Chapter 28

The last full day of Mary Bradbury’s life arrived hot and humid. The cell became an oven when the sun hit the roof and side of the building, turning the small room into a torture chamber.

Constable Eaton opened the door and motioned to Mary.

“Come out,” he said. “The heat will soon be overpowering.”

“Thank you,” Mary said, leaving the room for the first time since returning from Ipswich.

They went into the front, where Constable Eaton offered her a seat. It was cooler, with the roof and sides of the building being in the shade of tall maples and oak trees.

He brought her a cup of water and sat behind the desk. Abigail came in and sat. If they wanted to talk with her, the words would not come. As she sipped the water, Mary watched them.

The minutes passed in silence. When she finished the cup of water, Constable Eaton refilled it and handed the full cup back to her.

“Thank you,” Mary said, taking it.

“We wish to make you as comfortable as possible.” Abigail’s voice trembled. Upset and angry at the coming execution, she could no longer control her emotions.

“You have done more than I ever expected,” Mary replied.

“Neither of us want this.”

“Have I not said that I do not blame you?”

“You have,” Constable Eaton replied.

“He, and those who follow him, will reap their just rewards,” Mary said.

The Eatons eyed her, not understanding. It was just a comment, not unlike what they would say, or had said, in other situations. But there was something else involved, a warning or threat, and it chilled them.

“All because Thomas Walcott wants your home,” Abigail murmured.

“He shall have it if he wants it,” Mary replied. “But he will never profit from it.”

“How do you know this?” Constable Eaton asked.

“God will not allow it. He will exact justice.”

At the moment she finished her answer, William Underwood walked in. He nodded at Mary. His eyes were sad. For a moment he said nothing, and then he nodded.

“You are ready?” Mary asked.

“Do not force me to speak of such things,” he said. “It is difficult enough.”

“Then accept my apology,” Mary said. “It seems I am the only one untroubled.”

“No other news?” Constable Eaton asked.

“None,” Underwood answered. He looked at Mary.

“I know of the suspicion,” Mary said. “It is too late for me.”

“If they discover today that she is guilty,” Underwood said, “I will refuse to perform the act, as will those I have selected to assist me, until she is charged and you released.”

“Thomas Walcott will engage others,” Mary said.

“Not while I am standing,” Underwood said. The tone of his voice said he meant what he said.

“He cannot,” Constable Eaton said. “He is a wealthy man with some influence, but I do not work for him.”

“You cannot defy the court,” Mary said. “The ruling comes from them, not Thomas Walcott. They alone can halt my execution, and I think time has run out.”

“Should we find something out tomorrow, I will stop it until I make them aware. I can do that,” Eaton said.

“Until what time?” Mary asked.

“Until I have given them the news,” he said. “I do not desire to have the death of an innocent haunting me.”

“It would not be your fault.”

“Do you think I would not blame myself?” Eaton replied. “If Rebecca is guilty of John Collins’ death, it means I did not do all I could.”

“No.” Mary’s voice was firm. “Should you not find the evidence you need, what is to pass tomorrow is the law, and you must uphold it. You are doing your duty as Constable.”

“This affair ought not to happen until we learn something,” Underwood said.

“Though I agree,” Eaton replied, “I cannot halt it until Avery and Reverend Churchill give me proof.”

Captain William Underwood frowned. He knew the law and knew how rigid it was. In the past, he also knew innocent people had hanged or otherwise been put to death because of the same law.

In fact, they executed twenty women and men in a few months in Salem Town with no other proof than the rants and ravings of a few children. None of the victims, in his opinion, should have gone to the gallows. Rather, he would have whipped those children within an inch of their lives for their nonsense.

“I must be on my way,” Underwood said. He tried to say something to Mary, and he failed. With a nod, he left.

“It is so sad,” Mary said. “Nothing I can say will relieve his mind, or yours.”

“I think not,” Constable Eaton replied.

Mary changed the subject, talking about the two years she had lived in Danielsford. She spoke about Rebecca and mentioned again the house and what happened there, and the cleansing she and Rebecca performed.

“What do you think is in the house?” Constable Eaton asked.

“I do not know,” Mary said. “Evil for certain, a dark spirit. Perhaps the devil. It has taken Rebecca’s mind.”

Constable Eaton stared at the floor, while Abigail looked shocked and frightened at Mary’s answer. Both knew strange and terrible things hid in the forest around Danielsford and all woods everywhere. Familiars of the devil watched and reported to Satan what people were doing. It wasn’t just in the forests. Toads acted as familiars. They came into the home, and crows were everywhere watching and waiting to carry news to the Evil One.

Hearing about strange shadows was something new to both of them. Did it mean they had something else to worry about? Should they make the Reverend aware that Satan had a new ally in his quest to capture their souls?

“Shadows?” Abigail asked. “Every home has shadows. There are shadows everywhere. Should we avoid them?”

“No,” Mary said. “Most shadows are only shadows, holding nothing evil. This one, Rebecca said, was in the shape of a man. I mean, as if a man made the shadow. But there was no man in the room or house.”

“The devil,” Constable Eaton nodded.

“I do not know,” Mary answered. “It was more powerful than both Rebecca and me. We could not remove it, and it took her.”

Then she explained how she asked Rebecca to stay with her the night after they finished the cleansing, and Rebecca refused. When Constable Eaton asked why she refused, Mary said her friend never told her why. It bothered her the entire night, as if she knew the shadow was still there. The next day, Rebecca was insane.

“It took her mind,” Abigail said.

“I believe so,” Mary answered.

Constable Eaton nodded. “If she stayed with you, she would not be as she is.”

“I do not believe so. But she would not, and she has lost her mind.”

“Do you think, in her present state, she could kill her uncle?”

Mary had to think about it. “They did not speak and did not even enjoy being in sight of each other. Whether given the chance she could kill him, I cannot say.”

“The footprints are that of a woman,” he said.

“Emma is a woman, as am I,” Mary said, repeating what she told Abigail earlier.

“They are not Emma’s. I think you did not make them. Emma said you did not go near the pail from which John Collins drank.”

Mary shook her head. “I looked at the well, and I tasted the water from the bucket in the house. I was not aware of the one from which he drank.”

Eaton nodded. “Emma said she did not think to tell you about it. It was away from the well, so you would not have seen it.”

“If not my footprints, and not Emma’s, who else could have made them?”

“Any woman might have made them. They believe it was Rebecca. Whether they can prove it, we can prove it, in time to save you is the problem.”

“You have not talked to her?”

“We have tried, but she avoids us,” he said.

“Her mind is such that she will let me hang for her crime,” Mary said, adding, “If she is guilty.”

Constable Eaton was not an investigator. In those days, detectives did not exist. The town constables enforced the laws they knew, but hunting for a criminal by investigating a crime was beyond their ability or understanding. It surprised Mary that anyone connected footprints to the crime. As yet, they did not know if the killer made the mysterious footprints.

“What could have poisoned the water?” Constable Eaton asked.

“Many things,” Mary said. She spent a moment thinking and began relating the list of plants she knew to be poisonous.

“Did Rebecca know about them?” he asked.

“I’m sure she knew of some. Most people do. There are other poisons in the dirt, but they are difficult to get. Poisonous plants are everywhere and common.”

For a minute, no one spoke. Constable Eaton digested the information, while Abigail seemed more concerned that the devil, in the likeness of a shadow, had invaded their little village. Mary sat, sipped her water, and watched the Eatons.

When Constable Eaton spoke, he stayed focused on the poison that might have killed John Collins.

“What do you think she could have used?”

“I do not know. Perhaps hemlock, maybe the seeds from castor beans. There are many deadly plants. I hesitate to say one over the other,” Mary replied.

“She knew about them?”

“It would surprise me if everyone did not know about them. They teach children which ones to avoid.”

After pondering her reply for a moment, Abigail nodded. The new world had many strange plants with which the English colonists had to become familiar. Some she knew; many she did not. But she knew hemlock.

“You think she used hemlock?”

“I did not say she did,” Mary answered. “She would know it just as we do.”

“You know what it does?” Constable Eaton asked. “How it affects the body.”

“I do, and his pains were like what it would cause. Others would do the same. If it was hemlock, I could not cure him. There is no cure.”

“Would you speak to good man Avery and Reverend Churchill about it?”

“Certainly,” Mary said, “though I know not how it might help.”

“It may not,” he said, “but I believe you innocent, and I want to do all I can to help.” He stood. “You will wait here?”

Mary laughed. “Where else can I go?”

Eaton smiled and he and Abigail left to find Harold Avery and the Reverend.