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The Witch Hunter's Tale(55)

By:Sam Thomas


“If he didn’t, his man did,” James replied. “The two of them marched out of our house as if they were going to war.”

I put my hand on James’s arm and squeezed. “Thank you, James,” I said. “You did the right thing.”

He looked at me with a thin smile. “Perhaps,” he said. “God will judge me. But I’m not sure my mother would appreciate it.”

“She’ll not hear about it from me,” I reassured him.

Martha and I stood and slipped out of the alehouse. “What do we do now?” Martha asked. We were walking west on Petergate and had nearly reached St. Michael’s church and the Minster.

“Let us speak to Will,” I replied. “He should know what we have discovered. He also might have an idea about how to approach Joseph.”

As we passed in front of the Minster, I caught sight of Peter Newcome and his boy hawking pamphlets to passersby. For a moment I returned to his suggestion that I counter Joseph’s pamphlet—the one that accused Will of murder—with a pamphlet of my own, one pointing at Joseph. Could a book save Will from execution?

On this day one of Will’s jailors answered the door of Peter’s Prison. “Who are you?” he snarled through the crack in the door.

“We are here to see Will Hodgson,” I replied.

“You’ll have to pay,” he demanded. “Nothing’s free.” With a sigh I reached for my purse. Our transaction complete, the jailor ushered us inside. We found Will sitting on a bench against the wall reading a Bible. Martha furrowed her brow at the sight, and I must confess to my own surprise. Will favored religion more than Martha, but I’d never seen him seek out such reading. For a moment I wondered if he had heard that he would soon be tried for George Breary’s murder and sought solace in God.

Will glanced at his jailor and without a word inclined his head toward the rough wood stairs leading to the prisoners’ cells. I nodded, and we followed him down. The weak light provided by the small lamp Will carried showed stone walls glistening with moisture, and within moments I could feel the cold seeping deep into my flesh.

“My keepers don’t read much,” Will said, holding up the Bible. “If you’d bring me something else to read, I’d welcome it.” I could only hope that Joseph’s pamphlet would not come to Peter’s Prison. If Will learned of his conviction in the press, he would lose all hope.

“Are there other prisoners here?” I asked as we made our way down the hall.

“I’ve got plenty of company,” Will replied. “At least a dozen. But none of them can afford the payment to stay upstairs. So they’re locked down here all the day.” Peter’s Prison included a half dozen cells, and I wondered how many of its inmates would perish before their trials. We reached the end of the hall, and an open door. We followed Will into his cell, and I shook my head in despair. The room was barely large enough for the bed it contained, and—though I’d not have thought it possible—it seemed colder than the hall outside.

“We’ll keep our voices down,” Will said. “The guards won’t hear us, but if one of the other prisoners thinks he can trade some news for an extra blanket he’ll do it.”

Martha and I nodded.

“Have you any news?” he asked.

I glanced at Martha. We’d not discussed how much to tell Will. I was reluctant to mention his impending trial. Who could know how he would react?

“We spoke to James Hooke,” Martha replied. “To find out what he might know about Mr. Breary’s death.”

Will smiled ruefully. “Poor sot, saddled with such a mother. What did he say?”

I described the conversation that James had overheard. “Joseph and Mark Preston intended to kill George,” I concluded. “And there’s no reason to think that they didn’t.”

Will shook his head. “But why would they then burn his papers?” he asked. “What is to be gained from that? And what about the Lord Mayor? He had as much reason to kill Mr. Breary as Joseph did.”

I could see that Will still clung to the faint hope that Joseph might not be so bad a man as Martha and I thought, and my heart ached for him.

“But if James is telling the truth, we know that your brother compassed Mr. Breary’s death,” Martha said.

I could see Will preparing to argue the point, but I interrupted. “The question of who did kill George is less important than the fact that you did not,” I pointed out. “And our first priority is to win you your freedom, and get you out of the shadow of these suspicions.”