The
Hanging Tree
A Historical Mystery
By Irina Shapiro
Copyright
© 2021 by Irina Shapiro
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the author.
All characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people (except those who are actual historical figures) are purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Journal Entry
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Journal entry
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Journal Entry
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Journal Entry
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Journal Entry
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Journal Entry
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Journal Entry
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Journal Entry
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Journal Entry
Chapter 60
Journal Entry
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Journal Entry
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Epilogue
An Excerpt from The Lovers
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Prologue
The morning dawned gray and cold, gauzy ribbons of mist wrapping themselves around tree trunks, pooling in hollows, and shrouding the brilliant colors of autumn in a gossamer web. The normally vibrant landscape lay dull and eerily silent. Even the horse seemed unnerved, its ears pressed back, its eyes sliding from side to side, looking out for hidden danger. The freshly sawn pine of the coffin glistened with moisture, the rectangular box lying in wait in the wagon bed.
The young woman shivered, more with fear than cold, her eyes huge with terror, her gaze fixed on the noose hanging from the lowest branch of the massive oak. The noose swayed gently, the rope nearly as thick as her thin white neck. The woman looked from one man to the next, searching for a glimmer of sympathy or a weakening of resolve, but all she saw were hard, unyielding faces, the mouths pressed into thin lines of derision. They seemed impatient to be done with their distasteful task, eager to return to the welcoming warmth of their homes, where they could enjoy a hearty breakfast after the morning’s work.
The white linen of the woman’s shift looked stark against the black tree trunk, her face a pale oval in the half-light of the autumn dawn, her bare feet bluish with cold as they sank into the quilt of fallen leaves. She blinked as the minister read the charge, her breath catching in anticipation of what was to come.
“Alys Bailey, you have been found guilty of witchcraft. The sentence for practicing the dark arts is death by hanging.”
The young woman let out a howl of desperation as a strong hand closed around her upper arm, dragging her toward the inevitable conclusion of this pantomime of justice. The last thing she saw as the noose tightened around her neck was a dark shape in the manor’s ground-floor window, and she knew it to be that of her true executioner.
Chapter 1
Nicole
I leaned forward, my shoulders tense, my spine stiff, my heart fluttering in my chest like a trapped bird. I had never suffered from claustrophobia, but the dense woodland that formed a dark tunnel around the narrow country lane suddenly unnerved me, making me feel as if I couldn’t breathe. The cabbie was an older man with thick shoulders and an almost nonexistent neck who hadn’t said much since picking me up at the station in Chesterfield. Our eyes met in the rearview mirror, and he smiled reassuringly, revealing tobacco-stained teeth.
“Don’t fret, love. It’s not far now,” he said.
“I didn’t realize Lockwood Hall was so far from civilization,” I said, thinking back to the lovely pictures I’d pored over on the website for the writers’ retreat. The house was surrounded by extensive gardens and woods and only half a mile from the peaceful shores of the Ladybower Reservoir, but I’d assumed it was within walking distance of the nearest village or town. It wasn’t.
“It didn’t used to be,” the man said, his expression souring.
“How do you mean?”
That was all the encouragement he needed to start talking, obviously relishing his role as tour guide. “Well, you see, there was a village just near here until the middle of the twentieth century—Ashcombe, it was called. My parents were born there. It wasn’t a big village, mind, but it was a thriving community in its day. And there were several other villages a bit further on.” He made a gesture with his hand, pointing toward where the villages must have lain.
“What happened to them?” I asked, my interest piqued.
“The government is what happened,” the driver said bitterly. “Word came down that they’d voted to create a reservoir, so the valley was flooded, the villages intentionally drowned.”
“What became of the residents?” I asked.
“They were relocated, which sounds a lot nicer than saying they were evicted from their homes and forced to move, the bones of their ancestors dug up and haphazardly reburied in a plot of land designated by the powers that be, away from the place where they’d lived and died for generations.”
I nodded. Of course, I’d heard of such things. Forced relocation for the greater good. Most folk were offered comparable housing or something better than what they’d had, but it was the lack of choice they found galling and, in some instances, traumatic. Some people might not have much, but they had their history and their pride, and they’d never forget what was done
