The Hanging Tree A Historical Mystery By Irina Shapiro Copyright © 2021 by Irina Shapiro All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the author. All characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people (except those who are actual historical figures) are purely coincidental. Table of Contents Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Journal Entry Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Journal entry Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Journal Entry Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Journal Entry Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Journal Entry Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Journal Entry Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Journal Entry Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Journal Entry Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Journal Entry Chapter 60 Journal Entry Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Journal Entry Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Epilogue An Excerpt from The Lovers Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Prologue The morning dawned gray and cold, gauzy ribbons of mist wrapping themselves around tree trunks, pooling in hollows, and shrouding the brilliant colors of autumn in a gossamer web. The normally vibrant landscape lay dull and eerily silent. Even the horse seemed unnerved, its ears pressed back, its eyes sliding from side to side, looking out for hidden danger. The freshly sawn pine of the coffin glistened with moisture, the rectangular box lying in wait in the wagon bed. The young woman shivered, more with fear than cold, her eyes huge with terror, her gaze fixed on the noose hanging from the lowest branch of the massive oak. The noose swayed gently, the rope nearly as thick as her thin white neck. The woman looked from one man to the next, searching for a glimmer of sympathy or a weakening of resolve, but all she saw were hard, unyielding faces, the mouths pressed into thin lines of derision. They seemed impatient to be done with their distasteful task, eager to return to the welcoming warmth of their homes, where they could enjoy a hearty breakfast after the morning’s work. The white linen of the woman’s shift looked stark against the black tree trunk, her face a pale oval in the half-light of the autumn dawn, her bare feet bluish with cold as they sank into the quilt of fallen leaves. She blinked as the minister read the charge, her breath catching in anticipation of what was to come. “Alys Bailey, you have been found guilty of witchcraft. The sentence for practicing the dark arts is death by hanging.” The young woman let out a howl of desperation as a strong hand closed around her upper arm, dragging her toward the inevitable conclusion of this pantomime of justice. The last thing she saw as the noose tightened around her neck was a dark shape in the manor’s ground-floor window, and she knew it to be that of her true executioner. Chapter 1 Nicole I leaned forward, my shoulders tense, my spine stiff, my heart fluttering in my chest like a trapped bird. I had never suffered from claustrophobia, but the dense woodland that formed a dark tunnel around the narrow country lane suddenly unnerved me, making me feel as if I couldn’t breathe. The cabbie was an older man with thick shoulders and an almost nonexistent neck who hadn’t said much since picking me up at the station in Chesterfield. Our eyes met in the rearview mirror, and he smiled reassuringly, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “Don’t fret, love. It’s not far now,” he said. “I didn’t realize Lockwood Hall was so far from civilization,” I said, thinking back to the lovely pictures I’d pored over on the website for the writers’ retreat. The house was surrounded by extensive gardens and woods and only half a mile from the peaceful shores of the Ladybower Reservoir, but I’d assumed it was within walking distance of the nearest village or town. It wasn’t. “It didn’t used to be,” the man said, his expression souring. “How do you mean?” That was all the encouragement he needed to start talking, obviously relishing his role as tour guide. “Well, you see, there was a village just near here until the middle of the twentieth century—Ashcombe, it was called. My parents were born there. It wasn’t a big village, mind, but it was a thriving community in its day. And there were several other villages a bit further on.” He made a gesture with his hand, pointing toward where the villages must have lain. “What happened to them?” I asked, my interest piqued. “The government is what happened,” the driver said bitterly. “Word came down that they’d voted to create a reservoir, so the valley was flooded, the villages intentionally drowned.” “What became of the residents?” I asked. “They were relocated, which sounds a lot nicer than saying they were evicted from their homes and forced to move, the bones of their ancestors dug up and haphazardly reburied in a plot of land designated by the powers that be, away from the place where they’d lived and died for generations.” I nodded. Of course, I’d heard of such things. Forced relocation for the greater good. Most folk were offered comparable housing or something better than what they’d had, but it was the lack of choice they found galling and, in some instances, traumatic. Some people might not have much, but they had their history and their pride, and they’d never forget what was done
