Kate Sedley: The Hanged Man

'This is wicked talk, and I'll stand no more of it.' Edward Herepath made to rise, but Cicely forestalled him, getting up and placing herself between us, evidently afraid that he might once again assault me.

'Pray go on, Master Chapman,' she said quietly. 'What happened when my guardian returned to Bristol?' Her eyes were bright and huge, as though she were staring into an abyss at some unnamed horror.

'I think the rest you know. Master Herepath went first to the cottage in Bell Lane to see if William's apparent murder had been discovered and, more importantly, if the money were missing. Having reassured himself on both points, he hastened back to Small Street to search his brother's room and find the leather pouches where they had been hidden. The bloodstains on the bags and the breast of Robert's jerkin — where he had held them cradled in his left arm during his short journey home — were fortuitous, but added greatly to the weight of evidence against him. Even you, Mistress Ford, were convinced of Robert's guilt, and your reaction to so callous a crime was everything that Master Herepath had guessed it would be.

'All he had to do then was play the grieving brother who had at least reached the end of his tether; who could no longer stand between the youth he had raised from infancy and his manifold sins. Margaret Walker spoke of a kind of madness that seemed to grip the town. Alderman Weaver said dislike of Robert clouded his and everyone else's judgement. But I suggest it was partly because Edward Herepath let it be known, in as many quarters as possible, that he believed his brother guilty.'

'It is you who are mad!' Edward snarled. 'I was the only person who protested Robert's innocence.'

Cicely turned her head slowly to look at him. 'But you made it plain you didn't really believe what you said. Particularly when you gave your testimony at Robert's trial. That was what made your conviction of his guilt so obvious.' She lifted a hand to her forehead. 'You comforted me. We comforted one another for the loss of something we had both believed in; our faith that Robert, whatever his faults, was not truly wicked. We shared a great grief and it drew us close together.' She shuddered. 'It even crossed my mind that one day, perhaps, I might grow to love you as I had loved your brother.'

'Which was exactly what your guardian had hoped for,' I was quick to point out. 'And then, his plans all went awry when William Woodward made his sudden reappearance. You must have been terrified,' I went on, addressing Edward, 'when you heard of his return, when you realized that you had bungled your attempt at murder. But luck was with you. The injuries William had sustained had destroyed coherent memory. He could not even recall the cottage in Bell Lane, but went home to his daughter. All he could remember was that he must say he had been abducted by slavers and taken to Ireland; that for some good reason, he must not mention his time with the miners in the forest. And so you were safe, but not so safe that you could sleep soundly at nights.' My voice grew sterner. 'You dreaded that William would regain his senses and reveal the truth. You refused to visit him with Mistress Ford, because you were frightened that the sight of you would bring back memories. Then your housekeeper told you that Mistress Ford was taking William broth, and you made another attempt to kill him. He complained of the broth tasting bitter, so his daughter and granddaughter threw it away. Margaret Walker attributes it to bad meat used by Mistress Hardacre in her cooking. But I suspect the soup contained juice of hemlock, which grows in your garden." I took a deep breath and drew a bow at a venture. 'And for all I know, that's how your wife met her end, after you fell in love with Mistress Cicely.'

'You lie!' Edward Herepath croaked. 'You can prove none of it!'

'I can prove William Woodward was with the miners in the forest, and in what condition they found him. The landlord of the New Inn will testify to your movements on the Friday. I agree it might not be enough to condemn you in the eyes of the law, but it would suffice to breed suspicion amongst your fellow burgesses of this city.' I decided the moment had come to tell Master Herepath the one thing he did not already know. 'And all of it for nothing. For your hope of one day marrying Mistress Ford, in spite of everything, is a doomed one. She has set her heart on entering a religious order.'

Edward Herepath uttered a strange, tortured cry and turned his eyes on Cicely. He sprang to his feet and caught her in his arms. 'You cannot! You shall not! You are mine! We belong together. I have known it since the moment you came to live here. Until then, I foolishly thought of you as a child, but you had grown. I realized then that you were the one person in the world I really wanted.' His eyes glowed suddenly with a kind of madness, and I moved closer, ready to intervene. Cicely was staring at him in fascinated horror, as though at a stranger.

Edward went on: 'I rid myself of Mary, but you fell in love with Robert. That wastrel! I thought if I bided my time, you were bound to sicken of his wild and shiftless ways and turn to me for comfort. But nothing he could do changed your mind about him. In the end, I realized I should have to change it for you. He must be vilified in your eyes so that you would turn from him in horror. It was only what he deserved. It was done for your protection. And I so nearly succeeded. If William had died, as he should have done, there in the forest, no one would ever have known that Robert didn't murder him.' His arms tightened about her. 'You shan't deprive me of what I've killed for!'

Cicely said in a quiet voice, 'Let me go, Edward. I pity you with all my heart, for I think you must have sold your soul to the Devil. It was not Robert who was evil. He was just wild and selfish, but the real wickedness is in you. I have arranged to enter the House of the Magdalen Nuns as a postulant, and I shall do so now as soon as possible. I shall go there tonight, for my life in this accursed house is finished as from this hour. I shall not raise a hand against you, even though you have destroyed my life, but what Master Chapman does is up to him.'

I waited to see what would happen, ready if necessary to force him to release her, but the sight of her face, so filled with sorrow and loathing, acted on Edward Herepath as nothing else could. His love for her had grown into an obsession, until it drove out all other feelings, all notion of right and wrong; until he had been willing to kill, by whatever means, to win her for himself. The one person he could not harm was Cicely. His arms dropped to his sides. He sat down again and buried his face in his hands, his whole body racked with harsh, dry sobs. Without a backward glance, Cicely Ford turned and walked from the room.

After some seconds of indecision, I followed her. She had vanished into the upper regions of the house, and I waited until she came down again, still wearing her cloak and holding a large linen scrip which I imagined contained her night shirt, brushes and combs. Then I escorted her to the House of the Magdalen Nuns before going in search of the sheriff and his officers. By the time they had returned from church, and I had told my story and convinced them sufficiently of its truth, it was dark and well past supper. I went back, accompanied by two sergeants, to Small Street. There we found a house in uproar: Mistress Hardacre and Dame Freda in hysterics, the men servants standing around, awe-struck, and Edward Herepath dead by his own hand. He had emptied the remains of his store of hemlock juice into the mazer of wine, sent in to him by the housekeeper with his supper.

There is little more to tell. He had written a full confession before he killed himself, a great shock to his fellow burgesses and townsmen, who had held him in such high esteem. But, like all these things, it was a nine days' wonder, and it was not long before some people began to claim they had always had their doubts about Edward Herepath, and could recall incidents which reflected badly on his character. As for myself, Lillis and I were married at the end of February in the weavers' church of St Catherine, in Temple Street; and my old acquaintance, Alderman Weaver, dignified the ceremony with his presence, standing with us in the porch and even deigning to enter the nave with us afterwards. My new mother-in-law was deeply impressed.