“Such as?” I asked, pen poised. I was thrilled by Jonah Hargreaves’ wealth of knowledge and his obvious enthusiasm for the subject. I could always connect with a fellow historian, especially one who had a fondness for cake.
“She was tried and sentenced by the local magistrate instead of an assize court and hanged at Lockwood Hall. Only the magistrate and the vicar of St. Botolph’s were on hand to witness the execution and attest to the fact that it was carried out. Once pronounced dead, the accused was cut down and buried in the church graveyard that same day.”
“Did she have family?”
“Her parents died when she was in her teens, but she had an older brother, who was the village blacksmith. She also had a son, James, who vanished the day of the execution.”
“Vanished?” I exclaimed, taken by surprise. No one had mentioned a child until now.
“The boy was in the care of her sister-in-law.”
“Who would have taken him?” I asked. “And why?”
Jonah Hargreaves spread his hands, palms up. “It’s a mystery. He never turned up, and there’s no evidence that the disappearance was ever reported to the local sheriff, who was likely in the pay of the Lockwoods.”
“What year was Alys executed?” I asked.
“Sixteen forty. She was twenty at the time, and her son was aged about three months.”
“Who was her son’s father?” I asked. “Might he have taken the child?”
“No one ever knew for certain who the boy’s father was. No husband was ever mentioned in any of the documents I was able to unearth.”
“What a sad story,” I said, my stomach twisting with pity for the poor young woman. To be imprisoned on some trumped-up charge and then hanged at the age of twenty, leaving behind a defenseless child, with no one to speak up for you, was simply awful. “And who brought the charge against her?”
“The accuser is not named in the official documents, but according to local lore, it was Lady Lockwood, who was a self-styled Puritan and probably saw the devil hiding behind every bush. There’s precious little information, mind you. This was not a well-documented case. There’s only the summary of the charges and the magistrate’s verdict with the note that it was carried out.”
“Is there anything else in print that can be used as source material?”
“I found a reference to the case in a letter written by an assizes court judge circa 1641, a year after Alys’s death. He found the handling of the Bailey case most irregular and was calling for more judicial involvement when it came to accusations of witchcraft for fear of the accusers taking matters into their own hands. He questioned Alys’s guilt, but at the time, no one was overly concerned by the death of one young woman. The country was on the brink of civil war, and the hunt for witches had taken a back seat to politics.”
“When you say the accusers took matters into their own hands, do you mean Lady Lockwood had some influence over the magistrate?” I inquired.
“It’s entirely possible. It’s difficult to make out the magistrate’s signature on the documents, but it could conceivably be Lockwood.”
“Did the Lockwoods have a magistrate in the family?” I asked. This case was proving more bizarre by the minute, and the scant details were adding up to one glaring suggestion—conspiracy to murder.
“They did, as it happens.”
“Is there any documented proof that her name was spelled A-L-Y-S?”
“Yes, it’s in the charge sheet. Her name wasn’t spelled in the traditional way,” Johan Hargreaves said.
“I see. Is there anything else you can tell me about Alys Bailey?”
“Only that she was said to have been uncommonly beautiful, her beauty probably the very thing that cost her her life.”
“You’re not the first to suggest that,” I said.
“Oh?”
“The gardener at Lockwood Hall also said something along those lines. He said sometimes a woman’s only crime is to be born too beautiful.”
“Given the time period we’re talking about, that could very well be true, although it’s also important to point out that many of the women accused of witchcraft were old and probably not very attractive. Like I said, witch finding was a lucrative profession in its day.”
“Reverend Hargreaves, would you have a photo of St. Botolph’s before it was flooded?” I asked.
Jonah Hargreaves looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded, as if he’d just recalled something. “Yes. I believe there’s a photo in…” His voice trailed off as he strode toward the bookcase and ran his finger along the spines, looking for a particular volume. “Ah, here we go. There should be one in here.”
The reverend riffled the pages until he found what he was looking for and handed me the book. I stared at the sepia photograph. I had expected St. Botolph’s to look sinister, like something out of a black-and-white horror film, but there was nothing frightening about it. It had been lovely, the sort of church one could find in any English village. There was a picture of the village as well, and just like the church, it was completely nondescript.
I handed the book back. “Thank you, Reverend Hargreaves. I appreciate you taking the time to speak to me,” I said as I tore a page from my notepad and wrote down my number before stuffing the notepad into my tote.
“No, thank you,” Jonah Hargreaves said, smiling broadly. “It’s not often that I find someone who’s interested in listening to my obscure stories. I can practically see people’s eyes glaze over with boredom if I so much as mention anything historical. My
