She cleared her throat and began to record. As she stood before the placard, she ran a finger across the engraved names of the women.
“Here is a marker commemorating the last four women hanged in the UK for witchcraft: Temperance Lloyd, Susannah Edwards, Mary Trembles, and Alice Molland. The women were tried and found guilty here and hanged at the Heavitree Gallows. Afterward, their bones were buried in unconsecrated ground. Where, you might ask?” She dramatically pointed straight down. “Supposedly right here at the Exeter, beneath the car park at St. Luke’s campus. I hope to confirm this in the year ahead. So join me. Hit the follow button and let’s dig into this together!”
She cut off the recording and sighed. “That should do. I’ll add some captions and music once we’re back at the flat.”
Sharyn frowned at the plaque. “Was that all true? About these women—”
“You meanwitches,” Tag reminded her, tapping his cane on the sign.
Sharyn frowned at him. “Who were no doubt innocent of those accusations.”
“Ah, but all four womenconfessedto be witches.”
“I’m sure they did. Under duress. A forced admission.”
Tag shrugged. “Records suggest otherwise. Temperance Lloyd was accused of casting a hex that sickened a local shopkeeper. Others came forward with similar incriminations, along with wild talk of communing with the devil. Eventually, Lloyd confessed. Even the day she was hanged, she continued to assert that the devil forced her hand. The other women were similarly accused and were tied to Lloyd’s actions.”
Sharyn turned to Naomi. “And their bodies are buried on our campus? Were you making that part up?”
“That’s what’s believed and what I hope to confirm. This winter, I’ll bring in ground-penetrating radar and search for any evidence of a mass grave. Once verified, I hope to set up a dig site in the spring. I’ll make it part of my doctoral thesis on urban archaeology.”
“Above and beyond that,” Tag said, “if their bones are discovered, those women deserve a proper burial. I’ve also read they were interred with their journals, which reportedly contained recipes for herbal brews and potions. If the books were preserved in an adequate manner, it might offer great insight into early folklore and medicine?”
Sharyn stared between her two roommates, grasping the reason behind this pilgrimage. The trip here was plainly tied to their own particular interests.
But not mine.
She studied her roommates, whose eyes glowed with a matching avidness. She had no interest in digging up bones or divining the medicinal mysteries buried in moldering journals of disparaged women.
Instead, she simply loved libraries. The smell of dusty shelves, the lingering hint of resin from leatherbound texts. But mostly, it was the secrets buried in faded ink that captivated her. Her primary interest in traveling to England had been to gain access to the university’s growing archive of ancient texts, some dating back to the Dark Ages. Many of them were said to be richly illuminated with stunning art that had not seen the light of day in centuries.
The latter was the center of her own academic interest. With her minor in art history, she wanted to work on a thesis pertaining to medieval illuminated manuscripts. Yet, the exact direction of her pursuit still escaped her.
I just need to find the proper approach.
She hoped to discover that path during her time here. A year ago, she had read how Exeter’s new program had garnered donations of rare texts pertaining to magic and the occult, everything from alchemical treatises to monastic doctrines, even encrypted works that had yet to be deciphered.
She knew that somewhere in those stacks had to be the answer that had troubled her since she had graduated.
Where do I go next in my career... and my life?
Naomi offered a more immediate answer to this question. She nudged Tag. “We should head back, but first we promised to show our new American friend where to find the best coffee in Exeter.”
“And doughnuts,” Sharyn reminded them pointedly.
“Come!” Tag turned and thrust his cane forward like a call to arms. “Off to the Toadstool!”
Sharyn shook her head at the nickname for the establishment, which was actually called the Toad on a Stool. But considering its proximity to this marker and the program they were enrolled in, the name seemed apropos.
Naomi hooked an arm around her waist. “Let’s get you properly caffeinated and carbo-loaded before we return to campus.”
Having paid homage to the witches, the trio set off. Shortly thereafter, the weather proved to be as fickle as her father’s moods, going from sunny and pleasant to dark and windswept. A low layer of clouds rolled in from the nearby river, propelled by a drizzling rain. By now, they had entered a warren of narrow streets, lined with cobbles. It was as if the trio had turned a corner and ended up falling into the medieval past.
“The café is not far,” Tag promised, ducking from the wind and wet. “And besides the excellent espresso, the barista is a sight to behold. While sadly he does not bend in my direction, a man can certainly look on with appreciation.”
“Tag is not wrong,” Naomi said. “I find myself tipping far too generously when he’s working.”
Despite such appeals, Sharyn considered skipping the detour. The weather made her ill at ease. As did the story of the four persecuted women. Instead, she longed to return to the university library, to ensconce herself among its stacks. After her difficult childhood—where danger was only an empty bottle away—the quiet of a library offered a steadfast measure of security and contentedness.
