That evening he came into our bar-parlour as calm as though nothing had happened. I had begged the customers not to say anything about the affair to him, and they didn’t. But just as I thought everything was all right he startled everybody by saying that he was going to wait for the witch at midnight, and rid the place of her.
“Harry,” I said to my husband in a whisper, “you must see Mr. Gwillam home, and don’t leave him till he’s safe in his own house. He isn’t fit to be trusted alone. He’ll murder that old woman, or some awful thing.”
So Harry went home with him that evening, and saw him safe indoors, and told his wife to look after him; but we all agreed that he ought to be watched, or something dreadful would happen, as he’d evidently got the witch on his mind.
But before anything was done, a most extraordinary thing happened. One morning soon after the trial, the neighbours noticed that there was no smoke coming out of Dame Trueman’s chimney. They thought it odd, as she was generally up and her fire alight very early. About twelve o’clock a young woman, who, it seems, had an appointment with her to get a charm for her lover, who was going to sea, called at the house, and knocked at the door, but couldn’t make anybody hear. Some people saw her knocking, and getting no answer, and made up their minds something was wrong, so they went and forced the door open.
“When they got inside all was quite still. They called out, but got no answer. One of them then went into the kitchen and gave a cry of horror. There, on the hearth, by a fire that had gone out, lay something that looked like a heap of cinders. And walking round and round the heap was a black cat with three white hairs on its breast.
The heap of cinders was old Dame Trueman. The witch was dead. It was supposed that she fell forward in a fit of some sort into the fire, and her clothes caught, and that she was burned to death on the hearth. Nothing else had caught light from the flames, as the kitchen was all paved with bricks.
That was the end of “our witch,” and a very awful end it was, and a nice sensation it made in the village. Of course she wasn’t a witch; but I’m afraid she was a very wicked old woman, and was quite willing to be thought to be able to cast spells, because she made money by it.
When her house was searched, over a hundred pounds was found concealed in different places. The black cat disappeared the day she was found dead, and nobody ever saw it again.
I know there are lots of London people who will think that I am like the customers in our smoke-room, and that I have exaggerated; but I have not. I have just told you the true story of our village witch—and I can show you the county paper with the account in it of Mr. Gwillam’s trial for beating her; and the very words he said about the walking toad are in it.
After the witch was dead, Mr. Gwillam seemed to get better; but to the last he persisted that it was his killing the toad that had brought about the old woman’s death. It was one of her “familiars,” and he had slain her in slaying that. Nobody attempted to argue with him on the question. He didn’t come to our place very long afterwards, because he got an idea that whenever he went out he was followed by a shadow, and if ever the shadow overtook him it would kill him; so his wife had a man to look after him and go about with him, who was really his keeper, and he was never brought out after dark. Poor gentleman, I have no doubt it was all the result of his tumbling off the ladder on to his head before he retired from business.