unusual title Witch Finder.