Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [62]
“It’s done then, is it?” said the second man, who was short and barrel-chested.
“Good as near,” said the first, wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve.
“He went easy like,” said the third with a snort of disgust. This man then placed the heel of his boot against the dead man’s side and with one swift push, flipped him over like a pancake. I had never seen a corpse at such close hand, and the sight of his rolled-back eyes made me gasp. For the first time the three men looked at me, and we stared at each other for a long moment, until one of them, the one whose face was bleeding, spoke to me.
“Fell off his mount,” he said, indicating the dead man. The others nodded slowly, and then the barrel-chested man knelt down by the body. He took a knife out from under his tunic and cut loose the dead man’s purse. It held almost nothing, even I could tell this at my age, and when the fat man held it up to his companions they spat and shook their heads. Then they turned and scampered off, leaving me alone with my lost soul.
When I returned home I found my mother spinning wool in front of the cottage.
“I’ve seen one,” I said excitedly. “In the graveyard.” Her eyes narrowed.
“You’ve seen what?” she asked warily.
“A lost soul,” I said. “He was dead,” I added. She looked at me a long moment, then shook her head.
“You’ve seen naught,” she said with a sigh, before returning to her spinning. I watched her work for a moment, knew that the force of her truth would outweigh mine, and then I turned on my heels and left.
Some time later I returned to the graveyard. By then the body had been removed, though I could still see the smear of blood upon the grass. My mother must have learned of the dead man in the days that followed, for news of a killing would have spread hastily about the village. But she never came to me with it—never offered her knowledge in exchange for my own.
Later that day my mistress falls into a deep sleep, and I take the opportunity to go into the village. At some point I must face my mother, but first I journey to the alehouse to discover what has happened. I enter through the kitchen door, hoping to find Mary alone, but instead find her and Samuell by the fire, their heads bowed closely in conference. They turn to me, and I see at once in their startled faces that something is amiss. Samuell nods to me and hurries from the room.
“What is it?” I ask. Mary takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Her face is a map of concern. “Where is the magistrate?” She puts a finger to her lips, and nods toward the other room.
“Within,” she says. “Interviewing half the village.”
“And?”
“He believes there is a witch among us,” she continues. “And has asked for a list of suspects.” She pauses then, looks into the fire. “Your mother’s name was mentioned more than once,” she says finally. I stare at her uncomprehendingly, and think of my mother’s unabiding loyalty to Dora.
“It is ridiculous,” I say. “She was her closest friend.” Mary nods.
“I told him so,” she says.
“He interviewed you?”
She shrugs and nods.
“And Samuell?”
“Him as well,” she says.
I think for a moment. “Who else is on the list?”
“The Widow Locke,” she says. “And old Jack Fry.” At this I laugh in disbelief. The Widow Locke is mad with age, and old Jack Fry a drunkard. Neither are in possession of their senses, let alone capable of such misdeeds.
“Why my mother?” I ask.
“I do not know. There is talk of a familiar.”
I cannot believe my ears, for the familiar that she speaks of could be none other than my mother’s beastly cat.
“That cat has been with her less than two months,” I say angrily. “And I know for certain she regrets the day it ever crossed her path!”
“They do not know this,” says Mary quietly.
“She has even tried to bar it from the house, but each time it screams so loudly she is forced to let it in.”
Mary purses her lips but