Tired of sitting in front of the computer, I stood, stretched, and went out into the corridor. There were a number of portraits hanging on the walls of Lockwood Hall and lining the gallery. I’d looked at them in passing, but now I was curious. After nearly twenty minutes, I found what I was looking for. The two portraits had been relegated to one of the small parlors, flanking the marble fireplace. Jeremiah Lockwood stared down at me from the painting, his chestnut-brown hair falling in waves to his velvet-clad shoulders, his luminous eyes clouded with sadness. He was a handsome man, and no amount of squinting up at the portrait revealed any hint of cruelty or deceit in his expression.
I stepped to the other side of the fireplace to study his wife. Marjorie Lockwood was no great beauty, and her haughty expression and pursed lips did little to improve her already plain countenance. She appeared a great deal older than her husband, which led me to believe that the portraits had not been painted at the same time. Contrary to the fashion of the period, Marjorie’s hair wasn’t elaborately coifed but scraped back into a bun. Not a loose tendril or ringlet softened her angular face. Her dark gaze gave an impression of shrewdness and determination. This was not a meek, obedient woman. This was a woman who’d brave the displeasure of her husband to get her way, I decided as I studied her stubborn chin.
Jeremiah Lockwood and his wife looked utterly mismatched, and I had a difficult time picturing them together as a couple. Even their attire was different. Lord Lockwood wore a handsome doublet in dusky blue embroidered with gold thread and slashed through the sleeves to offer a glimpse of gold, his collar trimmed with lace, and jeweled rings on his fingers meant to show off his wealth. Lady Lockwood’s gown was severe, her collar plain rectangles of linen, or whatever fabric had been used in those days. She reminded me of the Puritans I’d seen in history books, disembarking in the New World. All she needed was a tall black hat and the roiling sea behind her, the wind whipping her cloak about her legs.
I was so absorbed in studying the paintings, I didn’t hear Kyle approach until he spoke. “And who is this handsome pair?” he asked.
“This is the illustrious couple responsible for the death of Alys Bailey.”
“How do you know?”
“I found some references to her case using the traditional spelling of her name.”
“That was clever,” Kyle said.
“I think I have enough to piece together what happened to Alys.”
“Tell me,” Kyle invited.
We sat down in comfortable wingchairs, Kyle crossing his legs and leaning back in a pose of casual elegance.
“Alys Bailey did something to cross Lady Lockwood. She may have frightened her in some way or maybe even threatened or cursed her. Or—and I think this is quite possible—had caught the eye of the lady’s husband. Unwilling to deal with the fallout and eager to pacify his wife, Jeremiah Lockwood called in his brother, who was the magistrate, and had him take care of the problem. Alys was tried at petty sessions court, convicted, and executed without her case ever going to the assizes, which were quarterly and would require her to await trial, possibly for months, making her a thorn in Lady Lockwood’s side, since she might be deemed not guilty and released.”
“And her child?” Kyle asked.
“Was most likely either smothered or given to someone else to raise. Perhaps Lady Lockwood saw the child as a threat or thought he was going to grow up to become a warlock and cast her into hell for having his mother murdered.”
“Did she have children of her own?” Kyle asked.
“Yes. Jeremiah Lockwood and his wife had one son, Charles, who inherited the estate.”
“And Lockwood? What became of him?”
“He died in one of the first battles of the Civil War. He would have been around twenty-five at the time.”
“Was his grave among those at the cemetery?” Kyle asked.
“No, but neither was Marjorie Lockwood’s. Perhaps they were buried someplace else, being so wealthy and important,” I added sarcastically.
“I think Lord Lockwood has been judged in the court of your opinion and sentenced to Purgatory,” Kyle joked.
“What sort of man would allow a young woman to hang on the whim of his wife?”
“You don’t know that’s what happened. Your theory loosely fits the facts, but there are many plot holes you still need to fill before your story is complete.”
“That’s true, but since this will be a work of fiction, I can fill them with events of my making.”
“Yes, but I don’t think you will,” Kyle replied.
“No?”
“No. You’re a historian at heart, and you will get to the truth and write Alys’s story as it happened, because any story you come up with will ring false to you.”
I couldn’t help smiling, both impressed and amused by Kyle’s assessment. He was right. I had enough to write an interesting story, but I wanted to know the truth. What had Alys done to force Lady Lockwood’s hand, and why had her husband gone along with the accusations? Did he truly believe Alys was a witch, or was making sure she was hanged the easiest way
