by George Mann
* * *
“Whoa! Steady now!”
Daisy smiled gratefully at the dark-haired young man who leapt up from his seat to catch hold of the tottering stack of teacups she was in the process of dropping, after she’d been forced to hastily sidestep an octogenarian who’d pushed his chair back into her path without any hint of a warning.
He steadied the tower on the tray, and then met her eye, grinning broadly. “That could have been a disaster.”
Daisy laughed. “Yes. Thanks. You were quick off the mark.”
The man shrugged. “Always happy to help a lady in need.” He returned to his seat amidst a ripple of applause from the people at the nearby tables, and Daisy carried on her path towards the kitchen. Christian, who’d seen the whole thing from his position over by the till, made a beeline to intercept her.
“Here, let me help you.” He scooped up an armful of teacups and pushed the kitchen door open with his foot, so she could pass.
“Thanks, Christian.”
“No problem.” He followed her into the kitchen and set the dirty crockery down beside the sink. There was no one else around. “You need to watch out for people like that,” he said, lowering his voice.
“Like what? The old man who nearly sent me flying?”
“Like that fella out there, the one who was so keen to try to rescue you.”
Daisy sighed. “He was only trying to help, Christian.”
“I saw the look in his eye. He had other things on his mind. I’m just trying to say – you’re a pretty girl, you need to be careful. I don’t think you realise what men are really like.” He wouldn’t meet her eye, picking at his fingernail as he spoke. He looked a little lost, like a boy at school trying to hold an awkward conversation with a girl. He’d been like this as long as she’d known him. It was as if he’d never quite managed to shed the gawkiness of his teen years. The two of them had never really grown close, despite living under the same roof for a while, and both spending time in Sally’s orbit. Daisy had tried, but he’d maintained a cultivated reserve, and she supposed that was just how he was, and that perhaps he’d seen her as a bit of an interloper, impinging on his relationship with his mum. For years it had just been the two of them, him and Sally, and then Daisy had been thrown into the mix and perhaps he’d seen her as a bit of a third wheel. She knew he was fond of her in his own way, though – and fiercely protective, just like he was with his mum.
“Not everyone’s like Nicholas Abbott, you know. You don’t have to worry so much. I can look after myself.”
She saw him wince at the sound of the other man’s name. “No, no. I suppose not. We’re not all like that.” He looked up, then, meeting her eye. The moment stretched.
“Look, I’d better be getting back. We’ve left Sally to cope on her own.”
Christian gave a dismissive shrug. “She’ll be okay for a moment. Take a breather. You nearly had an accident just then. Let me fetch you a glass of water.” He fetched a glass tumbler and ran the water for a moment, then filled it and passed it to her. “Here.”
“Thanks.” She drank it down.
“You and I should stick together, you know. I’ve been thinking – we’re similar, in many ways. We’ve both lost people…” He looked away again, returning his attention to the hangnail on his left thumb.
“Is there something on your mind? Something you want to talk about?” said Daisy. There’d been a few moments like this in recent weeks, strange little asides, comments that suggested he wanted to say more.
“No, no. I’m fine,” said Christian. “It’s you I was worried about. I know how upset you’d have been if you’d dropped all of those teacups.”
“Well, thankfully that nice man was there to make sure I didn’t,” said Daisy. She set her empty glass down on the work surface. “Now I really should be getting back to work.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“So, what are we looking at?” said Elspeth. “Besides a skeleton, I mean.”
Jennifer Wren grinned, and it was an expression of pure and unabashed glee. She was bristling with excitement, and it was utterly infectious. Elspeth could feel herself getting drawn in. “We’ll have to excavate properly. We’ll be erecting a tent in a short while to protect the site from the elements. But it’s likely this is the grave of Agnes Levett.”
“How can you be sure?” To Elspeth, it looked very much like a muddy depression with a few jagged bones poking out. The weight of the stone had pressed everything into the soft earth, reminding her of when she’d played with modelling clay as a child, how it had oozed when she’d hidden copper coins inside the pots to dig out later.
“The skeleton is remarkably well preserved, considering,” said Jenny. She stepped down into the depression. “See here. The body was still relatively intact when it was moved and re-interred. And here, these are the remains of witch bottles – jugs or pots stuffed with hair and believed to counter the witch’s curse.”
Elspeth studied the bones, trying to see whatever Jenny was seeing. The skull was looking straight up at them, its jaw hinged open in a silent scream. The mud and the passing years had caused the bones to discolour, too, mottling them with yellows and browns, which made it appear to Elspeth as if there were still remnants of flesh and blood and other organic matter clinging resolutely to the remains. It didn’t help that the wind was blowing in the stink from a nearby farmer’s field, leaving Elspeth with the distinct impression that the grave still smelled of rot and decay. Something about the sight of the bones, still here, in situ, left her with a sharp feeling of disquiet.
It wasn’t like seeing bones in a museum, where they’d been cleaned and presented as part of an exhibition, a story, with little information cards, or like finding a recently deceased body – which she knew from bitter experience. It was more like looking in on someone sleeping, like somehow invading their privacy, and she felt both privileged and uneasy to be a part of it.
“So the villagers placed these witch bottles in here with her corpse?” She took out her phone and grabbed a few pictures. Most of them had been reduced to jagged fragments, their contents now little more than discoloured patches, exposed to the light for the first time in centuries.
“I’d assume so, yes. Charms, of a sort, to keep her evil spirit at bay.” Jenny straightened up, rubbing her lower back with a groan. “Archaeology. It’s a real back killer.”
“I empathise. Being chained to a desk isn’t much good for my neck,” said Elspeth, unconsciously rubbing the sore spot between her shoulder blades. It was one of the reasons she was enjoying getting out and about so much, digging up stories to sell to a growing portfolio of newspapers and online news sites. She supposed, in some ways, her job and Jenny’s weren’t that different – both of them were looking to uncover the truth, digging down through layers of obfuscation and assumption to get to the real story. And both of them seemed to include bodies. She’d certainly never expected that.
“Have you excavated anything like this before?” said Elspeth.
“Never quite like this, lifting a witch stone and all. I know of others, but it’s a pretty rare opportunity,” said Jenny.
“But you’ve examined the graves of other so-called witches?”
Jenny shrugged. “A couple. Sadly, most of those poor women were buried in unmarked graves and are lost to us now. It’s all pretty shameful.”
“And you’ve never worried about a curse?” said Elspeth. “I mean, the villagers obviously believed it. Their witch bottles are surely evidence of that. Have the locals had much to say about the dig?”
Jenny smiled. “One or two of them cling on to their superstitions, I suppose. Most of them recognise the truth – that Agnes was most likely the victim in all this. They like to play along, though. You’ve seen this village – the trinkets they sell in the café, the fuss they make about the fayre. Agnes – or rather, the caricature that’s been painted of her – is the story of this place.”
“So you think they’re clinging
on to her out of a desire to hold on to a tourist attraction?”
“No, nothing so cynical as that,” said Jenny. “I think they’re worried that the dig is going to show everyone the truth – that Agnes was just another victim, a woman who was tried and executed as a witch, along with hundreds of others. Let’s face it, we all know that’s what I’m going to uncover here, and it’s a lot more mundane than the stories that have sprung up around her, isn’t it? I think it’s high time this woman’s dignity was restored to her. She needs to be seen for the victim she is. Even if she was responsible for the death of another woman, we don’t know the circumstances. History has already found her guilty, but the truth is likely to be far less salacious. I think that’s what people are afraid of, whether they realise it or not. People don’t like change, and they cling to their traditions. If there’s no witch, what does that mean for Hallowdene?”
“You don’t believe that Agnes committed the crimes she’s accused of, then?”
“I didn’t say that. She might well have committed murder. But to what end… I don’t know. That’s the real story, here, the one you should be writing about. What did Agnes really do, and why? Because one thing’s for certain – she was no witch, and she died a horrific death because people were scared.” Jenny held out her arm. “Give us a hand up, would you?”
Elspeth obliged, clasping the other woman by the arm and helping to heave her up over the lip of the depression. They walked together, back towards a small tent on the other side of the field. Here, a couple of trestle tables had been laid out, ready to receive the finds as they were removed from the grave.
“There’s nothing in any of the material I’ve read – and it’s admittedly scant – to suggest that Agnes Levett actually committed that murder. She was found with the body, yes, and there’s reference to ‘pagan symbols’, but how are we to know what she was trying to do, three hundred-odd years later?”
“If I’m understanding you right, you’re saying your aim here is to set the record straight? To prove that Agnes wasn’t really a witch or a killer?” said Elspeth.
“Oh, nothing so grand as all that,” replied Jenny, laughing. “I don’t think anyone really believes she was a witch, do you? My job is to lay out the facts, just as I find them in the grave. It’s a fascinating insight into village life in the seventeenth century, and the witch trials that took place all across the country. Those little witch bottles, for example – they may be unique to this case, this situation. Isn’t that exciting enough?”
“I suppose it is, yes,” said Elspeth. “Okay, last question. Why now? People have told stories about the Hallowdene Witch buried under the stone for hundreds of years. Why choose now to excavate and try to find her?”
“That’s easy,” said Jenny. “It’s all down to Hugh.”
“Walsey?”
“Yes. The previous owners, the Abbotts, would never allow anyone to dig. It’s as simple as that. People have been trying for years, but every time they asked, the Abbotts would shut them down. Now that Hugh’s bought the house, things are a little different. He’s got plans, wants to develop the land, so he had to bring us in. Besides, it’s all good publicity for his venture, too. And for the village.”
“And what is his venture?” asked Elspeth. She had visions of one of those enormous outlet malls, or a garden centre or housing estate suddenly springing up to mar the landscape and continue the slow march of homogenisation across the country.
“You’ll have to ask him. Something to do with books, I think,” said Jenny.
“Books…” Elspeth perked up at the thought. Maybe she’d misjudged the man after all. “Well, thanks for your time,” she said. “A photographer from the paper will be along later to get some proper pictures, if that’s okay?”
“I’ll be sure to show them my best side,” said Jenny, grinning. Elspeth felt herself warming to the woman. She appreciated the no-nonsense approach, the fact that Jenny was there to do a job, and didn’t want to wrap it all in airs and graces.
“Oh, and I’ve got to ask – I presume your parents were Dickens fans?”
Jenny groaned. “You can’t imagine what I went through as a child!”
Elspeth laughed. “I’ll give you a call if I have any more questions.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The sun was low in the sky as Elspeth traipsed up the long driveway towards Hallowdene Manor.
The house was a glorious gothic mansion, partially fortified, with crenellations running around the lip of the roof and a small tower – complete with arrow slits – which had clearly been added sometime after the main building’s initial erection. Elspeth supposed these additions were an affectation of previous generations of the Abbott family, but regardless, they added something spectacular to what was already a rather grand and impressive house. She’d read that parts of the building dated back to the early seventeenth century, but that it had been extensively remodelled during the Gothic Revival of the nineteenth century.
Now, it was encrusted with all the trappings of modernity – CCTV cameras, burglar alarms, reinforced windows, and floodlights. Through one of the large bay windows she could see the flicker of a massive TV, and where once horse-drawn carriages might have stood on the gravel forecourt, now there was a top-of-the-range BMW, and a Range Rover. She suspected there were other cars tucked away in the garages, too.
Still, whoever was in the process of modernising the building was doing so sensitively. The grotesques still loomed over the main entrance, and years of accumulated ivy still crawled over the brickwork, lending the place an authentic, rural charm. It was picturesque, and very appealing.
Elspeth approached the main entrance, conscious of the state of her boots, which were thickly encrusted with mud. She’d walked up here from the dig site, rather than heading back down to the road to collect her car. Now, she couldn’t help thinking that was a bad idea.
The front door – an ancient, iron-banded construction of heavy wood, mottled with age – stood open, revealing the passageway within. The walls here seemed to lean outward, the wood panelling warped and uneven, giving the place a strange, organic feel. The floor was flagstone, and an ancient side table stood against one wall, bearing a telephone and a heap of papers. A cable modem sat beside the phone, lights blinking incongruously. Beyond that, she could see the sweeping balustrade of a grand staircase leading up from the larger hall.
Elspeth hovered on the threshold for a moment, unsure whether to go in. She’d agreed with Hugh Walsey to come up to the house after she’d finished at the dig, but she didn’t want to intrude. She considered using the large cast-iron knocker in the shape of a lion’s head on the door, but it looked as though it was there for decorative purposes, rather than practical use.
After a moment of searching, she located a small plastic box on the outer wall, and pushed the button. She heard an electronic bell trilling inside, and then a burst of static issued from the box, followed by Hugh Walsey’s echoing voice. “Yes, who is it?”
“Elspeth Reeves,” she said. “About the dig.”
“Ah, yes, come on in,” said Walsey. “I’ll meet you in the hall.”
“Shall I take my boots off? I’ve been down at the dig,” she called.
“If you don’t mind,” replied Walsey.
Feeling less like a snoop, Elspeth entered the house, kicking off her boots just inside the door, where she found a heap of other, similarly encrusted footwear.
Inside, the building was gloomily lit, the only light filtering down through a large stained-glass window at the top of the landing. Red, gold and blue formed a shimmering pattern on the polished floorboards. The window itself was beautifully crafted, and must have dated back to the creation of the house. It appeared to depict a scene of an archangel descending from the heavens, surrounded by a flock of cherubs heralding its arrival with thin-necked horns.
“Stunning, isn’t it?”
She turned at the voice to see Walsey watching her, a look of wry amusement
on his face.
“Sometimes I stand just where you are, at the foot of the stairs, and look up at that window, and think to myself ‘how did I end up here?’” He sounded genuinely moved.
“It’s a beautiful house,” said Elspeth. She could see why he was so in love with the place.
“Ever since I was a child, I’ve dreamed of living here,” he said. “I used to sneak into the grounds with my friends to play hide and seek. The Abbotts had a groundsman who would chase us away if he caught us, but we knew just where to hide to avoid him. We’d run through the fields, hide in the sheds, climb the trees to pinch apples, and sometimes even come right up to the house to peer in through the windows.” He laughed. “Once I even plucked up the courage to sneak in.” He looked scandalised. “Can you imagine? At the time it seemed as if I had no choice, even though I knew it was wrong. I just had to see inside, like it was calling to me. I know that seems strange. But that’s what it felt like.
“The door was standing open, like it is now, and I went right up to it, standing on the threshold, peering in. And then, before I knew what I was doing, I was creeping down the hallway. I could hear voices down there, in the sitting room, but I carried on regardless. I didn’t even think about getting caught. I just kept on going, until I found myself right here, standing just where you are now, looking up at that magnificent window. And that’s the moment I knew I had to live here someday.”
Elspeth realised that she’d been completely caught up in his story. “Is that true?”
“Every word of it,” said Walsey, with a wistful smile.
“And did they catch you?”
“No, no. I legged it when I heard someone coming out into the hall. They saw me, came chasing after me, but they can’t have recognised me, because nothing was ever said. For days afterwards I kept on expecting a knock at the door, a scolding from my parents, even the police, but nothing. I didn’t set foot inside again, though, until I came to make arrangements for the purchase from Nicholas Abbott earlier this year.”