Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [68]
When he sees me he stops writing and lowers the monocle. With some effort he stands, pushing back his chair and nodding to me. I take a step forward into the room.
“If you please, sir, it is my mother who stands accused,” I say. He frowns, scrutinizes me for a long moment, then indicates the chair opposite him at the table.
“Be seated,” he says. “I should have sent for you this afternoon, but you have spared me the trouble.” I take the seat opposite him, and watch as he lowers his bulk into his own chair, causing the wood to creak loudly under the strain of his great weight. He pushes the papers in front of him to one side, then clears his throat and peers at me.
“The case against your mother is rather serious, I’m afraid, owing to the discovery made this morning.” He pauses then, notices my confusion.
“I assumed that you had heard,” he says, giving a little cough. “They found the fetus buried in the clearing behind her cottage.” He watches my reaction closely, but before I can speak he holds up a hand to silence me. “Now of course it is possible someone else put it there deliberately to implicate her, but taken with the weight of the other evidence against her . . .” He pauses then, heaves an enormous breath, as if the effort of speaking alone taxes him. “In particular, the fact that few persons other than herself knew of the infant’s existence, her case is very poor.”
I stare at him uncomprehending, and then I remember the bloody sack of cloth outside my mother’s door. The magistrate continues, his deep voice resonating off the tavern walls. “I am in the process of gathering statements from those who know her, and in this capacity am, of course, most anxious to speak with yourself.”
“Sir, my mother is no witch,” I say hurriedly. Once again he raises a hand to still me.
“Your faith in her innocence is laudable—no doubt I would wish the same from my own daughter. But I must remind you that it is a perjury and a sin to speak an untruth in this instance.”
“Sir, hear me out,” I say. “The baby they found was not the one you seek.”
“So said your mother,” he replies with a nod. “But she refused to tell me from whence it came.” He stares at me expectantly.
“It was a bastard child,” I explain. “Born still to a young girl across the river. My mother delivered the infant. The girl in question had concealed the pregnancy from her relations, and when it was born dead, she asked my mother to remove it and give it a proper burial.”
“You were there?” he asks.
“No, sir.”
“You know the whereabouts of the young woman in question?”
“No, sir.”
“Her name then?”
I sigh, and shake my head. “My mother did not tell me.” He gives another enormous sigh and shifts again in his chair; for a moment I am convinced it will collapse under his weight.
“That is more information than your mother gave us, though it is still insufficient to clear her of suspicion. Tell me this: why does she fail to speak in her own defense?”
“My mother does not break an oath lightly.”
He ponders this a moment, his fleshy face folded in a frown.
“She will have to do so if she wishes to clear her name,” he says finally.
“Sir, my mother is a God-fearing woman who has dedicated her life to helping women birth children. Surely the people of the village have told you this.”
“They have told me many things,” he says slowly.
“They have not spoken on her behalf?” I ask, incredulous. He pauses then.
“She appears to have few advocates,” he says finally.
“But surely she has even fewer enemies,” I counter. He shrugs.
“The practice of witchcraft is common among those of her trade. It is regrettable, but not unheard of.”
“But she has bewitched no one,” I protest. “A body has been taken, but aside from this, what harm has befallen anyone?”
He looks at me sternly. “May I remind you that the theft of a grave and the desecration of a corpse is an extremely serious offense. But aside from