Hour of the Witch(79)

Questions came back to her that had been hovering, rather like a raptor on an updraft, ever since she had met with Constance: Was she possessed? What did it mean that she saw conspiracies everywhere, even in the otherwise benign gaze of Rebeckah Cooper? What should she make of the idea that Jonathan Cooke gambled with sailors and was in need of assistance from his father-in-law? Did a woman who was possessed not know it until it was too late—until the Devil had His claws so deeply inside her that extraction could only come via the noose? She imagined crouching inside her, rather like an infant in her womb, a monstrous imp—a shrunken gargoyle at the beck and call of the Devil—its talons ready to gouge out her flesh. This would be the beast she would birth, and the only one ever.

    But she didn’t believe that. Not really. She believed only that she was married to a brute who was going to Hell, and it was not she who was possessed and dabbling with cutlery to cast spells. She slipped her quill on the page with the 140th Psalm, closed her Bible, and resolved that tomorrow she would see Constance Winston once again.



* * *





Most of the snow had melted, and Mary found the walk to the Neck more pleasant now that she was not encumbered by snowshoes. Constance and her girl were home, and the older woman invited Mary inside. Before Mary entered, however, she said, “I want to speak with thee about things best kept in confidence. I worry how our conversation could be misconstrued by someone who—”

“Thou canst speak plainly before my girl,” said Constance, cutting her off. “Joy and I have no secrets.”

“Art thou sure?”

The girl was drying porringers and placing them on the lowboy in the corner. She looked up at Mary and her mistress.

“Yes. But if it will make thou feel more at ease, she can finish with the soap out back,” Constance said, glancing at Joy. The servant took her cloak and disappeared out the door by the hearth. “Wouldst thou like a cup of tea?” she asked, motioning for Mary to take one of the seats at the table by the fire.

“That is kind, but not necessary,” Mary said, sitting down and pulling back her hood.

The other woman sat, too, folding her hands in her lap. “Why hast thou returned to the beauty of the Neck?” she asked.

“Thou art so cynical about this part of the city. It is as lovely as any section.”

    “Thou art sweet, but a lie like that is an insult to us both,” Constance said. “Tell me: why dost thou risk thy reputation once more?”

“Very well,” said Mary. “Aqua tofana.”

“What would I know about poison?” she asked, her tone outwardly innocent, but the tilt of her head belying the fact that she almost anticipated such a question.

“Thou set me on the proper path.”

“In what way?”

“Someone planted the forks to poison Thomas or Catherine or me. That was the spell and the pact they had made with Satan.”

“And who might that someone be?”

“I do not know.”

“But thou desirest now to concoct an actual poison?”

“I do. Aqua tofana is made of arsenic and lead and belladonna. That’s how the Italians prepare it,” said Mary.

“And it is undetectable. At least that’s what people say.”

“People say lots of things. Recall what they say about thee, Constance. In thy opinion, and given all that thou knowest, is it true that it is odorless and without taste? That even a physician cannot recognize its presence?”

“All true. It is undetectable. Rest well in that knowledge. A person just grows weak and sick and then dies.”

“Always?”

Constance smiled. “Always. Aqua tofana is steeped by wives who hope to become widows. Would that be thee? Dost thou plan to poison the ogre to whom thou art married?”

“Prithee—”

“Thy servant who suggested at the Town House that thou might be possessed? Is she thy prey?”

“Catherine Stileman? I don’t anticipate that she will become sickened,” she replied evasively.

“Well, if thou wishest to take thine own life, there are far easier and less painful methods. It is also far slower than either musket or blade.”

Mary recalled her moment on the floor with a knife, the first time she was alone in her house after the court had demanded that she return home to Thomas. It had felt like a criminal sentence, and she really had contemplated killing herself. But she was beyond that now. She had other plans. “I have no intention of meeting either God or Lucifer anytime soon,” she replied.

    “Good. Because I cannot imagine where one might find arsenic here. And I have never found belladonna in my walks in the woods.”

She was disappointed, but not daunted. She thought this likely the case. “It need not be aqua tofana specifically,” she continued.

“Thou simply want a poison that is efficacious.”

“Yes. One that is merciless.”

“And undetectable, I presume.”

“That would be my preference. But I can work with one that is not. In some ways, one that boasts its presence might even be preferable.”

The woman stared at her and said, “Thou art a mystery, Mary. Let no man underestimate thee, ever.”