I was seized by the desire to escape Mother Lee’s malefic presence as quickly as I could. “Besides Mrs. Hooke, who has come to see you?” I asked.
Mother Lee shrugged. What did it matter to her?
“If you won’t talk to us, we won’t be able to help you,” Martha said.
Mother Lee laughed high and cruel.
“You’ll help me?” she cried. “You’ll help me? Even if I believed you’d want to do such a thing, how would you do that? Would you go before the jury and tell them I’m a good neighbor? Tell them that the Searcher didn’t find the Witch’s Mark on me? Even if you promised me that, it wouldn’t make a difference, for I said those killing words. Beside that, you’ve seen what it’s like in my cell. I’ll need the devil’s own luck to live long enough to see my own trial and execution. So I’ll tell you the same thing I told the others: Go to hell.”
“What others?” I asked again.
She glared at me before answering. “There were two men from the city who came. Told me if I exposed other witches they’d set me free.”
“And you refused them?” Martha asked.
“They were liars, weren’t they,” Mother Lee replied. “I could see it in their faces. They’d take the names and hang me all the same. I sent them away empty handed.” She laughed to herself. “At least the one who still had both his hands.” She held up a hand with the last two fingers folded down and grasped at the air with her thumb and forefinger.
“One of them had a ruined hand,” I said. “He’d lost his fingers?”
Mother Lee nodded.
“It must have been Mark Preston and Mr. Hodgson,” Martha said.
At that moment the door to the tower burst open and three of the Castle guards entered the room. “We’re here for the body,” one announced, and I pointed him up the stairs.
Without another word to us, Mother Lee followed the guards back to her cell. It seemed she had answered enough of our questions. Martha and I slipped into the Castle yard.
“She’s right about dying before she’s tried,” Martha said as we crossed toward the gate. “Gaol-fever will carry many of them away before the hangman can begin his work. We have to do something to stop all this.”
“I know,” I replied, but I had few good ideas as to the best course to take.
“Where to now?” Martha asked.
“Let us go to Mr. Breary’s,” I suggested. “Perhaps Will has found something of use in his papers.” We made our way to the Castle gate, and back into the city. Mercifully the wind had abated, though the cold still pierced my skin and made my bones feel brittle. I could not help feeling a measure of pity for the women confined in the Castle. Their cells would have been cold and uncomfortable even in the warmest of winters, but a season such as this would make their suffering unbearable.
Will answered our knock as soon as we arrived. The moment he opened the door, I knew that something was wrong.
“Someone’s broken into Mr. Breary’s study,” Will said. “And they burned his papers.”
Chapter 12
“What? How can this be?” I cried.
Will shrugged helplessly and gestured for us to enter. We went straight to George’s study. Even though I knew what we’d find, I gasped when I saw the thoroughness with which the intruder had worked. Cabinet doors stood wide open, as did every drawer of his desk, yet there was hardly a scrap of paper to be found. The hearth itself completed the story of what had happened, for it was choked with ashes and a bucket sat nearby, full to overflowing. Only a few scraps had survived the conflagration, but nothing of any use—our incendiary was nothing if not complete. Curiously, George’s bound books had not been burned, but had been taken down from the shelves and stacked neatly next to the hearth.
“What happened with these?” I wondered. I picked up a volume—a quarto of psalms—and fanned the pages.
“Mr. Breary would sometimes put loose paper between the pages,” Will responded despondently. “Whoever did this looked through every book to make sure that everything written in Mr. Breary’s own hand had been burned.”
“Why?” Martha asked. “It must have taken hours. Who would gain from doing this?”
Will shrugged. “That’s all I’ve been thinking about since I arrived. It is not a short list.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, there’s Agnes Greenbury. All evidence of her affair with Mr. Breary is now gone. And I know that Mr. Breary had loans out to men throughout the city—those records are burned, so his debtors are now free. His correspondence books are gone, account books gone, cargo books … his will … all are gone.”