Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [69]
“My mother has tended him faithfully since his mother’s death,” I say slowly.
“And he has deteriorated steadily under her care,” he replies evenly.
“You suspect her of bewitching him?”
“It is indeed likely,” he answers.
“What motive could she possibly have? She had no quarrel with the dead woman,” I say.
“None that we are aware of,” he says slowly. “But the woman in question died under extremely mysterious conditions. It appears to me that her death was not the result of an accident, as had been originally supposed.”
I am silent for several moments. “What evidence do you have in support of this?” I ask cautiously.
“At this stage, none,” he replies. “But my instinct tells me there is more to learn about the circumstances of her death.”
I sit opposite him, my mind whirling. I cannot tell him that I share his intuition; neither can I divulge what I know without endangering my mother.
“Did you question my mother about her death?” I ask finally.
“No. But I intend to. In the meantime there are others in the village I must interview. I have ordered your mother to remain in her cottage for the present, until we have further need of her. She is not to go near the boy. Have you anything else you wish to say on her behalf?”
I look at him, and slowly shake my head.
“Then you are free to go,” he says.
The village seems deserted as I make my way toward her cottage, as if people have locked themselves away with their suspicions. The few people that I pass avert their eyes; it seems that news has traveled quickly. I wonder that I did not hear of it earlier, then decide that perhaps my ignorance was not an accident, for people are surprisingly quick to ally themselves with gossip of any kind. When I open the door to my mother’s cottage, I find her seated at the table, motionless. Her hands rest delicately on the table in front of her, as if she is about to play an instrument, and it strikes me that I have rarely, if ever, seen them idle.
I close the door and seat myself opposite her. Though she is not yet a prisoner, already she wears the look of one. “I’ve come from the magistrate,” I tell her. She looks up at me expectantly, and I realize I have nothing positive to offer her. “The case against you is serious. Do you realize this?” I lean forward, place my hands upon the table opposite her. Another daughter might have clasped her hands in reassurance, but though I urge myself to do so, I find that I cannot. She says nothing, continues staring at the table.
“You must tell them everything,” I say. “You must tell the truth.”
“The truth will be a weapon in their hands,” she says. I sigh and look at her. She is remarkably calm. Or perhaps she is resigned, just as my mistress is to death.
“Tell me where to find the girl. Surely she would not object if she knew you were in danger?” My slowly shakes her head. “You pay too great a price with your silence,” I say. “You do not owe her this.”
“She was a traveler. I do not know her whereabouts,” she says duly. I wonder if she tells the truth. Nonetheless, there must be some other means of proving her innocence.
“The baby you delivered. Did it come to term?” I ask.
“It was born early,” she says in a wooden voice.
“How early?” She shrugs.
“Some weeks,” she replies.
“How many? Three? Six?” I urge her to remember.
“Perhaps the latter. I did not know, as I had never met the mother during the course of her confinement.” The fact that the baby was not fully formed makes it harder to distinguish from the fetus taken from the great-bellied woman. My mother looks at me grimly, for she is well aware of this. I sit back in my chair, look around me at the simply furnished cottage.
“Then we must wait,” I say finally. “And see what they decide.”
That evening I take my food alone in my room, as I have no wish to confront the likes of Rafe and Alice in the great hall. When darkness is complete, I take my cloak and slip out the front door unseen, anxious to find Mary at the alehouse. When I enter