1752: Transcript of Police Interview: The Cook of the Blandy Household, February
Place: Oxfordshire Magistrates’ Hall
Interrogator: Pray, woman, relate unto this Honourable Court all thou knowest concerning the late Mr. Francis Blandy’s demise and the conduct of his daughter, Mary Blandy.
Cook: Ah! The dread of devils and the thin path of love, your Worship! I, Susan Pepperpot, servant in the kitchen and scourge of the scullery, have borne the everlasting heat of that cursed house. Where love curdled to venom and barren souls walked like ghosts.
Interrogator: Speak plainly, woman. What witnessed thou?
Cook: What have I not witnessed, poor thing? Pebbles that are not what they seem, sir! And that sweet master, a gentleman most courteous, yet struck down, as if by wicked spells or poison drawn from Hell’s own cauldron.
Interrogator: Poison, sayest thou? Do speak more of this.
Cook: ’Tis whispered that Mistress Mary did mix powders in his gruel and tea—disguised art they were, surely! For who but a barren woman driven by secret magics would plot against her own blood? I cannot rightly tell, for my scullery maid is a simple fool, oft knocking pots awry and saying nonsense, so I take her words with salt. Yet I have seen Mary close to the kitchen with a small vial and strange powder, more times than twelve, my lord.
Interrogator: Is it true that this powder was found to be arsenic?
Cook: Arsenic? The apothecary smelled something foul and bitter, like the sting of a serpent ’twixt teeth. The powder burned like fire, and several servants fell ill after tasting vittles from the household. It was not natural, I assure thee.
Interrogator: What thinkest thou of Mary Blandy herself?
Cook: A troubled bird trapped in a gilded cage! She flitted between smiling and sorrow, as if bewitched herself. I think she might have done strange things, for I saw her oft whispering with that Captain Cranstoun, a gay man yet tangled in webs of love and wickedness.
Interrogator: Hast thou any proof or witness beyond thy word?
Cook: ’Tis my word, and the folly of my scullery maid, who once sought to burn letters and powder in the great kitchen hearth. I snatched them from the flame—foolish wench! She knows nothing, God bless her simple heart.
Interrogator: Was her relationship with her father strained?
Cook: The master was kind, a man of gentle spirit, full of good humour and charity—even when ill. But Mistress Mary, sweet as she seemed, bore burdens heavy as lead; I fear her soul was lost in dreams of devils and broken promises.
Interrogator: Anything else of note?
Cook: Only this: the plight of a cook in such a house is to see shadows where men see light. Beware the powder and potions, the love that quickens like flame but burns like hellfire. Mistress Mary did walk a crooked path, yet who’s to say if ’twas wicked witchcraft or sorrow’s sharp dagger?
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