Chapter 27

The following day, Captain William Underwood came. He and Mary knew each other from church, but he had never done more than wish her good morrow. This was a different meeting.

“Captain Underwood,” Mary greeted him.

“I deeply regret having to meet with you under such conditions,” he said.

“We have seen each other under better.”

“You know what they have asked me to perform?”

“Constable Eaton advised me. What is it you need?”

“Only to view you,” he said. He stopped and lowered his eyes to the wide plank floor. “I wished a cart. The end would be quick and painless.”

“So I understand,” Mary said.

“They have denied me the use of it.”

“He wants me to strangle,” she said.

He nodded. “It is not how I would desire it, and I have told Walcott as much.”

“Be of no concern. Were you to ask, I would choose this method.”

“To die in such a distasteful manner? Hanging at the end of a rope?” He could not hide his astonishment.

“It provides me with time,” she said.

“Time to suffer,” he said.

“Time to move on,” she replied. “If the method troubles you, remember it is the one I wish. Though there will be discomfort, I shall accomplish my goal.”

William Underwood could not reply. He had no idea what she was talking about or what she meant. Though he still disliked the prescribed method of execution, preferring the usual quick drop that when done right killed almost instantly, if Mary was fine with choking to death, he would not complain.

When he stood to leave, she thanked him and told him again not to concern himself about her. At the door, he stopped as if to say something. Instead, he nodded and left. Mary watched the door close and returned to her Bible.

A few minutes later, she heard wailing from the Common. The window in the cell was too high for her to see out, but she recognized the voice. It was Rebecca. She continued for a full five minutes, followed by silence.

Later, Abigail brought dinner. She handed the bowl to Mary and stood at the door.

“Rebecca appeared today,” she said. “Would that I could know what she does.”

“I heard but could not see her,” Mary answered.

“Her lamentations mean nothing. The gestures she makes seem practiced.”

“Something addles her mind,” Mary said. “She thinks it is normal.”

“There is talk in the village about her,” Abigail said. “They say she is responsible for John Collins dying.”

“I do not know. It is true, she and John did not speak.”

“Some are looking into it,” Abigail said.

Mary stopped eating and looked up. “They are that certain?”

“I am not privileged to the details. They are sure she killed him.”

"They know what caused his death?"

"I do not know," Abigail said.

Mary asked more questions, but Abigail could not answer them.

"With but two days left, I think it not wise to dwell on what might be," she said.

“We have hope,” Abigail said. “My good husband told me he will request a delay if they discover anything.”

Mary looked puzzled. If Constable Eaton was not looking into Rebecca’s involvement, who was?

“Harold Avery and Reverend Churchill,” Abigail said. “Someone, I know not who, told the Reverend he saw Rebecca at the Collins house the evening before he took ill. I know nothing else.”

“Rebecca would visit Goody Collins,” Mary mused. “I think Emma would not let her in now, given how she is.”

Abigail glanced toward the exit. “I will keep you informed as I hear things.”

“Thank you,” Mary said.

Abigail left. Mary wished her friend had not told her. Now, she had hope of avoiding the execution, but it was small hope. In less than 48 hours, the rope would be around her neck.

She tried to put it from her mind. Thoughts turned to the village and the people who needed her. What would happen to the sick? What had happened while she sat in the Ipswich and now the Danielsford jails?

In the evening, Rebecca was once more on the Common screeching and wailing. Why was it allowed? Surely they knew the woman was out of her head. If she wasn’t hurting anyone, she was disturbing them. Shouldn’t that count toward putting her away somewhere?

Hearing her now took Mary back to John Collins and his first illness caused, she was certain, by bad water. Did Rebecca poison the well? There was no proof, and no way to tell what type of poison was in the well or, if not in the well, in the pail of water from which John drank. She remembered Rebecca saying she had never done anything evil.

When John became ill again, try as she might she could find no reason, except that the sickness seemed to be identical to the first incident. She began to wonder. Could it be Rebecca who did it? Insane, she would not remember the crime, or might think killing him was not murder or even a sin.

If someone poisoned him, nothing she did would help. She had no cure, and if he drank too much of the poisoned water, she could not help him even if she knew of a way.

Again, Rebecca left after a few minutes of screeching and wailing. Mary glanced up at the high window. It was growing dark. Supper was late. Just as she thought of it, Abigail arrived, carrying the evening meal.

“Rebecca was at it again,” she said.

“I heard,” Mary answered, taking the bowl. “Is there any news from those looking into John Collins’ death?”

Abigail shook her head. “I do not understand what they are doing or how they are doing it.”

Mary stopped eating. “I am puzzled. Why would they think Rebecca poisoned his water?”

Abigail leaned forward. “This I heard. The morning you left, Emma went out to fill her bucket. You know where the well sits.”

Mary nodded. “Behind the house but a short distance.”

“Emma says you did not go to it.”

“No, I did not. I tasted water from the bucket in the house.”

“I am told they found a woman’s footprints in the dirt near the well,” Abigail said.

“Emma drew from the well,” Mary said.

“They were not hers. Emma is a small woman. The footprints were not of her making, and they went to the pail from which John drank water.”

“I did not then know of the pail outside. Still, it does not prove Rebecca made the footprints.”

Abigail thought about what Mary said. They were trying to help her, but it wasn't enough. The hanging would not be delayed by a footprint in the dirt.

Time was running out. To succeed, they had to give her good husband enough proof to delay the execution.

Mary seemed to read her thoughts. “Should they find proof, is there time to stop it?”

“I do not know,” Abigail said.

“Nor do I. I think it is too late,” Mary said. “If they prove me innocent, even if after my death, I will be grateful.”

She returned to the stew. It was good. While she finished the bowl and ate the bread, Abigail watched. It pleased her that Mary enjoyed it.

“Had I known you made such a fine stew, I would have asked for your secret,” Mary said. She handed Abigail the bowl.

Abigail smiled. Tears appeared in her eyes. She turned and left, carrying the bowl in both hands.

When Abigail was gone, Mary glanced across the small room in which she was held.

One more day and half of the next, she thought, and then it will be over.

She picked up the Bible and, by the weak light of the small candle she was allowed, read until she was tired enough to sleep.