ItIt

IIt’s About Time

“Sarah Hall, 15 years of age. Cause of death: hanging. Suicide. 28th July 1690, in the reign of His Royal Majesty King William III.” John Cook wrote his name above the word coroner and closed the file. He put the goose feather back into the ink-stained pot and pushed back his chair. “It’s the third case this month…,” he said shaking his head “…and all the victims are so very young, what a waste!”

“Yes, ever since we gave refuge to the Huguenots, the local weavers have been facing hard times,” landlord Joseph Moore said with a glance at the vicar’s empty glass. “The war in our colonies only added to this misery. Quite a few parishioners forget what is due to the Lord and put their bodily wellbeing over the wellbeing of their souls.”

The vicar nodded his head in agreement and the landlord quickly filled up the pious man’s glass, before the vicar could object.

“Another suicide, tragic for sure, but it’s a mouth less to feed for the weavers. Let’s forget about it. Come and join me in the bar for glass of the landlord’s finest.” Magistrate Absolon rose and pushed his bulk through the crowd of witnesses.

“There are four more children in the Hall family. Heaven knows, how the poor people find the money to feed their little ones.” John Cook put the file into his black leather bag and stared after the magistrate.

“I must admit, little Sarah’s suicide does come as a bit of a shock,” the landlord said. “Rumour has it she had a found a good situation in Seething Manor’s kitchens. On Sunday she came to church. Right at the very back she stood whispering with young John Inman, you know, the son of John Inman Senior, a loudmouthed resident of Parmentergate.” Joseph glanced hopefully at the coroner. “A drop of our finest ale before you go, Sir?”

“No thank you, Joseph, not today. I’ve got to go to the harbour; Captain Bradley reported an accident on board the Good Intent. One of his crew seems to have broken a leg.” John Cook absentmindedly ran his fingers through his blonde hair, put his black hat on his head and took his walking stick. “Tell me Joseph, wasn’t Sarah Hall friends with young Rob Palmer, the boy we buried only last week?”