When Constable Hargreaves arrested us I was gob smacked. “Can they do you for magic then, nowadays?” I asked.
He wiped his brow and said, “Not magic. Witchcraft!” We didn’t ken the difference back then, and by the time we found out it was too late to save our Ali. But I decided if I was going to swing I’d take the Old Chattox bitch with me so I pointed the finger at her, saying Anne Whittle bade me sell my soul to the Devil. And a mighty fine yarn I span!
Our rivals live o’er at West Close in Higham. Old Chattox has two lassies – Anne Redferne and Bessie Whittle – and a grandchild called Marie. Anne’s the widow of Tom Redferne, a handsome lad cuckolded more times than I’ve had hot porridge. Bessie though, she’s plainer than milk, and no one ever came courting for that lump of lard.
Now there once was a time me and Anne Whittle were best mates, when we’d swap potions and recipes for herbals. But when she grew jealous of my reputation her wenches broke into Malkin Tower and stole all our hard-earned treasures. After that, it was war between the two clans so I told Justice Nowell a thing or two about that lot – how we’d seen them hex Christopher and Robert Nutter with our very own eyes.
They’d filched enough of my secrets to fool a good many folk in Pendle. And some would even argue that Old Chattox is wiser then me. Ha!
But afore I go on any further let me prove my powers to you. Today, wear RED for luck and see what happens.