The Equivocation of the Fiend

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Act of Attainder, Assizes, Cain, Chief justice, Colchester oysters, Dame Alice Lisle, Ellingham, equivocation, Great Hall Winchester, John Hickes, Judas, Judge Jeffreys, Kings Bench, Machiavelli, Milk human kindness, Monmouth Rebellion, Moyles Court, Nelthorpe, Nero, Presbyterian, Satan, The Eclipse, The Rising Sunne, The Tower, treason, Wapping, Whigs, Winchester

A re-blog from August, 2013

 

 

THE EQUIVOCATION OF THE FIEND

Maybe a writ of Habeas Corpus will liberate me from my confinement

and then I can steal away from this loathsome Tower and gain passage

abroad, but there is no Court competent to assist me in this wise and now

I am fast losing strength.  I am supposed to be thankful for the protection

I have, while the country demands that a retrospective Act of Attainder

should result in my condemnation for multitudinous murders.

The wheel has come full circle.  A mob had congregated outside my

house in Duke Street and mocked the bills which announced the sale of

my property.  Women screamed, offering me their garters that I should

hang myself thereby and men raged, advising me to cut my own throat.

I downed another bottle of brandy and shut out their clamour.

However, I seemed to have one remaining friend – someone who knew of

my predilection for Colchester oysters.  A barrel had been left for me at

the Tower and I burst its bands eagerly.  Inside there was naught but

shells and a halter.  I apprehended its hint. The delivery youth jeered:

“Canst tell how an oyster makes its shell?”

He is not so dim as he looks.

Imagine: Chief Justice of the King’s Bench at thirty five and Lord

Chancellor before my fortieth birthday. I followed orders and to this

attribute my rapid promotion and even more sudden declension.I had

another birthday recently and there was none to exercise common

charity towards me, or to share a celebration. I stand accused of a

lack of the milk of human kindness.

I will never be permitted to forget the trial of Dame Alice Lisle. In

contrast, she was deemed to have shown exemplary, even saintly,

compassion and hospitality towards distressed fugitives, but there was

considerably more to the case than was imputed.

I was compared unfavourably to Nero, Satan, Cain and Judas, but I only

sent Whigs to Heaven. It was common practice to lash rogues with the

tongue and, after all, I cross-examined some of the deepest-dyed

criminals in the land. Their weeping and cries for mercy only served as

an irritant. How difficult it was to extract the truth from Presbyterian

liars and I grew adept at smelling one out at forty miles, hence the posy of

herbs that I was wont to hold to my nostrils. Severities may be properly

used, I believe, in common with Machiavelli, if they are appropriate with

national security.

Yes, Dame Alice, I turned a deaf ear to your plea and you could not hear

the foreman’s delivery of the verdict, by virtue of your three score years

and ten’s infirmity.

A witch, I thought, whose husband had been a regicide and now the old

crone was denying knowledge of the nature of the indictments against

John Hickes and Nelthorpe, initially denying their presence in her house,

Moyles Court. Subsequently she pleaded that she had understood Hickes’

offence to be merely illegal preaching.  She stressed that she had no

sympathy with the Monmouth rebellion, but I persuaded the jury to re-

consider their verdict and, on the third occasion, she was pronounced

guilty, and rightly so, for the Law recognised no distinction between

principals and accessories to treason.  “Let the old witch burn,” I ranted,

“and let it be this very afternoon!”

 

The interfering Winchester clergy appealed to me on account of her age

and sex and they gained a respite.  Our Sovereign commuted the sentence

to beheading, out of his merciful bounteousness.

Now the populace desire that I should shere her fate.  I am eclipsed- ha!-

a play on the title of the marketplace inn where she spent her final night,

before walking out of the first storey window, onto the scaffold.  They

said it was ever after “The Eclipse” as it drew all attention from its

neighbouring public house: “The Rising Sunne.”

Barter gave us the information.  She had entertained, concealed,

comforted and maintained the fugitive rebels.  The Devil had inspired her

to quibble, as do all witches.  Equivocation is the nature of the Fiend and

all his subjects.  I have oft-times heard his whine in the courtrooms

and the serpent-tongued dame tried to move me by a reminder that she had

bred a brat to fight for James, but, if she had been my own mother, I should

have found her guilty, notwithstanding her prevarication that she was being

charged with sheltering Hickes before he was convicted of treason  She stated

that subsequent evidence should not be admitted, since it had not been

available.

Very clever:  but anyone who harbours a traitor is as guilty as any who

bears arms, I believed, and I hold fast to the same conviction to this day.

“Nay, peace thou monster, shame unto thy sex,

Thou fiend in likeness of a human creature.

SEe thyself, devil!

Proper deformity shows not in the fiend

So horrid as in woman.

Shut your mouth, dame,

Or with this paper shall I stople it.”

The reference was lost on most in court.  Fools do those villains pity who

are punished.  Know this: that men are as the time is; to be tender-

minded does not become a sword.

It is more than three years since that fateful day in August in The Great

Hall of Winchester Castle.  Some say that a lady in grey haunts the inn

and that a driver-less coach has been seen in the grounds of her Ringwood

estate, drawn by headless horses and containing her phantom.

What is that nonsense to me?  Her head and body were given up to her

family, for burial at Ellingham and now the Whigs have all but canonised

her, raving about judicial murder.

Yet, when I attempted to escape from this hell-hle, no one would shelter

me in a cupboard, nor a malthouse and I was discovered at Wapping and

my disguise removed.  No port is free to me; no place that unusual

vigilance will not attend my taking.  So, here I lie, and suffer the

agony of passing these stones: a pain as sharp as the gravel of her drive,

but still I resort to my brandy.  I am bound upon my own wheel of fire.

My reins are rubbed with sulphurous flames.  The gods are just and of

our pleasant vices…  I waken to hear myself cry in the night and then a

distant rumble of carriage wheels approaches, or is it a more horrific

apocalyptic explosion?  Who is it that dare tell me who I am?

“What is that wailing?”  I shout to my guard.

“It is the cry of women, my good lord,” he replies through the grille, most

caustically.  “Come here most learned justicer.”  And then he laughs,

showing black tombstones in place of teeth.

“I have almost forgot the taste of fears.  I have supp’d full of horrors,”

I  answer, before I recall the context.  How malicious is my fortune that

I must repent to be just.

Equivocation – the only means of survival.  She was more skilled in its employ

than I.

 

 

(The grave of Judge Jeffreys was bombed by German aircraft during the war

and his remains scattered.  The grave of Alice Lisle can still be visited in

Ellingham churchyard.)

.

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A Hallowe’en Grisly Tale Part 1

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Auld Reekie, Blaw Wearie, Canongate, Girth Cross, grisly tale, guillotine, Heart of Midlothian, Holyrood, James VI, Kincaid, Lady Warriston, Leith, Lord Dunnipace, The Boot, The Maiden, The Wheel, Tolbooth

DEATH AND THE MAIDEN

 

It was the summer of 1600 when I was permitted to abandon my loom

and I climbed onto the roof of my mistress’ tenement in the Canongate,

from which an excellent view of the Girth Cross of Holyrood could

easily be discerned.  All around, the citizens of Auld Reekie had

adopted the same strategy and were well-established, in spite of the

early hour.  A  unison intake of breath unbalanced me on my precarious

eyrie, so that I had to grab Nelly’s sleeve for support.

The sinister outline of the Maiden, transported from Halifax, dominated

the scene, looming over the slender figure approaching it.  Well might the

Memorial later describe her as a woman and a bairn.  Apparently, like

myself, she was twenty one, but, she had a child of her own, whereas I

only minded my employers’ weans.

The buzz of conversations receded and I first heard snatches of that

melody which would quickly enter the consciousness of all

Lowland ballad lovers:

O Warriston, ye acted ill

To lift your hand to your ain lady…

Then a ripple of wheeshts surged through the crowds below and Jean

Livingstone, Lady Warriston, removed her gold brocade, stepped

forward on her twa weel-made feet and knelt in her sark.

The parlourmaid, Nelly, poked me in the ribs, observing, She is

as cheerful as if she were going to her own wedding.

The cook shifted her bulk and craned forward dangerously, before adding

sententiously: She appears ravished by a spirit higher than that of man

or woman.

We giggled; she always speaks like her aptly named minister, The Rev.

Andrew Cant.

However, we soon sobered up as the blade began to fall.

Later our chimney sweep, Peter, told us that the blade had fallen just as

she began to pray: Into Thy hand, O..  She had got no further.

He also reported that he had tried to make his way up to Castlehill, to

witness the strangulation and burning of her nurse, Janet Murdo, but the

authorities had arranged the ghastly ceremony simultaneously, in order,

unsuccessfully, to create a counter-attraction, drawing attention away

from the young noblewoman’s plight.

Both punishments had been well- publicised, although the crime had

only been perpetrated a matter of days beforehand.  However, the

timing had been set to maximise and to demonstrate the very satisfying

show of repentance by the Lady, who had been well-rehearsed by the

Revs. Balfour and Bruce, God rest her soul!

Peter said that many in the mob were surprised that her father, the Laird

of Dunnipace, had not exerted himself on her behalf.  He was a well-

known sook, or favourite of King James, who had apparently expressed

His regal regret that such a beautiful young woman should be sacrificed

to Justice:

I never saw a woman’s face

I was sae sorry to see dee.

 

 

Part 2 next post- having problems with formatting!

 

 

Per Ardua Ad Astra 2

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Aston Martin, Chevrolet, Corniche, Flamborough Head, Monterey, Per Ardua Ad Astra, remand centre, Temptation of Jesus, Twinkle twinkle little star

(Photo by Brocken Inaglory)

Gary was nearly a man now and there was nothing he wanted more than

to be able to drive -legally, but he couldn’t afford proper lessons.  Terry

refused to teach him as he kept asserting that he had passed first time

without any instruction. Gary doubted that he had ever sat a test.

Sometimes Gary would dream that he was cruising an Aston Martin

on the Corniche, or driving a Chevrolet on the coast road to Monterey.

He’d seen that on the videos.  He wasn’t that bothered about having

a blonde in the passenger seat.  His mother had put him off women for

the time being.

He had experienced a dizzying moment of power on The Ridge.  It

had seemed a shame to tip the car over, but he couldn’t lose face.

He’d had a hazy recollection of an RE lesson where Jesus had been

standing, looking down from a high position.  He was being tempted

to cast Himself down, but He had resisted.  Gary knew that he wasn’t

The Son of God.  He wasn’t under any illusion about that.  Nevertheless,

he would have been happy if a cohort of angels had appeared and

borne the Astra up on their wings.  The whole experience reminded him

of that time he had stood with his father on the cliffs at Flamborough Head

and he had felt as if he could have launched himself off, to spiral down

on a thermal like a seabird.  Dad had been clutching the belt of his

jacket, so that he felt stable and safe.  It was just shortly after that

summer holiday that his father had disappeared from his life.

( Image:areadeandavid Flickr Flamborough Head)

There it is, Alan.  I told you, he said the following day, pointing to the

blackened wreck that clung tenaciously to the bushes.  It was still

smouldering slightly.

I’m going to have a closer look, said Alan, scrambling down.

Gary stood for a moment, surveying the scene in daylight.  He could

see one or two other joyridden wrecks littering the slope.  He suddenly

wondered why he had done it.

A loud boom reverberated and rattled the windows of nearby houses,

shattering Gary’s meditation.  He looked down with horror as a sheet of

flame engulfed the stricken vehicle.

Alan!  ALAN!

He could see that it was no use.  His baby brother had been swallowed

up in a funeral pyre as the petrol tank exploded.

(Photo by NathanWest at English Wikipedia,

transferred to Commons by Ebe 123, using Commons

Helper.)

Per Ardua Ad Astra that had been his Dad’s motto once and Gary reflected

on that as he gazed out of the Remand Centre window from his top bunk.

He felt for the badge which was still pinned to his hoodie.  One star glittered

more brightly than all the others.  He remembered Alan singing Twinkle,

Twinkle when he was a kid.  Their mother kept shouting at him that it was

‘what’, and not ‘where you are.‘

Now Gary didn’t know where his Dad or his brother were, but he felt that

the bright light that was like a diamond in the sky definitely belonged to Alan.

(Photo by Romazur, Wikipedia)

Per Ardua Ad Astra 1

Tags

Arndale Centre, Astra, Bacofoil, Chevette, Colonel Sanders, Existentialism, Headingley, Hot Wings, James Bond films, KFC, Lightwater Valley, Meanwood Valley, Per Ardua Ad Astra, Royal Air Force, Tetley's beer, The Skyrack, urban farm, urban foxes, WD40, Yorkshire Ripper

The ‘G’ registered white Astra sped through a red light on Headingley

Lane and took a crazy right turn up a quiet residential street, on

burning rubber.

Gary was high on speed, but only the vehicular variety.  In his mirror,

he could see the shadowy faces of his three mates, their mouths agog

with inane laughter and the sensation of being on a seemingly out-of-

control roller coaster.  This was cheaper than Lightwater Valley and the whole

escapade would give them the ‘street cred’ they craved back at St Augustine’s

High.

Watch this! he shouted, as he took an unmade stretch of road, rutted with

pot-holes, which steeply descended towards The Ridge.

They felt Tetley’s beer slosh around their stomachs as the car’s suspension

rocked violently and its exhaust scraped sickeningly on some large stones.

It was so dark on The Ridge.  You were on top of the world and all the lights

of Meanwood Valley twinkled from the dark shapes of densely-packed back-

to-backs.  Leeds slept and Gary and his pals emerged from the car, almost

reverentially.  The trees gave a rural impression.

The urban farm’s down there, remarked Gary, lighting up a fag.  He

remembered being taken there by his Dad and kid brother, Alan.  They’ve

got horses and stuff.

So what? commented Brian.  Who needs horses when you can have

horsepower?

Gary leant over the driver’s seat and released the handbrake.  The others

pushed on the rear bumper.

As if in slow motion, they watched the Astra tilt forwards and then lurch.

It somersaulted once, like a stunt car in a James Bond film, and then rolled

on its side against a scrub-like bush.  It had only travelled a hundred yards

or so down the slope.

(Photo 2006 Lewis Collard)

Gary chucked his cigarette stub inside and the lighter fuel which had drenched

the upholstery performed its ignition.

The darkness was illuminated by a spectral bonfire.

To Woodhouse then I came,

Burning, burning, burning, burning…

Gary recalled his English teacher reading out something like that the

previous week.  The rhythms had remained with him along with an

incendiary craving.  No one else had been paying attention.

Scarper! he shouted and they headed for Kentucky Fried at the Arndale

Centre, just round the corner from the site of The Yorkshire Ripper’s final

murder.

The boxes of congealed chicken debris- Hot Wings– were thrown into a

hedge for the urban foxes to sniff out.

We had ‘Hot Wings’ tonight, a’ right!  Brian joked.

They started a competitive routine, sniggering as they built on Hot Wings; Hot

Lips, Hot Chick and Hot Rod.

Gary fingered the Royal Air Force badge on his hoodie.  Dad had given it to

him after they had all been to an airshow.  It had been in his sock drawer.

Speed and Flight.  Freedom.

But Mum had laughed.  You were never airborne. Derek.  Admit it. You were

nowt but a filing clerk. 

Like Father; like sons.  She always put her menfolk down…  Took pleasure

in’t clippin’ wings, so she did.  No wonder the old man had scarpered. That’s

what Terry always said.

Where have you been, you piece of dirt? snarled Gary’s mum.  You’ve got

school in’t mornin’.  Don’t waken Alan up.  Terry’s still at The Skyrack, lucky

for you. Get out of my sight, or I’ll crack you one!

A’right – don’t have a nervous breakdown.  He ducked instinctively, avoiding a

blow to his head.

The bedroom door needed some WD40.  It creaked and Alan roused his head

from under the duvet.

A’right?  Any joy?

This wasn’t an Existential interrogative,

Shurrup. Mum’ll hear us.  No problem, Gary swaggered.

What’s twoccin’? Alan persisted.

Takin’ without t’owners’ consent, our kid.  Now shut it.

Stepping out of his jeans, he threw his soiled hoodie into a corner before

climbing in beside Alan.

You stink of bonfires, Alan said.  And Colonel Sanders. Did you get an Astra?

Yeah, it’s down The Ridge.  I’ll show you tomorrow if you don’t believe me.

Alan had to be content with that, for Terry had come back from t’pub and,

from the sounds in the hall, it were better to pretend to be asleep…

Gary had felt responsible for Alan ever since their Dad had left.  Dad had

never owned an Astra; he had possessed a beaten-up old Chevette, with

Bacofoil filling the wings.

(Photo-Wikimedia Commons)

Every wing has a silver lining, he had once quipped.

He still had a silver halo for Gary and Alan. but it had slipped somewhat in

their mother’s eyes.  She wouldn’t let him back into the house, the idle slob.

Terry was relatively new.  Her toy boy.  He wasn’t too bad when he was

sober, which wasn’t often.  But, at least he had a job.  Sometimes he gave

you a couple of notes and told you to get lost, or to get kitted out down

t’ market.  Other times, he told you to go to Hell.

The Ghost of a Smile 2

Tags

cirrhosis, clinical neurologist, Kayser-Fleischer rings, penicillamine, Primitive Methodists, purple prose, sleeping ghosts, Steeple Bayford, verderer, Wilson's Disease

…there was no question of diabolical possession.  The unfortunate

girl was clearly suffering from Wilson’s disease.  As a Clinical Neurologist,

I would be a fool if I hadn’t picked up on the symptoms you described.

The muscle twitches, postural abnormalities and spontaneous laughter

are classic signs.  Even the extraordinary colour of her eyes was owing

to the copper deposits in her irises- Kayser-Fleischer rings, to be technical.

You amaze me, Dr Lawes.  No wonder the poor child is so restless.  We

have all misjudged her and, like Legion, she has roamed among the

tombs. We must try to placate her.  Perhaps she would rest in peace if

her character could be vindicated in our Parish Magazine?  We could hold

a graveside service and apply to the Bishop for permission to reconsecrate

the ground.

The vicar’s enthusiasm was beginning to run away with him.

He persisted: Actually there are still some Nortons living in the tied

cottages in Steeple Bayford.  Some of them work in the Wilton factory

nearby.  We could invite them, though they are not C of E.  I used to

think that some of them were rather hostile- Methodists and suchlike.

Maybe they reckoned their ancestor hadn’t been treated too well in

the Established Church? suggested Dr Lawes.  I don’t think their

perceived unorthodoxy has anything to do with manifestations of the

disease per se, though they will all be carriers.  But even should

they marry another carrier, which is very unlikely, the chance of any

child developing the disease would be 200:1.

Oddly enough, now I come to think of it, reflected the vicar, I

spoke to a Mr Norton in the local infirmary, on one of my visitation

rounds, only two weeks ago.  He was suffering from cirrhosis of the

liver.  Alcohol abuse, I’d put it down to.  As I explained, he wasn’t in

too talkative a mood when he saw my dog collar.

Wilson’s disease affects the liver, Lawes pointed out.  It would

be extremely helpful and valuable for research purposes if I could

meet with his consultant.  Perhaps we could collaborate on a paper.

If you are going to be in the vicinity on Thursday, we could go

to the hospital together.  I’ll phone Mr Milton, his consultant.  He’s

a member of our congregation.  A greater awareness of the condition

might help to lay the ghost, as it were.  Give me your contact details

and I’ll see what I can do….

The smile relaxed its sneer and faded to a slight smirk and then the

greenish eyes closed their pale eyelids.

00000O00000

Mr Norton, may I introduce you to Dr Howard Lawes from Alabama?

He has a special interest in Wilson’s Disease.

Mr Milton was more effusive than he had been on a ward round for

many years.

Pleased to meet you, sir.  I will try to give you any information, but I

think it’s too late for me.  My liver seems to have packed in.  I’m tired

of explaining that my family is teetotal and has been for a couple of

generations.  Primitive Methodists, we are.  Never touch the stuff.

It seems that your family has borne moral misapprehension and

disapprobation for long enough, Dr Lawes smiled sympathetically.

We thought the illnesses were God visiting us with judgement unto

the fourth generation, Mr Norton grimaced.  Payback for Mary

Norton’s sin.

Nonsense.  Your liver problems are entirely linked to your disease

and so were those of your forebear.

I never thought a God of Love... interjected the Rev Dodgson, a trifle

hastily, but no one paid him the slightest attention.

Mr Norton shifted on his pillows: Hmmm, I don’t know that she wasn’t

a bad case, anyhow.  The family were disgusted by her behaviour, by

all accounts.

What do you mean?  asked Dr Lawes.

The patient’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper: All those carrying-ons

in the woods with her elder brother, Francis.  Of course, when the

bastard was born, they hushed it up, but everyone knew that Abraham

Norton was not her younger brother, but her son.

So, what do you reckon is the significance of this hearsay, Mr Norton?

enquired the Rev Dodgson.

Simply this.  Mary Norton may not have been possessed by the devil,

but she might as well have been, judging by the family’s reaction and

community prejudice and gossip.  We Nortons are said to have the sins

of our forefathers visited upon us to the nth generation.

Superstitious nonsense!  the Rev Dodgson exhaled.  But I suppose we

can’t lay sleeping ghosts if they don’t wish to remain supine.  I can’t really

sanction incest, anyway.  Maybe it’s better not to resurrect the past

and its scandals.

Yes, it’s a pity that the lady did not adopt ‘the serious study of virginity’,

as recommended in my namesake’s masque.  Otherwise she might have

known ‘the transport of a thousand liveried angels’ and have been

reposing in quietude.

How poetical!  exclaimed the Rev Dodgson, who appreciated these

archaic words and was no stranger to purple prose, himself.

Mr Milton, the physician broke in:  I am very glad that we have started

Mr Norton on Penicillamine.  We had a very useful session, Dr Lawes

and I promise to keep you in touch with my patient’s progress.

Great. I look forward to meeting up with you at the next ‘Gut’ meeting

in Texas.  I’ll certainly acknowledge you in our paper.

Goodby, Mr Norton.  All three moved on.

000000O000000

Above the graveyard the mouth smiled grimly.  It tried to utter something,

but only the chattering of a magpie filled the surrounding trees.  Some tears

fell as droplets of rain on the flat gravestone of Abraham Norton, aged

seventeen, who was buried with Mary’s parents and his ‘siblings’, including

Francis, his wife and three children.

Thyrsis Langford, Verderer and self-appointed local Lothario, did not even

turn over in his corner plot.

The Ghost of a Smile Part 1

Tags

Browning, catatonia, Cheshire Cat, Chilmark stone, Comus, Constable, diabolical possession, Dinton, glow-worms, Grovely Wood, Lawes masque, ledger stone, oak apple, Phillips House, Rev Dodgson, Salisbury Cathedral, St Osmond, Wilts, Wylye Valley

The late afternoon sun mellowed the creamy Chilmark stone of St

Osbert’s Anglican Church.  It was the same stone that Constable had

painted so warmly when he depicted Salisbury Cathedral.

The vicar had glanced at the latest entry in the Visitors’ Book, before

wandering into the churchyard.

Howard Lawes, MD, Alabama, he pondered.

Dr Lawes appeared to be a typical American tourist, judging by the

inordinate amount of camera equipment that he was carrying.  His

surname was ringing bells, but not in a campanological fashion, for the

vicar.  Wasn’t it the same name that was to be found on many of the

gravestones in Dinton?

The visitor was in the unhallowed burial section, adjusting his lenses and

trying to capture a special view of the steeple.  This had caused many a

photographer of lesser ability to flatten the wildflowers which grew

profusely in its shade.

Good afternoon! greeted the Rev Dodgson.  I believe you are a long way

from home?  This was a tried and tested opening gambit which may have

given some an impression of his virtual omniscience and benevolence.

Yes- and no, drawled the complex and surprisingly pale Dr Lawes,

in an expansive non-British fashion.  Yes, I am from Alabama, but my

roots are right here in the Wylye Valley.  I visited Philipps House this

morning and, in conversation, discovered quite a bit about my ancestors

and their Royalist connections.

Lawes… the vicar pondered.  Ah, the Comus link.  Have you had musical

genes passed down to you?

Sadly not, replied the photographer, screwing the lens cap back onto his

camera.  But I could have sworn that I was seeing creatures from my

namesake’s masque in your churchyard.  It may have been a trick of the

light, but a curious presence seemed to follow me around and then I saw

what looked like a human mouth begin to materialise.  It quite unnerved

me.  To tell you the truth, I’m glad to see someone else is here.  But

maybe I’m becoming paranoid.  Am I? he joked, unconvincingly.

How would one ever know if one was mad? retorted the Rev Dodgson,

lapsing into his tedious habit of responding to difficult questions by

posing further interrogatives.  I could quote MY namesake and add

‘You must be mad to come here.’  However, the fact is, Dr Lawes…

Howard, please, interrupted the American.

The Rev Dodgson ignored this plea and continued,…the fact is, you

have just espied our resident ghost, Risus Sardonicus.  The Latin

suggests a male gender, but I can assure you that she…

Why doesn’t he just say ‘you have just seen’? Lawes thought to

himself.  Aloud, he repeated: She?

Yes, she has similarities to that phantom feline, The Cheshire Cat,

but she is less forthcoming.  You are not the first to have been sneered

at by Mary Norton, she of the distinctively green eyes, which some have

assigned to glow-worm activity.  However, the stare often comes from an

elevation that not many animals could scale.

(Photo: Timo Newton-Syms, Flickr)

Do we know anything about this Mary Norton?

You were practically standing over the spot where we believe she was

buried, replied Dodgson.  It is an unmarked grave, so you were not to

know.  Maybe she doesn’t appreciate being trampled on.  This was intended

to be a mild plaisanterie.

I’m sure I didn’t intend to desecrate anyone’s resting place, apologised

Lawes, who was unsure of English irony.  Only, the view of the steeple,

with Grovelly Wood in the background, was so photogenic.

Indeed.  You couldn’t have known.  As one of our dramatists has said:

‘Youth emits smiles without any reason.  It is one of its chiefest charms.’

Don’t regard it as an expression of personal animosity.  She does it all

the time as she was not too keen on how our parishioners treated her.

I think she would have preferred to have been buried with certain of

her relatives-over there.

Is that why she’s restless? postulated the tourist, placing his heavy

camera bag on a ledger stone and then thinking better of it and laying

it more respectfully on the grass.

Hmmm…Yes.  I don’t think people like to be publicly excommunicated.

Apparently, Mary had an unfortunate habit of bursting into totally

inappropriate laughter at Eucharist and other services.  The locals thought

she was demon-possessed.  She would rock back and forth…

Catatonia?

The vicar ignored the interruption: …emitting guttural noises, her

tongue lolling.  Maybe the girl was ‘touched’ but these were less

tolerant times.  People were quick to detect blasphemy.  No one knows

the precise manner of her death.  Her body was discovered in Grovelly

Wood.  She’d been exercising her ancient right to collect free firewood.

I think she died on May 29th, Oak Apple Day, in 1865. All the youngsters

used to go to Salisbury and dance on the lawns in The Close.  Then

they’d lay oak boughs on the altar.  I forget why.

Well, there she lies- or doesn’t.  I could say with my favourite poet,

Browning: Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, whenever I passed her;

but who passed without much the same smile? Unfortunately, though

commands have been given, the smiles don’t stop altogether.

Lawes was tiring of the literary references, but he had been thinking

very hard during this expatiation.

Poor Mary Norton! he reflected.  No wonder she is so unquiet.  Her ears

have not yet materialised, so perhaps she will not hear my thoughts on

the matter.  I can assure you, sir, that there was no question of diabolical

possession.

(Photo of oak apple by Bob Embleton)

to be continued…!

Tunnel Vision

Tags

British Rail, Bronte, Brussels, Crystal Palace Exhibition, disassocoation, Harrogate, Haworth, Keighley, Let the train take the strain, M Heger, Night Mail, steam railway, Worth Valley Railway

R

Let the train take the strain- she had echoed that advertising hype,

originally linked to British Rail, as she parked her car at Keighley

Station.

She was preparing to meet a friend at The Tourist Information Office

in Haworth.  They would have coffee in one of the pseudo-authentic

shoppes on either side of the steep hill, which is the backbone of the

historic village.

Maybe then she would bring herself to show Anna the photocopy of the

letter which had been troubling her so greatly.  Afterwards they might

walk round the museum which drew the literary faithful from all over the

world.  Then she could catch the train back to Keighley and retrieve her

car, before returning to Harrogate.

The rail journey would not take long.  It was the nostalgic, comforting

element which attracted her.  The Worth Valley Line, with its steam

locomotives and Victorian stations, which had featured in televised films,

such as The Railway Children, had been on her bucket list of attractions

to be visited, for some time.

Once speed picked up, she felt her jangled nerves calmed by the rhythms

of the engine and snatches of verse associated with her childhood sprang

to mind:

This is the Night Mail crossing the border…

Imagine rhyming ‘border’ with ‘postal order! she mused.

Standing up, she looked out of the open vent at the top of a rather grimy

window.

Ouch!

She had not realised that sparks were literally flying and a smut had

entered her right eye, which began to water profusely.  Perhaps she

should remove her contact lens?

Opposite, a woman sat, reading a letter.  Quite small and somewhat

insignificant, she was dressed in dark clothing and seemed intent on her

correspondence.

Laura left her to her own devices as she was not in a mood for chit-chat

and since she was now seeing double, she dabbed her inflamed eye with

a clean tissue, which probably made things worse.  She managed to

extricate the lens with some difficulty.

The woman in the corner reminded her of her own letter, with its many

ambiguities. (At least, Laura was trying to interpret some of the phrases

as charitably as she could.)  However, the speck in her eye felt like a beam

and not a proverbial mote.  A saline deluge would have flushed the irritant

from her eye, but she had no idea how to deal with the emotional

inflammation she was experiencing.

An objective opinion from another woman would be welcome.  But did she

really want to know the truth?

Suddenly they were in a tunnel.  She could have wished to remain in the

velvety comfort of darkness forever.

She stepped off  into the surprisingly height between the carriage and the

platform.  Someone had taken her arm.  She was still having problems with

her vision.

She blinked and made as if to offer a polite appreciation and found herself

staring into the solicitous face of her fellow traveller, who promptly vanished

into the crowd, before Laura could express her thanks.

She bent down to rummage in her shopping bag for her ticket and it seemed

to have fallen out onto the ground.  But, on closer inspection, it was a

different colour than the one she had bought.  Maybe the woman had

dropped it.  She had disappeared, however, so Laura stuffed it into her

pocket, with her gloves.

She had to climb Main Street, which had been an open sewer over a century

before.  A blast of cold buffeted her.  She frowned at a wind turbine which

reminded her of an albatross which, if she had possessed a crossbow, she

would have shot down. The rotors, spinning round, combined with her watery

eye to create a sense of vertigo.  The conservationist in her battled with her

aesthetic sensibility.

Outraged sensibility– that was something to be buried in her subconscious, if

she was to survive.  Self-pity was not to be fed, nor her creative imagination

indulged.

She was too early.  Always too early.  So conscientious; so careful of other

people’s feelings.  What good had it done her?

Anna would be late.  She always was.  It would be warmer to shelter in the

church than to stand on the open corner.

She passed a little shop bedecked in sheepskin rugs and commemorative

tea towels.  The graveyard beckoned gloomily, with mossy slabs and desolate

cawing.  The spartan parsonage overlooked the scene, with its controversial

extension.

She reached for her gloves and pulled out the piece of paper.  What was it?

it was a ticket, but curiously it purported to be an entrance ticket for The

Crystal Palace Exhibition of 1851.

Puzzled, Laura put it in her handbag and set off to check on Anna.  There she

was at their mutually agreed rendezvous, apologising profusely, as usual.

They headed for one of the tearooms- the nearest one.

Nothing in it, I’d say, re-assured Anna.  Too casual; too chatty.  She just

sounds insecure and desperate to me.

Laura felt relieved of a huge weight on her chest.  They even visited the

museum and as she studied the contents of the glass cases, wondering

at the doll-like kid gloves, the tiny waisted dresses and yellowed bonnets,

she felt that same sense of disassociation from reality that she had felt

during her drive from Harrogate that

morning.

She resolved to destroy the letter when she went home.  She didn’t want

some future literary critic to get their hands on her correspondence and

to publish some speculative theory about her personal life.

They paused at the family portrait by Branwell Bronte.  Why had he felt

such utter self-deprecation?  Why had he felt the need to erase his own

image?

Anna couldn’t fathom why anyone could lack self-confidence.  Laura made

no comment.

Then they came across the portrait of Charlotte and the written

explanantion of her trip to Brussels with the subsequent broken-hearted

return to Haworth and the realisation that her infatuation with M Heger was

not- could not– be reciprocated.  All he could offer her was sincere friendship.

Laura was riveted by the eyes in the portrait.  A chill far colder than the one

she had felt outside gripped her heart.

That quizzical smile seemed directed to her personally.  She knew, with a

confidence that she did not yet feel regarding the letter in her handbag, that

the passenger in the compartment had been none other than Charlotte

Bronte.

The letter that she had been perusing so intently must have been the hurtful

reply from her employer.  Laura felt as if she had been touched by a native of

Dreamland, as Charlotte herself would have put it.

There was gentleness and empathy in the eyes.  Laura continued to read of

the novelist’s survival and marriage to the curate- the unremarkable curate,

who turned out to have some recommendations after all.

Life for her too would go on.  She would survive her own fantasies and lay

her own ghosts.

There aren’t any spectres- except in your own imagination, Charlotte seemed

to say.

I still don’t understand Branwell, Anna remarked.

I do, replied Laura.  He just thought of himself as a figment of his own

imagination.  And why wouldn’t a young man of sensibility, if he inhabited

as confined a place as this?

Pilgrimage over! Anna stated in her pragmatic fashion.  It is too spooky

in here.  Let’s go and buy some fudge.

Laura thought that her friend sounded like a computer game.  She

wasn’t going to show Anna the ticket, but she was reminded of the

century that she must continue to inhabit.

Thank you, Charlotte, she whispered and, dropping the ticket into a

donation box, she stepped out of the time warp and into the rest of

her life.

Farquhar and the Brollachan

Tags

Beann na Caltuinn, brollachan, cailleach, Moulin na Fouah, Munroe family, peat fire, Popular Tales of the West Highlands, Ross-shire, Sutherland, vough, webbed feet

FARQUHAR AND THE BROLLACHAN

(A weird story which I must have written in the late 1990s and which I

discovered yesterday when I was rummaging around in my cellar.)

There was once a shapeless brollachan who could only speak two words: ‘Me”
and “You”. Although he possessed two round, staring eyes and a mouth, he had
no nose. You children will be asking how he smelt- “Pretty awful!” would be a fair
assessment.

Anyway, he used to lie down in front of other people’s fires, greedily taking all
the heat and greatly annoying displaced family animals. One evening, he was in
his usual position, when Farquhar decided to throw a fresh peat on the dying
embers. Some flying sparks burnt the brollachan and he screamed and roared in
a terrible tantrum until his mother, the vough, came to rescue him. This she did
rather cautiously, for there was now a little too much light in the room, and
everyone knows that such creatures cannot abide strong light or running water.

Indeed, both can. be fatal for them.                                                                                                                           _ ..

Well, she petted him and asked who had hurt him, but, in his pain, he could only
sob, “You.” So, she loudly remarked, for Farquhar’s benefit, that if she found
anyone hurting her bairn, she’d “stick the heid in them”. Then she turned on her
heel, and left the house in high dudgeon, determined to vent her rage on the first
person she met. This happened to be a poor old woman, who had the good sense,
to make for the nearest stream. She managed to reach the safety of the centre of
the bridge unscathed, but, at the last moment, the fiend grabbed her heel, and
she appeared to be permanently disabled by its vicious and unwarranted
attack.

Farquhar mused on the problem. A fine serpent stew was bubbling away in a cauldron, which was suspended over the re-kindled fire. He absent-mindedly
dipped his forefinger into the reptilian ragout and promptly scalded himself.
Sucking his blistered digit, he suddenly had a stroke of genius. Seizing a glowing
torch from a wall socket, he went out into the darkness, wearing his special ivory
ring which he had removed from the serpent prior to cooking him. He knew that
the wearer of such an ornament was proof against all enchantments.

His trusty hound sniffed the air and growled, recognising the sour odour of the gruesome pair. The vough was not one for giving up her plans of revenge, and so she squatted in a bush, trying to avoid the light from the blazing torch, but all the
time watching, waiting. She knew that if they were to be caught in its glowing
circle, they would melt into those jellyfish-like blobs that you can still see on the
moors of Ross-shire and Sutherland. There was no point in trying to break cover and run, for their webbed feet were a hindrance in these situations. They may have had horse’s manes and tails, but they had nothing of such animals’ speed, agility or intelligence.

Farquhar bent down and drew a large circle on the ground. He bade the dog lie
at his feet. This magical area would protect him from every enchantment.
Placing the cauldron of simmering stew just outside the circle, he squatted beside
it, loudly savouring its delicious flavour in a very provocative manner, and
offering to share it with his faithful dog.

Then the vough and the brollachan began to whine and screech, slavering till the
slime ran down their chins, for they were starving. Farquhar carried on slurping
and burping and praising its delicious flavour.

“No chance, you evil old cailleach!”bhe mocked. “Your son may steal my heat, but he won’t steal my dinner.”

“A curse on you, Farquhar!” raged the vough. “I hope it chokes you and your
accursed cur.”

Farquhar, keeping the torch well in front of him, backed away and entered his
house in safety. The old dog, being slower, was less fortunate, as the vough
grabbed his tail at the last moment. The poor beast was left with the prospect of
being docked ever after.

Then the vough and the brollachan fell to the remains of the stew and ravenously
gorged, forgetting their curse-and promptly choked themselves.

In the morning Farquhar emerged gingerly, and now that he possessed the
serpent’s knowledge, he sensed that the old woman, his neighbour, would need
his healing skills. When he entered her shabby dwelling, he placed a saucer of
milk at her torn foot and presently a serpent’s head appeared from her heel, and,
thereafter, its whole scaly body slithered towards the bait. Just as it flickered its
forked tongue at the frothy cream, Farquhar’s dog seized it by the neck and
shook it to death.

From that moment the old woman’s wound closed and she could walk with ease.
The space in front of the fire returned to its rightful canine occupant, who was
never to be usurped from it again. Farquhar went on to become one of the most
famous healers of all time, but, oddly enough, the dog’s tail never recovered its
former longitude, so it could never wag its welcome to its returning master. Still,
if the tail had been lengthened, our tale would have been longer too, and you
children would never get to sleep!

 

NOTES

1) A brollachan is the Gaelic word for a misshapen, deformed creature.

2) Vough – there was a kelpie at Moulin na Fouah and this place name probably
became corrupted to “Vough”. There was also a Vougha of Beann na Caltuinn.
She married into the Munroe family and their descendants were supposed to
have had manes and tails for many generations. A vough appears to have been a
water-spirit, with webbed feet, no nose, but sporting a mane and a tail. They
were killed by strong light or steel weapons. Further information can be gleaned
from “Popular Tales of the West Highlands”, translated by I.F. Campbell and
published by Wildwood House, 1983.

3) Apparently, the great white snakes of Sutherland had a unique revolving
motion. They wound themselves round and round an ivory ring on their bodies,
which was formed from their own slime. Sometimes these rings would slip off and
the lucky finder of such an object could benefit from its magical properties.

,.

 

Resume

Tags

Bonnie Prince Charlie, Bosphorous, clarsach, communion chalice, Head Teachers' Conference, hypogonadism, Inklings, lacrosse, Land Girl, lost Faberge egg, model railway club, National Trust, Pele Tower, seamed stockings, Simon Bolivar, Snodland, St Birinus, St Vitus

Candia: You think it would be useful?

Brassica: Well, a lot of people have come in on the action

mid-plot, so-yes- why not offer them a synopsis?

Candia:  Okay- they can skip it if they have been following

since Snod’s story took off.

Here it is, folks:

SYNOPSIS: Snod’s Law

Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master and Acting Head of St Birinus’ Middle School

is ripe for retirement. He loves comfort food, the Model Railway Club and Latin.

He is a role model for Junior Masters, but a bête noire for other staff.

For his entire life, he has taken for granted that he was the product of a liaison

of socialite and erstwhile Land Girl, Berenice Snodbury and A N Other.

Berenice’s sister, Augusta, took on responsibility for the child when her sister

ran off to Venezuela, following romantic dreams inspired by her hero, Simon

Bolivar.

The original Augusta, the girls’ mother. had not set them a terribly orthodox

example, as she herself had run around the Bosphorous with an itinerant rug

seller.

Snod’s lonely, institutionalised existence is interrupted by a climactic revelation

that an affair which he conducted with the ‘lax’ (lacrosse) mistress of a

sister establishment many moons ago engendered a child. That ‘child’ is now

a Housemistress at St Vitus’ School for the Academically-Gifted Girl, the school

in which her mother originally taught. (In fact, Gus has unwittingly met his

daughter on a number of occasions, at joint educational functions.)

The reason that his relationship broke down was owing to a Hardyean

twist of fate. A missing communication which contained his marriage

proposal now re-surfaces during re-furbishment for a school let. Diana,

the retired lax mistress, is exposed as having been deceitful.

She married ‘on the re-bound’, foisting her child on Murgatroyd-Syylk,

picture dealer and restorer. The pair subsequently divorced and now

Syylk is completing a restoration project of a Pele Tower in the Borders.

Drusilla, the Housemistress, attempts to encourage her parents to meet.

Will their romance re-ignite? Initially, it is a damp squib.

On Berenice’s death, a mysterious package arrives at school. It contains

a signet ring which Augustus’ apparent half-brother was asked to send

over to England. It bears an insignia associated with Wyvern Mote, now a

National Trust property.

Drusilla and Gus visit Great-Aunt Augusta and take her out of Snodland

Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry for the day, partly to introduce her

to her great-niece, and partly to investigate Wyvern Mote. There they see

a photograph in the schoolroom of two of the original heirs, with their tutor,

Anthony Revelly. The facial resemblance is clear: Gus is his offspring; Revelly

his father, rather than Lord Wyvern.

Lady Wyvern had had the child by her sons’ tutor on the death of her

husband. The tutor was permitted to live in a grace-and-favour apartment

in the stable block, for life, when the property was handed over to The

National Trust.

Berenice, who had been a Land Girl in the vicinity, had been paid an

undisclosed sum to acknowledge the child as being her own. A good time

girl, Berenice had tired of the responsibility, eventually absconding and

leaving her sister to arrange his schooling at St Birinus. Augusta had

once been Head Girl of St Vitus’, so knew of the boys’ prep school

establishment and its reputation.

Now Hugo, in Venezuela, has to be disabused of his belief in his

relationship to Gus.  They decide to leave Aunt Augusta in the dark.

The latter gave her ‘great-niece’ a present of what resembles one

of the famous missing Faberge eggs.  It turns out to be a fake and

yet, Dru’s visit to her step-father in the Pele Tower makes up for her

disappointment, as she is promised a communion chalice which Bonnie

Prince Charlie used before his fateful final ride south, on Syylk’s decease.

(The Pele Tower turns out to have been in Lady Wyvern’s family in the

past, so there is a neat circularity about Drusilla’s future inheritance of

the restored property, as Murgatroyd’s sole heiress.

The Head Teacher of St Birinus’ had an unfortunate ‘turn’ at the Christmas

Eve Midnight Service and was diagnosed with hypogonadism. His mid-life

crisis leads to him taking time off in order to make a motorcycle trip across

The Sahara, much to his wife’s relief. Unfortunately, Gus has to ‘stand in’,

but when his previous boss decides to abdicate, he does not apply for the

permanent post. Nevertheless, a position of Deputy Head is created for him,

in order to boost his pension. Poskett, Milford-Haven and Drusilla Fotheringay-

Syylk apply for the Headship, but are unsuccessful. Will the latter two decide

to throw over their careers and try to make a musical success of their lives

together?

Drusilla has shone in various musical concerts, by playing her harp for both

schools. She has been the focus of attention from Nigel Milford-Haven, the

rather wimpish Junior Master who is beginning to sing solo tenor in some

school productions and Geoffrey Poskett, Choirmaster. She seems to favour

Nigel, since she has asked him to come to the Borders with her in the school

holidays, to stage a concert for clarsach and voice.

She hopes to raise money for Murgatroyd’s roof repairs. Nigel is nervous, as

his mother usually draws on his decorating expertise in the school holidays

and she is not going to be too pleased at his bid for independence.

Meanwhile ‘Snod’ has settled into a friendly relationship with Diana, the mother

of his child, who has sold her cottage and moved back to the Suttonford area,

in which both schools are situated. However, his attention has been attracted

to Virginia Fisher-Giles, the widowed seamed-stocking-wearing PA. An invitation

for coffee chez elle after she has run him to a Head Teachers’ Conference

turns out to be more intimate than either anticipated.

Will he succumb to a projection of future domesticity with Virginia? Will he

resurrect the corpse of his relationship with Diana, or will he continue his

‘Inkling’ existence of bachelor bliss?

The lure of retirement is like an ever-receding pot of gold. He has a year

or two to serve as Deputy Head under the new regime. Will he be able to

preserve the old ways, or will the introduction of a new system create a

tsunami of bureaucracy that will threaten to engulf him?

Not Proven

Tags

arsenic, Blythswood Square, Bridge of Allan, Damocles, genealogy, High Court of Justiciary, Lord Handyside, Madeleine Smith, Mary Magdalen, Mt Hope Cemetery, Not Proven, Pierre L'Angelier, Prussic acid, Rhu, Rossetti, Sauchiehall Street, The Glasgow Sentinel

You’ve been very quiet these last few days, Candia, remarked

Clammie. What have you been up to?

Oh, this and that.  Digging about in my genealogical tree.

Found any murderers?  she laughed.

Actually- yes and no.  My great-aunt times goodness knows what was the

best friend of Madeleine Smith, the alleged arsenic poisoner of Victorian

infamy.  She gave evidence at her trial, though she was innocent of any

involvement.  She had been with Madeleine when she bought the poison.

Her name was Mary Buchanan.

Interestingly, the Lord of the Court of Session was Lord Handyside,

someone else on my father’s tree- related, but not so closely.

Wow! So what have you written about all this?

The following, I said, passing over my typewritten sheets.

NOT PROVEN

I was glad that I had chosen to wear my straw bonnet, with the pure white trimmings, the one which sits at the back of my head and which enhances my profile so effectively.  As I passed through the High Court of Justiciary in Edinburgh, the crowd parted and I felt the vibrations of the verdict: Not Proven, ringing in my ears. The glass phial of smelling salts, which I had had no recourse to during my nine day trial, fell out of my purse and it smashed.  I disdainfully ground it into

powder beneath my heel.

So, I had been “cleared” of the attempted murder of my erstwhile lover, Pierre Emile L’Angelier and I had ousted the Indian Mutiny from the pages of the press. Taking my brother Jack’s arm, the only relative who was willing to be seen in my presence, I turned on that same heel and, returning Lord Handyside’s stare with compound interest, stepped into the street.

At least I would not be returning to the gloomy gable ends and gaslight of Glasgow, nor the over fervent protestations from my nervous fiancé. Now he has stated honestly that he wishes to withdraw his former proposal.

It was the ninth of July, 1857 and I had been supposedly cleared of guilt.  However, even my legal defender had joked, in rather poor taste, I felt, that he would rather dance than dine with me.

It does not seem so long ago that I was gossiping with Mary Buchanan of Cardross, my best friend, at Mrs. Alice Gorton’s Academy for Young Ladies, near London.  Then we exchanged confidences, remedies for depilation and recipes for whitening our complexions.  We had vowed to be each other’s bridesmaids.  I wonder if Mary will “cut” me now.  Will she be amused by the press describing me in titillating fashion as a “burning passionate Juliet of decent society, fresh from the school-room”?

Yes, I suppose we were indulged, but my father was trying to be the architect of my destiny, as well as pursuing that literal profession throughout his working week.  I was wilful and headstrong, I admit, but how can I be blamed for falling for the flattery of romantic avowals of such passion and intense devotion?

Emile seemed exotic to me then, albeit entirely unsuitable socially.  Papa was planning a match for me and was furious that I was engaged in a correspondence with a warehouse clerk, let alone keeping clandestine appointments with him.

Naturally, prohibition only fanned the blaze of our desire.  You would not believe the initiative and Machiavellian scheming that I employed in order to smuggle Emile into our house in Blythswood Square, after dark.  Our middle-aged neighbour, Miss Perry was drawn into the preparations for our assignments, but, to tell the truth, the cunning machinations eventually proved to be more stimulating than the relationship itself.  I sought to extinguish the ardency of our torrid affair.  The embers reduced to ashes and should have been swept up efficiently by our housemaid’s dustpan and brush and have been scattered unceremoniously on some unhealthy rose garden, to strengthen the weaker horticultural specimens.

My self-esteem had been nourished sufficiently by then and the older man who was being presented to me was the more attractive option- especially financially.  I decided to drop Emile.  I may have deceived my family, but I could no longer deceive myself.

It is said that Adam was deceived, but Eve bore greater guilt, because she was clear in her decision to yield to temptation.  I would say that we shared our blameworthiness.  Emile unreasonably refused to return my letters and I admit to a certain lack of tact in my request:  “as there is coolness on both sides, our engagement had better be broken.”

When the post-mortem revealed eighty-two grains of arsenic in Emile’s stomach, I volunteered the information that I had acquired such a substance as a cosmetic enhancer, though I confess that I had lied to the apothecary. I had informed him that I wished to employ it for rodent extermination.  My parents would never have permitted me to utilise it for vanity’s sake and my sister, Bessie, would have told tales.

Bessie would not support me in court.  She has always been envious of me, ever since we met Emile together in Sauchiehall Street.  She probably told Papa about our rendezvous, the little rat.

Emile always preferred me to her; he thought her choice of dress and headgear vulgar and her personality vapid.  She was happy to pay calls with mother and to simper for Papa’s merchant friends at interminable supper parties.  Emile and I had a lot in common: we were both the eldest of five children and longed for adventure.

Ah, Emile, was it your very white fingers that attracted me- so elegant and unlike the reddened, horny, calloused knuckles of those podgy colleagues of Papa’s?  Eventually those pale digits metamorphosed into worms that insinuated themselves into the core of my being, thrusting with greed to possess, not only my body, but my birthright itself.  Your avarice for Papa’s approval was the torsion that twisted into your own guts and not any concoction of mine.

For a time I was your slave, and I tried to improve my temper, just to please you, silly jade that I was!  Yet even “The Glasgow Sentinel” suggested that I was the seducer as much as the seduced.”  It had the impertinence to imply that once my veil of modesty had been thrown aside- and from the first it had been a flimsy one-I then revealed myself as a woman of libidinous passion, an abnormal spirit that rose up to startle and revolt the general public.  Still others have wondered whether I am the most fortunate of criminals, or the most unfortunate of women.

The judge was repelled by my candour regarding our shared embraces. Small wonder that Papa refused to leave his room and was driven to sell our beautiful house in Rhu, to avoid scandal.  What happened to my little pug?  I do miss it, though I used to provoke it intentionally on many occasions.  The nasty “Examiner” said that if the trial had been for poisoning a dog, my indifference could not have been greater.  What do they know?

I was frank with my lover, telling him of my courtship with Mr. Minnoch and how he accompanied me to concerts and suchlike.  I repeatedly confronted Emile with the fact that he no longer loved me.  It was to our mutual convenience that he should honestly bow out.  Yet he would not release me from our situation and I entered a period of emotional turbulence and vacillation.  I felt Papa’s wrath as an impending Dies Irae, or a sword of Damocles hanging over us.  I had supped with horrors long enough.

If I had premeditated Emile’s demise, then why would I have sent a messenger, quite openly, to make the purchase of some Prussic acid and why would I have signed The Poison Books on subsequent occasions, with my own name?  I appeal to you, dear reader: am I the most unfortunate of women, or the most fortunate criminal?

The powder I purchased was stained with dye and the physician who performed the autopsy did not detect any such colouring agent.   Odd that I should later take up with someone who made their fortune through the manufacture and processing of such dyestuffs!  All of this after my ex- fiancé disentangled himself from what was considered to be my Black Widow embrace.

Emile, your self-dramatising was impressive.  Death by cocoa.  How very enterprising of you to blame your end on the corruption of such an innocuous beverage!  You were eager enough to drink the laudanum-laced potion provided by your careless doctor and no one knows what you might have ingested in Bridge of Allan, though I grant that the Poison Books there bore no trace of your signature.

So I sat for nine days, as unresponsive as I had been when discovered in the summerhouse, staring out to The Firth of Clyde.  Edinburgh broiderers pricked out their sewing in the gallery, like Madame Defarges before the guillotine, yet the feeling in the east was more supportive of me than in the west, the Glasgow/ Edinburgh opposition even evident in court.  Fifteen jurymen could not come to any consensus.  The foreman kept clearing his throat, as if something was choking him. I kept thinking of the hundreds of written proposals of marriage that I had received in the East Jail.  Later in life I had to turn down offers from Hollywood to take part in films of my supposed life.

I watched those women sticking in their needles and later I joined Janey Morris and her circle in many sewing bees.  Rossetti even depicted me as Mary Magdalen, but I only played the penitent in paint and remained true to myself as Madeleine. My faithful brother came to my wedding and scattered white grains of rice over us.  He visited our home in Bloomsbury; he adored our children, Tom and Kitten.

When that union was over, I was a veritable widow and I married a much younger man in the United States, remaining an enigma to the end, with my puzzling death certificate.  The spider had spun its own web for nearly a century.  I was buried in Mt Hope Cemetery, they say: a triumph, or a travesty?

When winter comes with a vengeance I think of Pierre Emile L’Angelier, my angel/ demon and the soft caresses of snowflakes remind me of our sensual lovemaking.  Then I say to myself: “I do not regret that-never did, and never shall.”