Goodwife was, and a chair was brought forward by one of the soldiers. As Goodwife was not herself accused of witchcraft it was thought safe for the lawyers to address her with questions. Higbed smiled at her. “You’ve known Mrs. Scammell many years, Goodwife?”

“I have, sir. Since she was barely walking.”

“That long? Well, well! Perhaps you can tell us about her?”

Goodwife’s litany of malice, honed by much repetition, was repeated to the tribunal. The pens scratched busily. Campion’s childish willfulness, her temper and all her small disobediences were now shown to be of devilish origin. Caleb Higbed prompted her, the pens duplicated the work of the Recording Angel and then the story was brought forward to the time of her marriage to Samuel Scammell. “Did she consent to the marriage?”

Goodwife, her red face almost hidden by a new bonnet, looked at Campion, then back to the lawyers. “Oh, yes, sir. She was fortunate. A good man, he was, better than she deserved. She said she agreed, sir, but she didn’t. Oh, no!”

“What happened?”

“She ran away, sir! Ran away! Dressed as a harlot, sir! To London. And that when she should have been in mourning for her poor father, sir, God rest his soul.”

Yet all this was but an overture to Goodwife’s grand theme, a theme she embellished wonderfully as she told of the marriage itself. She had been well coached, saying that the wedding had taken place in the legal hours between sunrise and noon, but claiming that Samuel Scammell was holding a service of celebration in his house by the Thames. “Shrieking and crying she was, sir, calling out to the devil! Calling out to the devil, as my name’s Goodwife! And he came, sir! He came!” She paused to let the horror sink in. “A head of flame, sir, fire all around, sir, and a sword in his hand. And he took her, sir, right through the flames and she was unscathed. Unscathed!”

Caleb Higbed shook his head in wonder. “You say the house was locked?”

“Tight, sir. Yet he came! The smell, sir! Oh, the smell. So long as I’ll live, sir, I won’t forget it. Brimstone and sulfur, just like the good book says, sir, and the next thing the Prince of Darkness was in the room, sir, right in the room! Killing, sir, burning, and her laughing.” A finger jabbed toward Campion. “Laughing. And that poor Reverend Boolsbie, sir, you should have seen the poor old gentleman, sir…”

Caleb Higbed held up a hand. He guessed that “Boolsbie” was Sobriety Bollsbie, a name that would not add much luster to the prosecution. “It must have been terrible for you, Goodwife, quite terrible. A cup of water?”

“Please, sir.”

The audience murmured as a cup of water was brought to Goodwife. One of the lawyers took off his spectacles and stared at Campion, shaking his head slowly.

The questioning was carried to the day of Scammell’s death. Goodwife spoke of the body soaking in blood, of Campion alone with it, and she shook her head sadly. “A big man he was, sir, and a kind man!” She sniffed. “A man of God, sir. Only that morning he prayed with us, yes, sir! He girded on his armor, sir, and he went to do battle. And in the moment of victory, sir, he was cut down! Cut down! I found them, sir, him and her, and I looked at her and I thought she was scrawny and I couldn’t see how a scrawny girl could kill a soldier of the Lord, sir, in all his armor, not unless, sir, there was a greater power in her. I thought that, sir, and then I remembered the devil coming for her, his head on fire, and I knew! I knew! I remembered all the spoiled hams, the curdled milk, and I thought of her poor dear mother’s death and the sudden death of her father and I thought of her poor dear brother’s twisted leg and I knew, sir! I fell on my knees right there, I did, and I thanked God that he had spared me. She’s a witch!”