“They’ve killed him,” said Anne Grimston, barely audibly, before crumpling to the floor in a faint.

  While a couple rushed to help her, the physician closed Goody’s eyelids, so no one need witness his expression of terror any longer.

  Jacob felt something in his pocket, pulled it out and looked at it. It was the poppet Goody had thrust upon him.

  Had the witches indeed struck?

  Chapter ten

  Aftermath

  The death of Goody Grimston necessitated a sharp turn in the investigation. Suddenly, the inquisitors were not merely defending Paulina and Rebecca against accusations of witchcraft; since their accuser was now dead, allegedly at the hands of witches, they were now defending potential murderers. The courts would take that very seriously indeed.

  Goody had been killed to hush his mouth - at least, that was how it looked. Add witches’ curses and dark magic, and the cauldron of fear was being well and truly stirred.

  “If Paulina and Rebecca didn’t kill Goody, then who did?” Abby wondered out loud. “And why?”

  The most obvious answer was, they agreed, to throw more suspicion on the two women and to escalate the seriousness of their alleged crimes.

  “What if they are indeed witches?” asked Jacob.

  Goody’s body had been removed, carried back to his home to await burial, trailed by his inconsolable wife. The inn had cleared quickly afterwards, its patrons all out of appetite after the awful scenes they had witnessed. Only Abby and Jacob remained.

  “Do you believe in witchcraft, Jacob?” Abby asked.

  He was still clutching the straw poppet, as if it had become attached to him through its unearthly powers. He shuddered. “I confess, it is not easily dismissed in my mind. Many tales and accounts have reached me, which are too strange to fathom. How else does one explain certain grim misfortunes that befall us? How does one adequately explain the demise of Goody Grimston?”

  Abby prised the poppet from Jacob’s grip. Holding it to her nose, she inhaled. “Lavender indeed,” she said, and tucked it into her coat. “I’ve spoken with Master Pepys on the topic of witchcraft. We’ve delved into the literature and share the same view. The world is full of enigmas that defy explanation; he leans towards rational, scientific explanations over demonic forces. And I concur. We must consult the physician who treated Goody in his final moments. His perspective will be rooted in science.”

  Jacob looked thoughtful. “If science is indeed at play, then any man present might have brought about Goody’s demise. Though I confess, the method escapes me.”

  Abby nodded. “Any man - or woman - precisely, Mr Standish. We must compile a list of suspects. Our best chance of clearing Paulina’s name, and that of Rebecca, is to discover who killed Goody Grimston. We’ll interrogate everyone and see who lies. Goody’s death and the witchcraft accusations must be linked.”

  They were seated at their table in the darkened tap-room, just a candle between them shedding flickering light, all other oil lamps and candles having been extinguished. It felt intimate, almost spiritual.

  Hatty had retired to bed, but her husband could still be heard bustling about in a back room. Jacob called to him, and shortly he appeared at their side, wheezing.

  “Would you join us?” Jacob asked.

  Barty pulled up a stool and slumped onto it, exhaling wearily. He had removed the fake eye-patch and, in the dim light, the bags under his eyes looked pronounced. “Oh dear oh dear oh dear,” he exclaimed, all out of his customary good humour. “Such a terrible sight. It will do nought for my custom.”

  “Nor for Anne Grimston’s livelihood,” Abby added.

  “Indeed, it goes without saying. And that poor man.”

  “Did you like him?” Abby asked.

  Barty patted her arm. “Nay, not at all. Precious few did. Should we sup an ale?”

  When the innkeeper returned with three pewter tankards and set them on the table, Abby quizzed him further. “You said that few folk liked Goody. Might any wish him dead?”

  “Where to begin?” came the reply.

  The inquisitors waited for laughter, a sign that he was joking. None came.

  Barty went on to list those present in The Bull at the time of the incident, who had some connection with the case. Abby extracted a quill, ink-horn and notebook (donated by her master), from a pouch attached to her belt, and wrote them down.

  • Bulstrode Bennett (and his wife, Helen) - the magistrate investigating the allegations.

  • Will Farlow (who had been seated in a dark corner with Lord Fairfax’s stablemaid, Alice Wilkins) - the accused Paulina Pepys’s suitor.

  • The physician, Archibald Bramwell - who had attempted to treat Goody.

  • Anne Grimston - Goody’s wife.

  “Is that everybody?” Abby asked.

  “Ah!” Barty exclaimed, slapping the table for effect. “Mistress Thacker was here but a short while before you arrived. She was returning my favoured doublet, having mended it.”

  • Rebecca Thacker

  Abby frowned as she added the name to her list. “That’s the last thing we need. The very woman we strive to exonerate, present ere Goody’s demise.”

  “Surely you don’t suspect her?” the innkeeper asked.

  “She sought to blame P…” Jacob began to reply.

  Abby placed a finger to her lips, silencing him. “’Tis wise to keep our counsel, Jacob.”

  It riled Barty. “The good folk of Brampton have a right to know if you are aware of a witch in our midst,” he told them angrily. “Did you and I not witness the same terrible events? Consider the poppet Goody thrust upon you, Mr Standish, the like of which he found before the ruin of his crop. That was witchcraft, plain and simple.”

  Abby smiled to herself. The credulity of these country folk was only to be expected. It was her task as an inquisitor to seek a scientific explanation for these supposed occult occurrences. And to discover who had good reason to see Goody dead.

  She addressed the innkeeper. “You said that Will Farlow dined here with Alice Wilkins. Yet Farlow is Paulina Pepys’s intended?”

  Barty took a healthy slug of ale and licked his lips. “Farlow and Wilkins were once betrothed. But when Paulina showed interest in Farlow, he quickly switched his affections. As you may imagine, Mistress Wilkins took great offence.”

  “Yet they were together here on this night,” Abby pointed out.

  Barty leaned forward, beckoning them to do the same. “I cannot know what takes place in others’ chambers. Nor would I wish to,” he told them (Abby looked sceptical). “However, I do know this. Mr Farlow is audacious, while Mistress Pepys is all too innocent in the ways of love.”

  “Did they leave the inn together?” Jacob asked.

  Barty paused, considering the question. “Amidst all the commotion, I could not say for certain… Do you believe one of them may have murdered Goody?”

  Abby, who had not yet met either Will or Alice, shrugged.

  “They are not witches!” Barty exclaimed.

  “Witches, Mr Nettlewood, may take many guises,” Jacob told him. “They are known to mislead and to disguise themselves in order to avoid suspicion.”

  Finishing her ale with a flourish, Abby set down her tankard. “Or perhaps the truth lies beyond tales of witchcraft? Jacob, we should retire to our beds. Tomorrow we pay an early visit to the physician, Bramwell - and we shall need our wits about us.”

  Chapter eleven

  The Good Physician?

  Archibald Bramwell, being Lord and Lady Fairfax’s personal physician, was afforded his own quarters in a wing of Ravenscourt Manor. He advised them on hygiene and performed regular health check-ups - keeping detailed records - as well as bloodletting, which balanced their bodily humours thus promoting good health.

  He had also overseen the birth of the couple’s ten children - most efficiently, it should be added, given that not one had died in infancy.

  The previous day’s glorious weather felt like a distant memory as Abby and Jacob set off towards the Ravenscourt estate, following a nourishing fresh-fruit breakfast. Initially they followed the route to the Grimston farmhouse, having spotted the manor house the previous day.

  The sky was uniformly grey, one looming raincloud, and a low-lying mist blanketed the ground in all directions. It was chilly and faintly drizzling, not that the inquisitors minded. The damp brought out the scent of sweet, wet grass, which made a welcome change from London’s stench.

  Jacob was nervous. More nervous than Abby, who had become accustomed to meeting the rich, titled, and entitled, during her daily life of servitude. Her master often hosted high-ranking navy officials, rich merchants and assorted hangers-on at Seething Lane, where she would help serve the food, ensure the guests’ comfort, and still maintain a low profile. Pepys dearly loved to entertain, and to be entertained.

  “I dread the thought of meeting Lord Fairfax,” Jacob told her, head bowed, scuffing his leather soles like an errant child. “I am sure to be tongue-tied and make an utter fool of myself.”

  As he looked up, a horse-drawn cart emerged through the mist in the distance. A shadowy figure was leading the horse, and the cart was laden with hay. Distracted, he tripped over a dead branch in his path and toppled sideways into a ditch.

  “Mr Standish, whatever are you doing?” Abby asked.

  Wordlessly, he brushed himself down and returned to the trackway.

  The old farmer leading the cart eyed Jacob suspiciously as they passed. “Saw you jump into that there ditch.”

  “I did not jump,” Jacob replied sulkily. “I tripped.”

  “Oh aye,” said the farmer. “I’ll wager you’re from London.”

  The road dipped and took them over Alconbury Brooke via the stone-built Nuns’ Bridge with its five wide arches. Ravenscourt Manor’s magnificent gatehouse lay ahead.

  Jacob nervously inspected his doublet, which was now muddied from his fall. He licked his hand and rubbed frantically at a stain. “I shall require fresh garb once again,” he muttered to himself.

  Abby skipped ahead and turned to face him, walking backwards, swinging her arms. “That would be a shame, since I so greatly admire your new shirt.” Her tone of voice suggested a quip was imminent. “It makes you look like a Pepys!”

  She ran off, laughing, as Jacob chased after her. Both, in that moment, forgot all their concerns, which would return soon enough.

  The stone gatehouse boasted a vast arched wooden door, large enough for a horse-and-carriage, with smaller arches either side for pedestrians. The main door was conveniently open, with no guard in place - Lord Fairfax clearly expected no trouble. The parapet was crenelated, suggesting fortification, and intricate carvings above the main arch - floral motifs and a pair of stone guards holding cut tree trunks - bore a Gothic influence.

  It reeked of wealth and prestige.

  Once through, the sight that beheld Abby and Jacob was yet more spectacular: Ravenscourt Manor itself. As a regular visitor and friend of the esteemed owners, her master had often boasted to her of its history.

  The house - more of a palace, given its size - had been built in the 11th century and was once a Benedictine nunnery, hence the Nuns’ Bridge over which the inquisitors had recently passed. Oliver Cromwell’s ancestors had taken over the estate the previous century, following its requisition by Henry VIII during his persecution of Roman Catholics. It had subsequently passed into the hands of the Fairfaxes. Queen Elizabeth and King James had both stayed there.

  So grand was the grey stone architecture that it took the inquisitors’ breath away. Enormous bay windows to the left of the main entrance would allow light to flood into the grand halls within. The roofline cast a jagged silhouette against the sky, with chimneys, triangular gables and further crenellations.

  A circular lawn to the left of the driveway, bisected by a tiled pathway, was dotted about with manicured topiary. Further into the distance, flower and herb gardens could be seen growing.

  To the right of the main building, perpendicular to its walls, was another vast section built in contrasting red brick, a reminder of the continual evolution of the manor house. Behind that, further rooftops were visible, suggesting the estate went on forever.

  “Could we not simply return to the inn?” Jacob asked, straightening his periwig.

  A servant opened the main door to them, and bowed. “How may I assist you?” he asked.

  The interior smelled of wood and beeswax, and they could make out a grand dark-wood foyer with intricate carvings and portraiture adorning the walls. The ceiling was such a height as they had never before witnessed.

  The servant was tall, almost Jacob’s stature, though twice his age, wearing forest-green livery with small pewter buttons and a silver family-crest pin in his lapel. Respectful yet wary, he introduced himself as Edgar.

  Jacob waited for Abby to speak, as was his wont. When she did not - it was hardly a housemaid’s place, even a housemaid-cum-inquisitor’s - he stammered, “We are here on behalf of Mr Samuel Poop… er, Samuel Pape. Nay! Pope!”

  Edgar raised an eyebrow haughtily. “Pope, sir? His name is unfamiliar.”

  “Mr Pepys!” exclaimed Jacob, visibly reddening. “Mr Samuel Pepys! The Pope would be another fellow entirely. Forgive me, I am an ass.”

  “Indeed, sir,” agreed the servant, somehow making it sound polite.

  Once assured of their credentials, Edgar led them outside and around the main building to yet another vast wing of the estate. Pointing to a door, he told them, “The physician, Bramwell’s quarters.”

  “Is Lord Fairfax in residence?” Jacob couldn’t help asking.

  “His Lordship is in London, sir,” replied Edgar.

  “Oh thank God!” Jacob blurted out, then threw a hand across his mouth, horrified. “I mean…”

  “I know what you meant, sir,” the servant intoned witheringly, and flounced away.

  When he was out of earshot, Jacob dropped to his haunches and threw his hands over his head. “Why did you allow me to speak?” he moaned.

  “Come!” said Abby, leading the way to Bramwell’s oak door. “I’ll do the talking, fear not.”

  Archibald Bramwell’s face was instantly recognisable from the night before. He smiled readily, exuded warmth, and was rather handsome, Abby considered, if a little old for her tastes (he looked to be in his late forties). He was also perhaps the cleanest man she had ever met.

  He had long, perfectly manicured fingers and a clean-shaven face, though his grey-tinged hair was casually tousled. His clothing, too, suggested he was not one to stand on ceremony. His cravat hung loosely, and his emerald-green velvet coat had seen better days.

  “Pray enter,” he said. “We shall sit beside the fire that you may dry your garments. I noticed you both at The Bull last night, witnessing Grimston’s tragic demise. I gather you must be Mr Pepys’s well-regarded inquisitors?”

  “Most seem to welcome Goody’s demise,” said Abby, ignoring his question.

  Bramwell squinted at her curiously. “All men are created equal…? I do not know your name.”

  “Abigail. Abigail Harcourt.”

  He bowed, took her hand, and kissed it. “All men are created equal, Abigail,” he said, fixing her gaze.

  “And I, sir, am Jacob Standish. Also inquisitor to the esteemed Mr Pepys.”

  Bramwell barely acknowledged him.

  They were in a spacious room that appeared to be part-study, part-living-area. Stained-glass windows all around cast multiple swathes of colour delightfully about the interior. An oak desk was strewn with papers and books, while the table beside it was topped with all manner of apothecary equipment: mortars and pestles, bottles and jars, containing herbs, powders and liquids. Books lined the walls.

  The physician bade them sit on a well-worn sofa with plentiful cushions, and took a seat in the armchair opposite. “How may I assist you?” he asked.

  “What do you think killed Goody Grimston?” Abby asked.

  Bramwell laced his fingers together and smiled. “By which you mean, do I believe in witchcraft?”

  Abby said nothing, but merely fixed his gaze.

  The physician continued. “We cannot discount any means of death, mortal or otherwise. However, I am a man of science and am inclined to more pragmatic solutions. The human body, while complex, often reveals its secrets to those who know where to look. It is these secrets - not the whispers of superstition - that guide my judgments in matters of life and death.”

  He allowed the statement to linger, enjoying the inquisitors’ evident impatience for answers.

  Jacob could no longer contain himself. “And what is your professional opinion, sir?”

  “I would not care to speculate.”

  “You believe the man was poisoned,” stated Abby.

  “I do,” Bramwell replied.

  Jacob gasped, grasped Abby’s arm, noticed he had done so, and let go.

  “Why do you believe he was poisoned?” she asked.

  “The dilation of his pupils,” he explained. “The poor man’s hysteria. However, the cause of death may be by another method entirely. We cannot discount witchcraft.”

  “What was the liquid you administered to him at the inn?” asked Abby. “I noticed Goody died mere moments afterwards.”

  Bramwell burst out laughing. “I do admire a woman who speaks her mind!”

  “And the liquid?”

  He stopped laughing and stared at her. “It was a tonic of my own concoction. Chamomile, peppermint, rose hip and willow bark, in a solution of brandy.”

  “What was your hope for it?”

  “I hoped that it might cure him. As we saw, it did not.”

  “Would you, sir, have reason to wish Goody Grimston dead?” she asked.

  Jacob harrumphed, appalled at her mounting audacity. “I do beg your…”

  Bramwell interrupted him. “Hush, Mr Standish. It is an apt question for an able inquisitor. However, my answer is nay. Now, pray, allow me to make us some tea!”