Chapter 29

While Mary spoke, Reverend Churchill and Harold Avery listened. Abigail had gone to start supper for she and her husband, but Constable Eaton remained. Mary was in his charge and, when the talk finished, he would return her to her cell.

Five minutes into her explanation, she stopped. “I cannot and will not say Good Man Collins died of poisoning. Nor can I say Rebecca Collins murdered him. There is no way to know.”

“The pail of water?” Reverend Churchill asked.

“Emptied the next day,” Constable Eaton replied. “What could we do with it?”

“Make an animal drink of it. If it died, we would know,” Harold Avery said.

For a few minutes, they spoke of Rebecca and John Collins and their dislike for each other.

“Did she curse his chickens?” Reverend Churchill asked.

After a moment, Mary said, “She said he accused her. She did not admit doing such.”

“So Rebecca may not have cursed them,” Harold said.

“I do not think she did, but it created much ill feeling between them.”

“Enough ill will that her addled mind could have killed him,” the Reverend said.

“If I say anything, it is but a guess. I do not know,” Mary replied.

“How many chickens did John Collins have in Salem Village?” Constable Eaton asked.

“I think at least fifty, perhaps more,” Mary said. “He had many. We bought our eggs from him.”

“So the loss was substantial.”

“For a time, then those remaining began to lay again. Rebecca’s husband passed some time before the chickens were cursed. John Collins blamed her for his death.”

“Did you say she had no hand in it?” Harold Avery asked.

“She did not. I know this for fact. But he continued to accuse her, even on Sunday while in church. Finally, Reverend Parris put a stop to it.”

“Yes,” Reverend Churchill said. “They eventually came here to escape the cloud John created for himself.”

“They did well here?” Mary asked.

“Quite well,” Avery said. “No one knew of their time in Salem Village.” He stopped. “Except, it seems, you, Reverend.”

“They were fine people,” the Reverend said. “No secret was made of his dislike for Rebecca. I knew much of the story, but not all of it. It seems a thought came into his mind and he could not rid himself of it.”

“It was a wrong thought,” Mary told him. “Rebecca’s good husband died of an illness, as did others during the time. Rebecca had no part in his death.”

“The chickens?” Constable Eaton asked.

“Again, as I said, he accused her. She did not say, and I do not know.”

When the questions ran out, Reverend Churchill and Harold Avery stood to leave. They had learned little during the two hours spent with Mary.

Nothing that was said could accuse Rebecca of poisoning her uncle. There was bad blood between them, but feuds seemed to be endemic in the colony. It had become a place filled with accusations and ill feelings, far from the Christian sanctuary the English colonists hoped it to be.

Churchill commented that the anger seemed to come from John toward Rebecca. She disliked him because he made false accusations against her.

“That is how I see it,” Mary said.

“I don’t know if we can help you, Mary Bradbury,” Harold Avery said.

“The visit was enjoyable,” she said. “If any of it bears fruit and clears my name, it is enough.”

“We will work hard,” the reverend said, “but I am fearful it may be too late.”

“No.” Constable Eaton stepped forward. “If you find anything at all, I will delay the execution.”

“You can do that?” Churchill asked.

“I can and I will do it, no matter the cost.”

“There will be no cost,” Avery said. He eyed the reverend. After a moment, Churchill nodded.

As she listened to the men, Mary realized a faint shred of hope still existed, but it was now very faint. What could they do at night? Going to visit Rebecca after dark was a fearful undertaking, with danger lurking beneath every bush. And, if they talked to her, what could they learn?

Being out of her head, how could they know if she told the truth? If she confessed, while in such a state, could they believe her? If she was guilty would she even remember poisoning her uncle?

“Come,” Constable Eaton said. “You must go back to your room. Supper will be soon.”

Nodding, she thanked the men and walked back to the small room. They watched in silence as she led the way, a step ahead of Eaton.

“We must do as we said,” Avery told Reverend Churchill.

“It pains me not being able to give her a proper burial. Even if we learn Rebecca to be guilty, we cannot put her in our cemetery.”

“If she is innocent, why can she not be placed there?”

“The court must declare her innocent,” the reverend said.

“The court is not God.”

“I cannot.”

“We will deal with it when it comes.” Harold Avery glanced at the minister. “If we find she did not commit the crime, then we will cross the next bridge.”

“I am bound by the rules,” Churchill said in a firm voice.

“And I am bound by my Christian faith,” Avery said. “Let us get to work.”

The two men left and walked the few minutes out of town to Rebecca’s home, intent on questioning her. A week earlier, while Mary sat in the Ipswich jail, they had caught and spoken to her. Her answers were incoherent gibberish that barely resembled English. This time, they hoped to have more success. Even as a lunatic, there had to be moments of sanity.

“She bears the guilt,” Avery said. “Of that I am certain.”

“I do not know how we will make her admit it. If she does, will she do so in court? There is no mind left in her body.”

“A confession to us will save an innocent life.”

“Not so innocent,” Churchill said. “She does Witchcraft, with her potions and healings.”

“Healing a sickness is Witchcraft?” Avery eyed the Reverend. “If so, we need more witches like her.”

“Such talk borders on blasphemy, Harold Avery,” Churchill warned.

“It is also the truth, Reverend Churchill.”

“There stands her house.” Churchill stopped on the narrow trail and looked at it, some twenty yards away. “Why do I sense danger?”

“I know not, but I, too, feel it.”

They stared at the building, feeling the menace or evil grow stronger by the second.

“I cannot,” Churchill said. “Never have I felt such as this.”

“Nor I,” Avery agreed. “Something terrible lurks there.”

For a full minute, the men stood, staring at the innocent looking home, and around into the trees on either side of the trail, and they fought a powerful urge to leave. When the hate and evil threatened to overwhelm them, the two men reluctantly withdrew. Once out of sight of the house, the sensation left.

“Mary is not wrong,” Churchill said. “The devil lives there.”

“In all my years, I have never felt such,” Harold Avery said.

Staring in the house's direction, Reverend Churchill found his courage. “Should we return? I am a man of God. Satan cannot stand against Him.”

“If you wish,” Avery replied. “I will be beside you.”

“It will be dark soon.” Churchill looked up at a patch of sky visible through the tall trees. “All manner of evil will be about.”

The reverend voiced what Harold Avery was thinking. All around them, they could hear scurrying sounds. Both men knew that the noises could only be from the devil’s familiars.

Neither of the men lacked courage. Avery had served time in the militia, and he suffered a wound during fighting in Maine. Years later, the injury he received still bothered him. Their beliefs, coupled with the superstitions of the day, were stronger than the considerable courage each possessed.

“I think if we are to talk to her, we should do it with a larger force,” Avery said.

Churchill agreed. Both knew they would not return to Rebecca’s house that evening. They left, each knowing their decision to leave sealed Mary’s fate.

By the time they were back in the safety of Danielsford, any thought of gathering a force and going back to confront Rebecca had passed. It was sunset, and they knew they would not find men to go with them.

Churchill left Avery at his home and walked alone to the parsonage. It was safe to walk after dark in the village. Tomorrow, in daylight, they would try again. Maybe they would discover something in time to stop the hanging, but he doubted it would be the case.

When Harold Avery came through the door of his home, Mercy knew something was wrong.

“What is it?” she asked.

He took a seat at the table and told her what happened, and what he and the reverend felt.

“Never in my life have I felt such peril, or evil, not even while fighting Indians in Maine,” he said.

“What is in the house?” she asked.

“Something even Reverend Churchill fears.”

“What of Mary?”

“We will go back at dawn. The house is but a few minutes' walk,” he said.

“You would enter such a place?” Mercy asked.

He dropped his eyes. “It will be as if walking into hell. There is such hate outside, from the distance, I cannot imagine what is will be inside.”

“What if it enters you?” she asked.

Harold did not reply. The thought occurred to him on the way back to Danielsford. If Reverend Churchill, a minister of God, feared going inside the house, what chance would he have?

“We must try,” he said. His voice lacked conviction.

“This is not fighting Indians,” Mercy said. “Your very soul could be at risk.”

“I wish we had known of it long ago,” he said. “We could have burned the place to the ground. It is worse than we ever imagined.”

“Rebecca bears some blame. She was a fine woman, but did you not sense something when they came here?”

He shook his head. “Only Mary, intent on getting her house from me.”

“Not Mary. From Rebecca. At this late date, I cannot explain it. Too much time has passed.”

“I sensed nothing,” Harold said. “Could you be mistaken?”

“It is possible,” Mercy said. “The mind does work in such manner.”

While Harold and Mercy talked, Rebecca gathered her few belongings. She had been hiding only a few feet from Avery and Churchill, and she heard them mention why they were there.

“So,” she whispered when they left, “you wish me to confess. Well, I do so confess. But you will never hear me say it.”

Once they were out of sight, she emerged onto the trail. It was time to leave Danielsford. She had to get away before they returned in the morning - the morning of the day Mary Bradbury would hang.

Deep inside, Rebecca felt a twinge of guilt. Even in the depths of her insanity, she understood that an innocent woman would die for her sin. The feeling did not last long. She spun and hurried to the house. It was time to go.

Unlike the others, she reveled in the darkness. The night was her friend. The creatures of the night protected her. They warned her when strangers came near, giving her ample time to escape or hide.

By morning, when the sun rose, she planned to be far away from Danielsford.