:
Seaman John Norris staggered along the stony track that led home, but he was still only on the first leg of his journey. Dark clouds had rolled in, throwing down persistent rain. Daylight was fading, and his backpack was heavy. John stumbled and cursed. As he righted himself, he noticed a faint flicker through the hedge. Could it be lamplight in a kitchen window? He had to hope that it was. His limbs were weary and his feet were fiery with blisters. Twenty paces on, there was a muddy path leading to a small cottage. The wind gusted and howled, urging him on. He splashed up the path and knocked respectfully on the door under the thatch.
There was a shuffling inside. The door creaked open. A clear-skinned woman in a plain brown dress and white bonnet stood in the entrance, holding up a lamp to examine the wet wretch on the step.
“Come in.” It was a command, not a request. “Come in before you catch your death…”
“Thank you, thank you, Mistress!” John stepped in, holding out a small copper coin. “May I sleep in your shed or pigsty? I’ve been doing the King’s work on the high seas and I’m on my way home. But it’s a mighty long way from Pompey to Hawley―”
“I’m sure it is, and you’re welcome to the woodshed – but have something to eat first.” She took the coin and dropped it into a pouch hanging from a blue sash around her waist.
“Oh, Mistress, I can’t trouble you―”
“If you’ve been doing the King’s work, sailor boy, I’m sure that you deserve some stew and ale.”
The idea of stew and ale was delightful to his grumbling belly, but should he take it from this alluring stranger? He couldn’t think of a way to refuse the meal and take the shed. John ducked his head as he entered the kitchen, spotting curious children’s eyes on the stairs as he did so. A pot of sweet-smelling food was simmering over a welcoming fire. There was a solid old table, scored and stained, and two simple chairs.
“Sit, sailor boy.”
“But your husband will need a seat―”
“It’s my Pa’s seat and he’s been in his sick-bed many a long year.”
John unstrapped his backpack and sat down. “You’re very kind, Mistress.”
The woman removed an ale can from the fire and poured him a mugful. He took the ale, and the stew, which was remarkably meaty. In-between grateful mouthfuls, he told her all he knew about the war at sea against the French. She seemed as if she were trying to be interested, but she was looking at him more intensely than she should. John saw his hands starting to shake and grasped the seat of the chair to make them stop.
“Thank you for supper, Mistress,” he said. “But now I’d be happy to retire to your woodshed.”
The rain had eased off. As they crossed the farmyard, John’s nose picked up something distinctive, like rotten eggs, piercing through the smells of damp and animal waste. “Is that the privy?” he asked, pointing in the direction of the foul odour. There was a faint glint from the outhouse in response to the lamplight. John glimpsed chains and padlocks on the door.
“That’s a dangerous old well.” The woman muttered. “You can do yer business in the ditch behind the shed.”
John shivered at the prospect of going into the hut that the woman unlatched, but she was so reassuring.
“Come on, sailor. You’ll find it comfortable enough!”
He stepped in and shut the door. It was no woodshed. The lamp was on a small table, casting light on a small bed. The woman was on top of it, her skirts high and her legs open. John’s heart started to thump and his breaths came in short gasps as he fumbled with his clothing.
“What have you got for me in those baggy breeches, handsome sailor?” the woman cooed at him. She started to stare below his belt, and John took his chance. What he had for her was a sharp knife.
“So, this is how you do it! You steal a man’s seed, then his coin, then his life! Is that what you did to my brother?” John struggled to control his shaking hand.
The woman’s eyes were now narrow and scowling. “You’re in the wrong place! How should I know your brother!”
“Because he came this way six weeks ago, and he never made it home.”
She laughed, “He could be dead in any ditch!”
“And all the others? You’ve got greedy, woman, and the next caller will be the sheriff! Give me the keys to that wellhouse.”
The woman sat up, watching the knife, but untying her pouch. She pulled out a set of keys, wafted them towards him, but as he snatched, she pulled them away and dropped them down her bodice.
“Whoops!” She laughed. “What a shame. I’ve lost them!” Then she swept the lamp on to the floor and it sputtered out, plunging them into darkness.
John panicked. Where was she? All he could hear was her tinkling, mocking laugh. She tried to lunge past him to the door. He flailed with the knife while trying to grab with his other hand. The few seconds before his blade connected with flesh seemed like hours. She wailed, she slumped, but he knew that the knife thrust was shallow. He threw her back on to the bed, bound her with her sash, then ripped open her bodice. He wondered if he could ever enjoy a woman again, as he parted the she-devil’s fleshy breasts to clench the keys.
Tears were pouring down his cheeks as he ran to unlock the wellhouse. He couldn’t work out why he was running. The smell was scalding his nostrils, letting him know that haste was pointless.
:
:
When I lived on the south coast, my Ramblers’ group frequently walked along the Sailor’s Lane to Betty Mundy’s Bottom, a valley in the South Downs. The lane is believed to have been the main route for Royal Navy sailors returning from Portsmouth to homes in the north of Hampshire. There are a few myths about “Betty Mundy”, but the most frequently quoted by locals is that she lured sailors to their death and then threw them down an old well. This story was written to the theme “The Lost Keys”, and it is based on the legend of Betty Mundy.
