Magpie, p.11
Magpie, page 11
‘A running baker?’ Beth queried to the soundtrack of a coffee grinder in a room beyond the bakery. ‘Unlikely combo.’
‘Travis figures the running helps him eat all the good stuff he bakes and keeps him trim.’
‘And is it a philosophy you agree with?’
He grimaced. ‘As a GP I’m supposed to say cut down on the sweet stuff. As a realist I say a little of what you fancy does you good and take regular exercise that you enjoy.’
‘Wish you were my GP,’ Beth replied sourly, thinking back to the unsympathetic and uninterested Dr Carmichael.
Nathan gave her an intense look. ‘I don’t.’
‘Oh! Am I such a bad patient then?’
‘Not at all.’ He grinned. ‘But I couldn’t take you out for coffee like this if you were. It’s strictly against protocol. And I’d like to ask you out, if I may.’
The wind was punched from Beth’s sails. ‘Oh,’ was all she managed. Before she could get her feelings ordered, Travis brought over a cafetiere of coffee, and teacakes oozing yellow butter piled high on a plate.
‘There you go, folks. Enjoy.’ He and Nathan chatted about the next parkrun they were doing and something about a Grizzly run in nearby Seaton that sounded truly terrifying. Beth only half listened. Trying to quieten the emotion Nathan’s statement of intent had stirred up, she concentrated on eating. When she’d finished, as the men were still chatting, she googled on her phone the name Bill had mentioned: Culpepper. Born in 1616, he became an apprentice to an apothecary, she read. Wounded fighting for Cromwell, he was most famous for his Culpepper’s Herbal, published cheaply for the mass market in 1652. Beth wondered what the literacy rate was in the seventeenth century. If Bill was right and Nathan’s leather-bound volume showed the influence of Culpepper, it dated it post 1652. And the evidence was clear; it had been created by a person who could read and write. She vowed to research life in the seventeenth century; it was a period of which she knew little. A link took her to Amazon and a modern translation of Culpepper’s Herbal, so she ordered it.
While Nathan ate, she sipped her second cup of coffee and looked around her. The bakery was tiny, with whitewashed rough walls and a tempting display of bread and cakes on offer. Nothing fancy but delicious-looking sourdough, treacle tarts and the hearty Devon speciality, lardy cakes.
‘This is a real find,’ she said when he’d finished.
He tapped his nose. ‘Only the locals know about it.’
Beth, picturing her own shop and thinking a niche artisan bakery would go down a storm on Clappers Lane, asked, ‘Then how does Travis make a living?’
Nathan pushed his plate away. ‘I don’t think he’s that bothered about a huge profit. He lives above the shop, cycles everywhere, opens when he feels like it and bakes what he’s interested in making. He’s a laid-back kind of guy, if that’s not stating the obvious.’
Beth was silent for a moment. Maybe she could learn from him. But, then again, the laid-back running Travis probably didn’t have a mortgage to worry about. Even though small, hers was still a pressing worry. Guilt that she should be in the shop right now snatched at her. ‘Interesting philosophy if it works for you.’
‘And it’s not for everyone. Travis used to be a hedge fund manager. Suffered a breakdown and came to Flete to start again. He’s not bothered about expansion or making a lot of money.’
No, he wouldn’t be. He’s probably already made enough. Beth kept the thought to herself; it seemed too cynical and she didn’t want to appear bitter. But it was a business model that wouldn’t work for her. She changed the subject. ‘So, tell me about the book you collected from Bill.’
Nathan jerked round. His shoulders relaxed as he saw the shopping bag was still hanging on the back of his chair. Turning back to her, he answered, ‘It’s something Mum found when she was clearing out the attic. As Bill said, it’s a book of old recipes and folk remedies. Seeing as I’m a doctor, Mum thought I might like it and, as it looked so old, I thought Bill might be able to tell me more about it. Mum thinks it’s something to do with Dad’s American family.’
‘You’re American?’
Nathan shook his head vigorously. ‘No. Born and bred in Devon. In Flete, actually. Went away to medical school and then returned after a while.’ At Beth’s questioning look, he added, ‘Parents getting on a bit and wanted to be closer, so jumped at the chance to be a GP in the town. My paternal grandfather, though, was born in Massachusetts. He came over as a GI in 1943, was billeted here in Flete, met my grandmother and they got married just before he embarked for D-Day.’
‘Wow,’ Beth said, impressed. ‘Romantic story. Did they go back to the States?’
‘No, he settled here after the war. The book was in a chest of stuff that Gramps had had sent over. Mum had stashed it in the attic from when she’d cleared his house. She thought she’d better look through it before throwing any of it away. It’s an amazing thing. Beautiful copperplate writing, delicate drawings of plants and flowers. There’s some water damage but quite a lot has survived and it’s fairly legible if you persist.’
Beth repeated the information she’d just looked up.
‘Ah. That’s interesting. I know a little about Culpepper but only had the haziest notion of when he was around.’
‘It might narrow down when your book was written.’
‘Certainly could. From the little I could decipher – the writing’s hard to read – I think Bill’s right about it being a book about remedies, so it’s much more than a book of nature observations. There are a few recipes for hand salves and foot lotions but one I could just about make out recommended a healing tincture made from oil of yellow wort as it was named. I’m assuming it’s hypericum. St John’s wort. Has small yellow flowers that are a bit fuzzy-looking. Quite pretty and a common garden shrub.’
‘Oh yes. Think my grandparents have some. Bane of my grandfather’s life as it gets untidy and he’s always having to prune it. What was it used for?’
‘In the book it’s described as being good for mild depression, or to “soothe and quieten the nerves”.’ Nathan traced a teacake crumb around his plate thoughtfully. ‘In fact, you could say it’s still used for that now, as an antidepressant. You can readily buy it in tablet form. It’s quite a potent natural remedy, though, and you have to be careful how it mixes with other drugs.’ Nathan paused and then added meaningfully, ‘In the book it’s also called Demon Chaser, which I found intriguing.’
‘Demon Chaser,’ Beth repeated. ‘Are we back to witches?’
‘Who knows?’ he replied cheerfully.
They lapsed into silence.
Beth could spy a sliver of bright blue sky above the alleyway and hear the screech of a gull as it flew overhead. There was a faint babble of voices as people made their way along nearby Narrow Sheep Walk, heading for the simple pleasures of the beach and an ice cream. In the small seaside town, life was continuing normally. And yet, in this unremarkable bakery she felt something truly profound had just begun. But, for the life of her, couldn’t explain what.
‘Isn’t it odd that we seem to be connected by these things?’ she began slowly. ‘My spell bottle from around about that time and your book of seventeenth-century folk remedies. Not to mention Tenpenny House itself.’
‘It is.’ He seemed to be thinking through his words. About to say something, he paused, then said, ‘Not sure how your Celtic knife handle fits into all this though.’
‘I’m not sure how any of it fits together. It’s just a feeling I’ve got that it is.’ She stopped, embarrassed. ‘I’m not one for flights of fancy normally. I can sort of understand why something would be shoved up a chimney to ward off evil but not why an ancient knife handle would be hidden.’
Nathan shook his head a little, looking strangely relieved. He ran a hand over his chin. ‘Maybe it was very precious to the person who hid it in the seventeenth century as well as the tribeswoman? If Bill is right and it’s connected to a healing woman, maybe the person who put it in the chimney was one too, and that’s why they felt it had a relevance? I know I’m always drawn to the history of medical stuff. A visit to The Old Operating Theatre Museum lives in the memory. In London,’ he explained further.’ Shuddering, he added, ‘Although it was grim. Patients were tough in those days. No anaesthetic.’
‘God,’ Beth said, appalled. ‘Can’t imagine going through an operation with no anaesthetic. And what you say makes sense, or as much sense as any of this does. I mean, your seventeenth-century book on healing must have a hell of a story behind it.’
‘I’ll have to ask my American relatives.’ Nathan’s brow creased. ‘My family originates here in England and emigrated to the US, then Grandpa came back in the war. Members of the Smith family have been criss-crossing the Atlantic for generations. Maybe the book began life here and went to the States with them, back in the day?’
Beth leaned forward, enchanted by the idea. ‘Now that is a story! Do you think your family were some of the original pioneers?’
Nathan laughed. ‘If that were the case, I think it would be the subject of family legend and I’ve never heard it said. A lot of American citizens aspire to have gone over on the Mayflower.’
‘The Mayflower?’
‘The pilgrim ship that sailed from Plymouth back in the sixteen hundreds.’
‘And we’re back to the seventeenth century again. We seem to be in its grip.’ Beth leaned back, thinking. ‘Do you know much about what happened then? I’ve a knowledge gap.’
Nathan shrugged. ‘I’m a medic not a historian but off the top of my head there was the English Civil War, Thomas Cromwell, lots of plague, a mini ice age. Then the Restoration in 1660 when Charles II was put on the throne. Oh, and witches and witch hunts.’
Beth laughed. ‘For someone who professes not to be an historian that’s pretty good knowledge.’
He smiled. ‘I had a grandmother who loved her history. It’s to my eternal regret that I disappointed her by becoming a scientist. There are some tales, which she told me at her knee, that stuck.’
‘Witches,’ Beth said thoughtfully. ‘They seem to have us in their grip too.’
‘As you say, it is strange that we have this connection.’ He paused and then added, ‘Would you like to borrow the book to have a look yourself?’
Beth was taken aback. ‘You’d let me? Do you trust me that much? We hardly know one another.’
Nathan bit his lower lip thoughtfully. ‘That’s true. And yet, it’s peculiar, but somehow I feel as if I’ve always known you. I felt it that very first time I saw you in the waiting room at the surgery.’ He winced. ‘Across a crowded room. Sorry. Too cheesy for words.’
‘Very cheesy but you know what? I agree.’ Beth was silent for a moment, thinking back to the compulsion she’d had to his picture in the local newspaper, to her visceral physical first reaction to him when they’d met. ‘It’s weird.’
‘It is,’ he replied matter-of-factly. ‘But there you have it.’ He laughed. ‘Maybe we knew one another in a previous life?’
Beth didn’t answer.
‘But yes, I trust you with the book. If you’re interested and would like to look through it, I’m more than happy for you to borrow it.’
‘Thank you. I’ll look after it with my life.’
‘No need to go that far. Just treat it with respect.’
‘Do I need gloves when I read it?’ Beth asked, hazy recollections of history documentaries flitting through her mind.
Nathan sat back. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, nonplussed. ‘It’s been in an attic gathering dust and damp for decades, I don’t think handling it will do any harm. Maybe just make sure your hands are clean and free of any oil or hand cream.’
Beth nodded. ‘I will. I promise.’
‘Now, back to that date. Dinner, or a film?’
The abrupt change of subject brought her up short and made her blush. After a brief discussion they agreed on a drink then a film at the cinema in nearby Sidmouth. Parting company in the street, Beth watched as Nathan strode away. The heady initial physical attraction hadn’t waned, but it had quietened. What was more, it was evolving into something more solid, more grounded. She wasn’t sure which she feared the most.
Clutching the hessian shopping bag to her, she turned onto Cross Street to head home. She couldn’t wait to leaf through the book to discover what it contained. Maybe there would be recipes for a lotion or some soaps she could make and sell in the shop? Seventeenth-century beauty products selling in a house of the same age might draw customers in. As she reached the untidy cobbles of Clappers Lane, she realised she was no nearer to finding out who had put a Celtic knife handle up the chimney at Tenpenny House and why. Somehow, though, she was certain there was a connection between the book, the bottle and the handle. Just what remained a mystery.
CHAPTER 13
AUGUST 1660
The constables came for Prudie at dawn. Arrested, she was marched, at a pace too fierce for her, to the town lock up.
Susanna had hung on to the old woman’s legs but the men were too strong. They shoved her to one side, bellowing they would take her too if she resisted. One kicked her hard in the ribs, his boot stealing the breath from her body. Falling hard against John’s chair, she hit her temple and was momentarily out of her wits. Coming to, she heard Star trying to defend her. With all the energy his old body could muster, he ran at the constables barking, baring his teeth and lunging at them, tearing into their clothing. Kicked viciously, he let out a shriek of agony and had crept to hide behind the settle.
Susanna lay gasping, trying to clear her throbbing head. When all was silent and she was certain the constables had gone, she shuffled, on her hands and knees, to where the dog lay panting. She held Star to her until the panting lapsed into whimpering and the aged hound took his last soft breath to lie still. She sobbed into his fur until the body grew cold.
When a footstep dropped on the threshold of the cottage she started in fear. Had they come back for her? Had they come for her too?
It was Barnabas.
‘Where are you? Are you still here, Susanna?’ His voice was fraught.
‘I am here, Barnabas. Behind the settle.’ She thought she’d shouted but the crying had roughened her throat and it came out as little more than a hoarse whisper.
He ran to her, kneeling at her side. ‘I’ve just heard. They took Prudie. On what charge?’
Susanna raised her tear-ravaged face. ‘I don’t know. It was all such confusion.’ She began to sob anew. ‘Oh, Barnabas, they injured Star so, his poor old body could not take the pain and he died. I’m so afeared they will do the same to Prudie. Despite her protests, she is not strong, especially not with John gone.’ She gathered the old dog in her arms and wept into his neck. ‘Oh, Star, why did they do this to such an innocent?’
Barnabas sat back on his heels and let Susanna cry it out. When she had finished, he gently took the dog from her. ‘I’ll bury Star for you. He should not be left.’
‘Bury him,’ she began but was too distressed to finish. She wailed into her apron and then took in a deep gulping breath and continued. ‘Put him under the old apple tree. He always liked to sit there in the shade.’
He nodded and left.
Susanna wept again into her hands and then scrubbed her face with her apron, wincing at the swelling bruise. She dragged herself to her feet on perilously unsteady legs, biting her lip in determination. Weeping and wailing like this would not help Prudie. She poured a mug of ale, drank it in one, and then refilled it for Barnabas. He would need it after his travails. Poor Star, a dog as faithful as he did not deserve such an end. Tears flowed again; it seemed the weeping wouldn’t stop. Stiffening her resolve, she slumped at the table and forced her thoughts into calmness. Somehow, she needed to find out under what charge Prudie had been arrested. It was unlikely the town clerk would lower himself to talk to a woman and certainly not one as humbly born as she, so she would need to ask Barnabas for yet another favour.
In the few short weeks since John’s death, she and Prudie had leaned heavily on his aid. They were now defenceless women. Prudie was a poor childless widow with no status in society. Susanna, an unmarried maid with no father to protect her, had even less. Work had dried up. They had attended just one birthing since Charles Lacey’s: a fish gutter who lived in one of the hovels on the harbour. Her thirteenth pregnancy, her body was too old and worn out to carry twins. Despite packing the birth wound with linen to raise the womb back into its rightful position, Prudie and Susanna had been unable to stem the torrent of blood that soaked through the straw bedding and pooled on the floor. The mother had perished, and her boys had died only hours after their birth. It had laid Prudie low. Any loss did but this hit her hard. Susanna had watched as Prudie had used the ancient knife to cut the birth string on the first son and then the second. The unwelcome thought that the knife’s magic was cursed crowded into her brain.
Increasingly, if they could afford to, women were seeking out the country physician to attend their childbed, the poorer sought Jane Thatcher, the licensed midwife the church had approved. No one came to Prudie. Since Charles Lacey’s death, women had lost confidence in the cunning woman’s abilities. News in the town had it that Prudie was too old, her skills waning with age. The twin boys’ death added to the flame of rumour, but the poor were of little account; they died all the time. It had been the Lacey baby’s birth of which they had taken note, all in town had watched with a slavering interest. His death had also been the final death blow to Prudie’s midwifery.
Susanna rose wearily, clutching her painful ribs, and poked the fire to make it flame. She stirred the contents of the cauldron; it was only pottage but was warming enough. She would feed Barnabas and decide upon a plan. Cat, the ratter, slunk out of the shadows. He’d had enough sense to flit when the trouble occurred. Susanna bent to caress his silky black head. ‘If only Star had had more brains and less honour,’ she whispered. ‘Prudie is going to be distraught when she finds out her beloved dog is no more.’
