Free Twelfth Night (A Wendover House Mystery Book 2) by Melanie Jackson Page B

Sands, listen to these words, the last my mouth
shall utter. In the spirit of the only true and living God I speak thee.
Tremble, for you will soon die. Over your grave they will erect a stone that
all may know where the bones of the cowardly Jonathan Sands are moldering. But
listen, all ye people, that your descendants may know the truth. Upon that
stone will appear the imprint of my raised hand, and for an eternity after your
accursed names have perished from the earth, the people will come from afar to
view the fulfillment of this prophecy and will say: ‘There lies the man who
murdered an innocent woman.’ Remember these words well, Jonathan Sands, remember
me.”
    And then terrified Aaron Merrick pulled the gag back into
place and a rough rope was tied around her neck.
    Hannah looked to the west and the blood red sun.
    It was almost done.

 
 
    *   *   *

 
    It took a while for the present to reassert itself, pushing back
the horrible other reality of Hannah’s death. I had to blot away the sweat and
tears from my cheeks.
    For one moment I had actually wished that Sands was burning
in Hell. But only for a moment. Now that I assumed there
could be some kind of spirit survival and that Hell seemed like a real
possibility for those who believed in it, I found that I couldn’t actually wish
anyone there.
    No one spoke. In fact they averted their eyes while I
restored minimal order to my makeup. Thank goodness for waterproof mascara.
    After I was calm enough, I recounted my research, not that
anyone was asking for proof.
    “Why the handprint?” Jack asked
when I was done speaking. No one expressed disbelief at what I had said.
Perhaps the sharing of all the ghost stories had softened them up to the idea
that maybe there was something beyond the veil.
    Neither brother answered, but I don’t think it was because
of ignorance. Bryson looked a little bit ashamed and sad. Everett was shut down
but there was still an angry and perhaps fearful shimmer at the back of his
eyes. If it had just been me asking out of curiosity he wouldn’t have answered,
but it wasn’t just me. And like others in the islands, he believed in ghosts.
And he knew his family’s sin.
    A distressed Harris finally answered for them.
    “It was part of the questioning,” he said softly. “They
broke the bones of her hand to force a confession—which Sands stopped when he
knew it was happening. He wasn’t the one who brought the charge of witchcraft
either.”
    “But he didn’t repudiate it either.” The suspicion lingered
that he might even have suggested to some minion that they bring the charge.
Kind of like Henry II and his “Can no one rid me of this turbulent priest?”
    “I’m so sorry, my dear. I didn’t know that you had been
troubled by her.”
    I felt ill. So Harris at least had known about her.
    “Go on. Finish it. Was I right about what happened?”
    “Well, it was that hand that she raised to God to swear her
innocence when she faced the gallows. I think some in the crowd believed her
then, but others felt that she had endangered them by leaving the island and
deserved to be punished, and still others thought all Wendovers were devil
spawn and had earned whatever happened. They also wanted to hurry the execution
because the woods were growing dark and they feared the wolves. They were
plentiful at that time.” Harris looked as grim as a one-man wake as he related
the details I hadn’t known—that she hadn’t known—about the judicial murder.
    … and he ordered that she be putt to death, the executione to be no later than fyve of the clock. There being no road in this extremity of
the wood, it was a deed witnessed only by those who came on foott …
    “What happened to her body?” I asked, wanting to hear no
more of what had been done to her. Thunder shook the house. “Did they cast her
into the sea? Leave her to the wild animals?”
    “No, but … a witch cannot be buried in consecrated ground….”
    “But