Scarlet Widow Page 14

  At that moment Kingdom gave a terrible shudder and let out a long, high-pitched wheeze, like a collapsing bellows. His eyes misted and then he lay still. Beatrice laid her hand on his shoulder and said, ‘Oh, my poor Kingdom!’

  She stood up and as she did so she saw that little Noah was standing just outside the stable, with a frown of bewilderment on his face. Immediately she hurried over and took his hand.

  ‘Come on, my darling, away from here.’

  Beatrice tugged Noah back to the house almost as fast as he could trot, even though he kept turning his head around, trying to look behind him. She knew that he was too young to understand death, but at the same time she wanted him to remember Kingdom running around his paddock in the sunshine, not lying on his side in the stable, stiff and milky-eyed and plastered in filth.

  ‘Pim-pom!’ said Noah anxiously, which was his way of saying ‘Kingdom’.

  ‘It’s all right, my darling, God has called poor Kingdom to the horses’ heaven.’

  They had almost reached the front porch when Beatrice caught sight of a figure standing at the far end of the driveway under the shadow of the oak trees. She slowed, and then stopped, trying to make out who it was. The figure was tall, so it was probably a man, but it was wearing a long dark brown cloak with a hood, so it was impossible to tell for sure.

  In its left hand it was holding a staff, which gave it the appearance of a pilgrim, or even of Death himself, for who would wear such an all-enveloping cloak on a sweltering hot day like this?

  Noah pulled at her hand and said, ‘Mama! Mama!’ but Beatrice stayed where she was, staring at the figure with a growing sense of unease. She felt like approaching it and demanding to know who it was and what it wanted, but at the same time she thought that it might be wiser if she didn’t, especially since she had Noah with her.

  The figure stood there, not moving. Its face was completely hidden inside its hood, so that Beatrice was unable to tell if it was staring back at her or not.

  ‘Ma-ma!’ Noah repeated, pulling at her hand even more persistently.

  Just then, Francis and Rodney Bartlett came out of the stable. Beatrice waved to Francis and called out, ‘Francis!’

  Francis was talking to Rodney Bartlett and at first he didn’t hear her, so she called out ‘Francis!’ again and pointed towards the end of the driveway. Francis looked, but the figure had vanished. There was nothing to be seen but the dry rutted track and the oak trees glittering in the sunshine.

  ‘What is it, my dearest?’ asked Francis as he approached.

  ‘There was somebody standing there. Right there, at the end of the driveway, wearing a cloak. Man or woman, I couldn’t tell.’

  Francis looked again. ‘Whoever it was, they’re not there now. It was probably just a tinker, or a maunder, perhaps, wondering if it was worth begging us for alms.’

  ‘I don’t know. It frightened me. It was almost as if the Angel of Death had arrived to take away Kingdom’s spirit.’

  ‘Horses don’t have spirits, Bea,’ Francis said gently.

  ‘Well, you can believe that, if you like. But I think Kingdom did. He was such a dear, sweet creature.’

  They all went into the house and Francis called Mary to pour out some cider for them and bring them a plate of never-stale cookies.

  ‘I’ve noticed more beggars around than usual,’ said Rodney Bartlett. ‘Sailors, a lot of them were, but trade’s been so bad they can’t find a ship to sail on.’

  ‘These are evil days,’ said Francis. ‘It seems that we are being tested to the very limit. How could Kingdom simply fall down and die like that?’

  Beatrice said nothing, but Kingdom’s symptoms had made her even more convinced that what was happening in Sutton was the deliberate work of a human man or woman, even if they were inspired by Satan. If she could find the time this evening, she would go through her father’s notebooks again, and she would also go back to the stable to see if there was any evidence that Kingdom had been poisoned rather than cursed.

  Dusk began to gather and as it did so the brown bats began to whirl around the roof. Rodney Bartlett drained the last of his cider and they went outside to see him mount his big piebald horse. The sky was damson-coloured and the chirruping of insects was almost deafening.

  Just as Rodney Bartlett shook his horse’s reins, however, they heard a rattling from the end of the driveway. A four-wheeled wagon was approaching and Beatrice saw that it was being driven by Goody Cutler’s second son, Ambrose.

  Ambrose drew up beside them. His face was red and he was sweating profusely, so that his white shirt was sticking to his chest.

  ‘Reverend Scarlet!’ he panted. ‘The Buckleys ask you to come at once! Their babies are close to death! Doctor Merrydew has said that he can’t save them and they beg you to pray for God’s mercy!’

  Seventeen

  When they went through to the Buckley children’s bedchamber they found that Nicholas Buckley was there, too, his clothes still dusty from travelling back from Durham. He was a small, dark, grave-looking man with eyebrows that met in the middle and a hawk-like nose. He was standing close to Judith as she gently patted little Apphia’s forehead with a muslin cloth.

  Both Apphia and Tristram were breathing in shallow, clogged-up gasps. Now and then one of them would stop breathing altogether and everybody in the bedchamber would fall silent, waiting anxiously for them to start up again. Goody Jenkins was sobbing quietly in the kitchen. She sounded like a kitten mewing for milk.

  ‘Where’s Doctor Merrydew?’ asked Francis.

  ‘The good doctor took his leave of us twenty minutes ago,’ said Nicholas Buckley. ‘He said that he had done his best, but there was no other cure that he could think of and he was late for his supper. That’s why we sent for you.’

  Francis looked down at Apphia and Tristran. ‘I thank you for your faith in me, Nicholas, but I have to confess that my prayers have done no more good than Doctor Merrydew’s fumitory smoke.’

  ‘Please,’ Judith begged him. ‘I could not bear to lose them. Please.’

  ‘Of course I will pray for them again,’ said Francis. ‘I have to tell you, though, that for you to lose these two dear children may be the will of God. Sometimes, for no reason that we can understand, He wants them back in heaven almost as soon as He has sent them here.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me that I’m being punished?’ asked Judith.

  Francis shook his head. ‘There are many reasons why the Lord calls children back before their time, Goody Buckley, and it is not for us to know them all.’

  Beatrice glanced at him. Considering that Judith was asking him obliquely if she should blame herself for having Apphia and Tristram as a result of her adulterous affair with John Starling, she thought that his words were deeply kind and forgiving. She knew plenty of other pastors who would have told her that she was a trull and that to lose her two children was all that she deserved.

  Francis stood between the children’s cribs and clasped his hands together.

  ‘Dear Lord,’ he said, ‘I implore of Thee yet again to grant both Apphia and Tristram a longer life on this earth, that they may fulfil their duties to Thee and bring joy to Thy servants Nicholas and Judith. We ask Thee in all humility to show Thy sympathy and generosity and spare them from death this day, and for many days to come. Amen.’

  He stepped back. Nicholas and Judith both repeated ‘amen’ under their breath, but it was clear from the stricken look on their faces that they didn’t believe that God would respond. Tears were streaming down Judith’s cheeks and she had her hand clasped tightly over her mouth to stop herself from sobbing out loud.

  Beatrice felt a tightness in her throat, too. She wished now that she had argued much more forcefully with Doctor Merrydew and insisted that he give the children an infusion of lungwort instead of filling their bedchamber with fumitory, but it was too late now. Even if Doctor Merrydew had any lungwort, which she doubted, Apphia and Tristram were too close to death for it to
do them any good. It would take at least an hour to prepare an infusion, and the children were too sick to chew the leaves, which were very slimy.

  Francis started to recite Psalm 103: ‘Praise the Lord, my soul, and forget not all His benefits, who forgives all your sins and heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love.’

  As he did so, however, Beatrice heard voices in the hall, where six or seven goodwives were still crowded, and after a moment Jonathan Shooks appeared in the doorway. He was wearing his light grey linen tailcoat and his light grey wig, and was carrying a brown leather satchel. He looked across at Beatrice as he came in and gave her a quick, knowing smile, as if they shared some secret, but then immediately went over to the children’s cribs.

  ‘I can see that their condition is very much worse, Goody Buckley.’

  Judith nodded, but she was too upset to be able to say anything.

  Francis spoke up. ‘Mr Shooks! This is Goodman Buckley, Mr Shooks – the children’s father. Nicholas, this is Mr Jonathan Shooks—’

  He paused, and then added, ‘Mr Shooks claims to have some special talent for curing the sick. Which is why, I presume, he has returned here this evening.’

  Jonathan Shooks held out his hand to Nicholas Buckley. ‘I am truly sorry that I have had to make your acquaintance under such distressing circumstances, sir, but I assure you that I have come here with the intention of doing good.’

  ‘Can you save our children, sir?’ asked Nicholas. His lower lip was quivering.

  ‘I can only try. The Reverend Scarlet doubts my abilities, I’m afraid. But I will tell you what I told him, that I have travelled almost all around the world and I have learned that the Devil manifests himself in different forms wherever you go. To beat the Devil, sir, you have to know what shape he has taken on. The Devil in New Hampshire bears little resemblance to the Devil you knew in England, just as the plants and animals here are different and the Indians speak languages of which we know nothing and observe rituals we cannot comprehend.’

  ‘I am not at all sure that I understand you,’ said Nicholas. His voice was tight-throated with emotion. ‘All I ask is that Apphia and Tristram do not die.’

  ‘If I may have a brief word with you in private,’ said Jonathan Shooks. ‘Meanwhile, Goody Buckley, if you would be so kind as to bring a full kettle to the boil.’

  Beatrice asked, ‘What are you intending to do, Mr Shooks?’ She didn’t want to say that the children were probably past saving, not in front of the Buckleys.

  ‘I am not making any promises, Goody Scarlet,’ said Jonathan Shooks. Again he gave her that amused, conspiratorial look, almost as if they had once shared a bed together without anybody else knowing. ‘However, I will do my utmost to dismiss what possesses them.’

  He left the room. Nicholas Buckley gave his wife a reassuring kiss on the cheek, and squeezed her hand, and then followed him.

  Beatrice went back to the children’s cribs. Their breathing was even harsher now and little Apphia’s lips were a pale turquoise. Judith went to the kitchen to put a kettle on the stove. When she returned she came and stood close to Beatrice and looked down at her children with infinite sadness in her eyes.

  ‘This man, this Jonathan Shooks, whoever he is – can he really cure them?’

  ‘We don’t know, Judith,’ said Francis. ‘But if he can, it will only be with God’s approval.’

  Beatrice said nothing. She didn’t want to crush Judith’s hopes by saying no, she didn’t believe that Apphia and Tristram could be saved, but neither did she want to raise them by saying yes.

  After two or three minutes Jonathan Shooks and Nicholas Buckley returned. Judith Buckley looked at her husband as if to ask him what they had talked about, but Nicholas simply shook his head to show her that he didn’t want to discuss it. Jonathan Shooks appeared very calm and confident. He opened his leather satchel and took out six or seven thin pinewood sticks, wrapped in paper.

  ‘Is the kettle boiled, Goody Buckley?’ he asked. ‘If so, please bring me two bowls of hot water, as quick as you can.’

  When Judith Buckley had gone back to the kitchen he unwrapped the sticks, and Beatrice saw that they were Chinese fire inch-sticks, which her father had sometimes used for lighting his pipe. Judith returned with two white china bowls filled with steaming water, which Jonathan Shooks put down on the three-legged stool beside the children’s cribs.

  He used one of the candles beside the cribs to lit the inch-sticks, one after the other, so that they flared up brightly, crackling as they burned and giving off pungent yellow smoke.

  ‘This is the fire that the Devil fears, the Devil in the woods,’ he recited, as if he were talking to himself. ‘This is the smoke that makes the Devil choke, the Devil in the trees.’

  After each inch-stick had burned down about halfway he dropped them into the bowls of hot water, three inch-sticks in each one. They spluttered out and when they had done so he stirred the water with his fingertip.

  ‘This is the brew that the Devil cannot swallow. It will catch in his throat so that he will run away to seek out fresh water and his minions will follow. Begone, Devil. Begone and never return!’

  Again he stirred the bowls of water with his fingertip, but this time he was testing it to make sure that it had cooled down. ‘Goody Buckley,’ he said, ‘please pick up your daughter and seat her on your lap. She must drink this water to clear her lungs of the Devil’s contagion.’

  Judith Buckley did as he asked her and lifted Apphia out of her crib. Apphia’s arms and legs were as disjointed as a doll’s and her head flopped forward, her blonde curls damp with perspiration. Jonathan Shooks carefully cradled her head in his left hand, tilting it back a little while he poured the inch-stick water between her lips, one sip at a time.

  It seemed to Beatrice that it took almost an hour for him to empty the bowl, but it was probably no more than five or ten minutes. Apphia spluttered a little after she had finished it, but Jonathan Shooks patted her on the back and she took several deep breaths. Her lungs were still crackling with fluid, and she still didn’t open her eyes, but she was alive.

  Judith laid her back in her crib and picked up Tristram. Jonathan Shooks repeated the procedure with him, patiently tipping the second bowl of inch-stick water into his mouth, a little at a time, until that was empty, too.

  When he had finished, Jonathan Shooks looked at Beatrice again, but this time his expression was much more of a challenge. Now we’ll see who can make the Devil turn tail, Goody Scarlet, your sainted husband or me.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Nicholas.

  Jonathan Shooks stood up. ‘There’s nothing more that we can do tonight except wait until your children show signs of recovery. I shall return at first light and give them more fire-stick water, and then again around noon tomorrow. But they should be much improved by then.’

  ‘I shall pray for them, too,’ put in Francis. Beatrice went over and stood beside him to show her support. He put his arm around her shoulders and smiled at her, but she could tell that he was upset. Jonathan Shooks had come into the Buckley home with his incantations and his inch-sticks and completely undermined Francis’s authority in front of his own parishioners.

  *

  Jonathan Shooks left them, climbing into his hooded calash so that Samuel could drive him off into the darkness, with only a dimly flickering coach-lamp to light his way. Francis and Beatrice stayed for another half-hour, but since the Buckley twins both seemed to be breathing more easily and had stopped their spasmodic twitching, they decided to leave and to call back the following morning.

  As Beatrice went to the front door Judith caught at her sleeve.

  ‘Thank you and the Reverend Scarlet for being so kind,’ she said. ‘I’m sure that the pastor’s prayers have helped just as much as Mr Shooks’s remedy.’

  ‘Well, we shall see,’ said Beatrice. She paused, and then she said, ‘Do you know what it was that your husband and Mr Shooks spoke
of, before Mr Shooks treated them?’

  ‘I asked Nicholas but he would not tell me. Perhaps he will when the twins are well again. If they get well again, please God. Perhaps Mr Shooks was warning him not to hold out too much hope.’

  ‘Bea!’ called Francis out of the darkness. Ambrose Cutler had brought his wagon around so that he could drive them home.

  Beatrice called back, ‘Coming, Francis!’ There was nothing more she needed to say to Judith, although she gave her one of those looks that women share when they accept that they have to be patient – but only in the certain knowledge that they will eventually get their own way.

  *

  ‘So how did Shooks expect those children to be cured with nothing more than hot water and inch-sticks?’ asked Francis, tossing down his quill-pen.

  They were sitting in their parlour after supper. Beatrice was finishing a sampler while Francis was trying to write this Sunday’s sermon. His theme was ‘how to appeal to God’s mercy’, but Beatrice noticed that he had fiercely crossed out almost as many lines as he had written.

  ‘My dearest, I have no idea,’ she told him. ‘We don’t even know if they will be cured yet, do we? For all we know, they could have passed away by now, God forbid.’

  ‘I know it’s uncharitable of me to say so, but I really dislike that man,’ said Francis. ‘He has such a smugness about him. Whenever he walks into a room, he makes me feel as if I’m twelve years old and that I have no understanding of religion at all. I don’t like the way he looks at you, either.’

  ‘I can’t say that I’ve noticed.’

  ‘Well, it’s salacious. That’s the only way that I can describe it.’

  ‘Why, Francis! I do believe you’re jealous!’

  *

  A few minutes after nine o’clock Francis announced that he was going upstairs to bed. Beatrice told him that she had to bring up some washing from the back yard that Mary had forgotten, but that she wouldn’t be long in joining him.