I passed the rest of the day in correspondence and melancholy. Now I had decided to leave as soon as my obligations permitted, I was anxious to depart as swiftly as possible. Only Widow Blundy kept me there, as I had already seen what happened when I did not attend her myself. I took no joy in Sarah Blundy’s fate, had little optimism about her mother and my confidence in my friend was at an end. I wanted to accept his assurances about his fidelity, and indeed I had done so; but the seeds of doubt were sown, and had disturbed my soul.

I am not prideful, but I am jealous of my honor and fidelity. And Lower had placed both of those in jeopardy by acceding to Wren’s request above my right. Even though he owned to the fault, it did not erase the hurt he had caused me, and completed the distrust which his violent temper had already generated.

I was, in other words, in a gray humor by the time Lower marched into the Angel trailing behind him a cadaverous and sickly looking wretch whom he introduced as one of the undergardeners at his college. For a shilling he would give his blood to Mrs. Blundy.

“But he’s no good!” I cried. “Look at him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was in worse health than Mrs. Blundy. It would be better to transfer her blood into him. I wanted someone strong and full of vitality.”

“He’s enormously strong. Aren’t you?” he said, addressing the man for the first time. This latter, noticing Lower had turned in his direction, gave a gap-toothed smile, and whinnied like a horse.

“His great virtue,” Lower said as the man drank a quart pot of ale eagerly, “is that he is deaf and dumb. Dr. Wallis tried to teach him to speak, but to no avail. He can’t write either. It means, you see, that his discretion is assured. Which, you must admit, is important. That family is held in enough disapprobation already and if it became commonly known that the mother was being kept alive by such means I wouldn’t be surprised if she was burned along with the daughter. Here, fellow. Have another.”

He signaled for another quart, which was soon set in front of the poor wretch. “Best if he has a little,” he said. “I don’t want him running away when he sees what we intend.”

I was not happy, although I saw the justice of the point. But it says something about how my attitude had changed that I distrusted the motive behind the use of someone who could not testify to what had occurred.

“Did you visit the jail?”

He rolled his eyes. “Lord, yes,” he said. “And what a day I have had.”

“Had she changed her mind?”

“Not at all. We wrote out a suitable letter—did you know she could read and write as well as you and I? I was astonished—and had it witnessed. That was no trouble. It was the magistrate.”

“He opposed the idea? Why?”

“Because I could not persuade him that he was under any obligation to the girl. A damnable nuisance, if I may say so.”

“So that’s it? No body?”

He looked despairingly at me. “Even if I got her, I’d have to give her over to the pyre when I was finished. The magistrate would only allow me temporary possession. But even that would have been better than nothing. I’m going back to him later to see if there is some way of persuading him.”

He glanced at the gardener, who was now well into the third quart of ale. “Oh, come on. Let’s get on with it before he’s insensible. Do you know,” he said as we pulled the wretch up, “I am getting heartily sick of this family? The sooner they are both dead, the better. Oh, damnation! Oh, Cola, I am sorry.”

Both his explanation and his apology were justified. For the half-wit must have been drinking even before Lower brought him in, and the three quarts he drank while we talked were too much. With a foolish smile on his face turning to a look of alarm, he slid to the floor, then vomited on Lower’s shoes. Lower jumped out of the way and looked at the sight with distaste, then kicked the wretch to confirm his insensibility.

“What do we do now?”

“I’m not going to use him,” I said. “We’d have to carry him there ourselves. It’s difficult enough with someone who is cooperative.”

“He seemed sober enough when we left the college.”

I shook my head sadly. “This is your fault, Lower. You knew how important this was, and you have failed me.”

“I have apologized.”

“That serves me nothing. We’ll have to postpone the treatment until tomorrow. And hope she survives that long. The delay may kill her.”

“I think your treatment will accomplish that in any case,” he said coldly.

“I did not hear you saying that before.”

“You never asked.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but gave up. What was the point? For reasons I could not fathom, almost everything we said to each other was taken as a slight or an insult. As he would not explain his behavior, and I could truly find no fault in my own, there was nothing I could do.

“I will not argue with you,” I said. “You have undertaken to supply me with some blood, and I hold you to that promise. Then our association can end, as you clearly wish. Will you bring him tomorrow, after the trial?”

He bowed stiffly, and he promised he would not fail me again. Once the trial was over, I should go to Mrs. Blundy’s cottage and await him. He would come with the gardener, and we would perform the treatment. There was enough time.

17

At one o’clock the following afternoon, the trial of Sarah Blundy for the murder of Dr. Robert Grove began in the assize court of Oxford. The crowd was eager; not only did the trial promise much scandalous entertainment, the previous day had seen not a single hanging verdict, and ended not with the judge wearing a black cap, but being presented with the traditional pair of white gloves to show that his hands were clean of blood. But such mercy was considered dangerous, for the awful majesty of the law needs sacrifice. One maiden session (as they are called) was merciful, two in a row would seem weak. What was more, Wood, an assiduous attender of trials who spoke to me briefly before the pushing of the crowd separated us, told me that the judge realized this—someone, that day, would hang. We both knew, I think, who it would be.

There was a murmur of anticipation as Sarah, terribly pale, was led before the court, to stand facing the crowd and listen to the sonorous charges against her. That she, Sarah Blundy, not having the fear of God before her eyes, but being moved and seduced by the instigation of the devil, in the fifteenth year of our sovereign Lord the King, at New College in the City of Oxford, did make an assault upon the Reverend Robert Grove, fellow of that place and formerly her master, feloniously, willfully and traitorously. And the said Sarah Blundy did feloniously, willfully, traitorously and out of malice, did place arsenic in a bottle and cause the said Robert Grove to drink it, of which poisoning the said Robert Grove died. So that the said Sarah Blundy in manner and form aforesaid, feloniously, willfully, traitorously and of malice aforethought, didst kill and murder, against the peace of our sovereign Lord, his crown and dignity.

Mutterings of approval, which caused the judge to look up with warning in his eye, erupted from the mob as they heard this accusation read; it took some time for order to be restored—not that there is ever very much in an English court. Then the judge, who did not strike me as very fearsome in aspect, turned to Sarah and asked her to plead.

She did not reply, but stood with head bowed.

“Come, girl,” the judge said, “You must plead, you know. Guilty or not guilty, it is all the same to me. But you must say something, or it will go ill with you.”

Still she said nothing, and an expectant hush fell on the audience, as they looked at her standing there, head bowed to hide her terror and shame. I felt a wave of sympathy for her, for who would not be silenced by facing, all alone, the formidable power of justice?