Weyward(24)

Kate shivers. It’s getting colder, the warmth leaving with the sun. She stands up, looks around. Then she notices something.

A wooden cross, weathered and green with lichen, is nestled among the roots of the sycamore.

There is no name, no date. But, leaning closer, she sees the faint outline of jagged letters. RIP.

The sun has disappeared behind dark clouds, and her skin smarts with the first pinpricks of rain.

As she stands before the cross, the garden seems to swell with sound. Her skin feels raw and open, like a new-born animal’s. There’s a feeling, in her stomach and in her veins, of something wanting to get in. Or wanting to get out.

She runs, then; the strange, grasping plants leaving smears of red and green on her clothes. She shuts the door behind her, drawing the curtains on the windows so that she can’t see the garden, the sycamore tree. The cross. The green-mottled wood, the way that it juts out from the roots of the sycamore.

It couldn’t be a person’s grave, could it? The cottage is so old, after all … she remembers what the cashier said. Went back centuries. Could it be one of the Weywards?

She’d hoped to learn more in Aunt Violet’s papers. But the folder she found under the bed contained nothing earlier than 1942, and nothing about the cottage itself, or anyone who might have lived there before Aunt Violet.

Then she remembers that there’s an attic. She saw a trapdoor, didn’t she? Set into the ceiling of the corridor. Perhaps there’ll be something up there.

The top rung of the ladder creaks as Kate steps on it. God knows how old it is: she found it rusting against the back of the house, half covered in creeping ivy. Ignoring the ladder’s protest, she pushes the trapdoor open.

Aunt Violet’s attic is enormous – big enough that she can almost stand up. She switches on the torch on her phone, and the dark shapes take form.

Shelves line the walls, sparkling with insects, preserved in specimen jars. The space is dominated by a hulking bureau. Even under the torchlight, it looks scratched and very old, possibly even older than the furniture in the rest of the cottage. There are two drawers.

She opens the first drawer of the bureau. It’s empty. Then tries the second, which is locked.

She feels around in the recesses of the first drawer again, just in case she’s missed something, some clue. She breathes in sharply as her fingers connect with a package. Pulling it out, she sees that it is wrapped in fraying cloth. She won’t open it here, in the dark, she decides. Something skitters on the roof and her heart rises into her throat.

She lowers herself down into the yellow oblong of light, the package tight in her hand, its dust working itself into the tread of her skin.

She’ll start the fire, make a cup of tea, turn on as many lights as possible. Then she’ll look at it. Strange, that the other drawer would be locked. Almost as if Aunt Violet was hiding something.





13


ALTHA


I watched as Grace swore on the Bible, to tell the whole truth and nothing but. The prosecutor rose from his seat and walked slowly towards her. I could see her eyes searching for mine.

I wanted to look away, to hide my face in my hands and curl myself up small, but I couldn’t. There were too many people watching. I was Lancaster’s greatest attraction. In the gallery, men pointed me out to their wives; mothers shushed their grubby children. There was a low and constant hiss. Witch, I heard them say. Hang the witch.

The prosecutor began.

‘Please state your full name for the court,’ he said.

‘Grace Charlotte Milburn,’ she said, too quietly. So quietly that he had to ask her to repeat herself.

‘And where do you reside, Mistress Milburn?’

‘Milburn Farm, near Crows Beck,’ she said.

‘And who did you live there with?’

‘My husband. John Milburn.’

‘And do you have any children?’

She paused. One hand went to her waist: she wore a kirtle of dark grey wool, thick enough to hide her shape. I willed her not to look at me.

‘No.’

‘Could you tell the court what is raised at Milburn Farm? Crops, or livestock?’

‘Livestock,’ she said.

‘Which animals?’

‘Cows,’ she whispered. ‘Dairy cows.’

‘And how did your husband come by Milburn Farm?’

‘He inherited it, sir. From his father.’

‘So he lived there from birth.’

‘Yes.’

One of the judges cleared his throat. The prosecutor looked up at him.

‘Bear with me, your honour, this has relevance to the charges laid upon the accused.’

The judge nodded. ‘You may continue.’

The prosecutor turned back towards Grace.

‘Mistress Milburn. Would you say that your husband was familiar with cows? With the patterns and habits of these beasts?’

She hesitated.

‘Yes, of course, sir. Dairy farming was in his blood.’

‘And the particular cows at the farm were familiar with him?’

‘He took them from byre to field and back every day, sir.’

‘I see. Thank you, Mistress Milburn. Now, mistress, could you describe for the court the events of New Year’s Day, in this, the year of our Lord 1619?’