Another woman, perhaps in her 40s, hair streaming from beneath a filthy bonnet, appeared behind the crone.
‘We have not called on your services,’ she said. ‘Leave us be.’
‘Know you not who I am?’ asked the witchfinder in sonorous tones.
‘Indeed I do not. Good day.’
He stepped between the women and the door, holding up his hand.
‘I have a warrant for the arrest of all who dwell here, on charges of witchcraft.’
The crone wailed deeply, then flung her hands over her mouth.
‘Come out, one and all.’
Curious villagers had gathered by the fence to observe the sorry little group of women who emerged from their smoky hut.
Three elderly, one younger, and one … Oh. Evie. The girl who had danced by the fire in his earlier dream.
‘Not her,’ he found himself saying, urgently, to the witchfinder. ‘She is not one of them. They seek to take her soul, but it is still intact.’
As before, the witchfinder brushed his words aside.
‘She must be tested. She dwells in a coven, Reverend.’
‘I will attend the testing.’
‘No, that is not necessary. I shall take them to the manor house where I am staying and conduct my enquiry there.’
Adam followed the witchfinder and his mournful victims to the manor house, but he was not permitted past the gates, which were fastened firmly against him.
Evie looked over her shoulder at him as she trooped up the path at the back of the line, eyes wide and frightened.
He clutched at the gate bars.
He had to save her, even if it meant risking his own skin.
Looking back to make sure nobody could stop him, he climbed over the gate.
Adam woke up in a cold sweat.
Evie’s grandmother.
Tomorrow, he would visit Evie’s grandmother.
Honeysuckle Cottage showed more signs of life than it had done on his last visit.
The curtains were open and the postage stamp-sized lawn had been mowed.
Adam’s determined rap at the door was quickly answered by a dopy-looking man in glasses. The insurance salesman from Parham, no doubt.
‘Vicar?’ he said, squinting. ‘Collecting for something? Only I’m all out of cash.’
‘No, no. I was wondering if your, uh, your good lady was in?’
He laughed rumbustiously at that.
‘Don’t think I’ve got one of those, vicar. But if you mean my wife, she’s out the back. Just a moment.’
He turned and called out along the passageway.
‘Lyn!’
Lyn, thought Adam, not Evie, or Eve or whatever.
The woman who came to the door could not possibly have been Evie’s grandmother. She looked no older than forty, her hair big and bouffant and her face reminiscent of Sophia Loren’s, with dark almond eyes and feline cheekbones.
‘A man of the cloth,’ she said huskily. ‘We are honoured. Do come in.’
Insurance-man peeled off into a side room while Adam followed Lyn along a narrow passageway to a sunny back kitchen, considerably more pleasant than that of her daughter-in-law at the farm.
‘Do excuse me, I’ve just been baking. Hence the apron. Do you like walnut and banana loaf?’
‘Oh, I’ve just had breakfast, thank you.’
‘But you’ll have a cup of tea, won’t you?’
‘Thank you. That would be – nice.’
He took the seat she offered at a neatly laid kitchen table.
‘It’s a long time since I had any dealings with a vicar,’ said Lyn conversationally, plugging in the kettle and taking mugs from a tree.
‘You weren’t married in the village church then?’
‘Dear me, no. Register office job. Second marriage for both of us, you see.’
‘You’re divorced from Mr Witts?’
She turned around and stared at him, perfectly plucked eyebrows raised.
‘Mr Witts is dead this nine years come September. Why would you mention him?’
‘I know you’re Evie Witts’ grandmother. I’ve come to talk to you about her.’
Lyn poured boiling water into the teapot with expert care, then put on the lid and the cosy and placed it on the table.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know you’ve been taking an interest in our Evie.’
Her lush lips were pursed, pressing layers of high-shine gloss together.
‘A pastoral interest.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘She is a –’ He halted, casting around for something that wouldn’t sound lecherous. ‘A very interesting young woman.’
‘Yes, she is.’ Lyn poured the tea. ‘Interesting and talented and, what’s more, what’s everything in this world, she’s free.’
‘Her mother says you’ve always been close.’
‘That’s right. She’s the apple of my eye. I won’t hear a word said against her, vicar, so –’
‘I haven’t come here to speak ill of her. Not at all. But I wonder what has made her what she is.’
‘That’s easily answered, vicar. It’s her blood. She’s an enchantress who can captivate men and women alike with a click of her fingers. It’s hard to believe, looking at me now, but I used to be like that.’
‘Not hard to believe at all,’ said Adam truthfully.
‘Well, bless your gallantry, but all that’s behind me now. I live peacefully and I keep myself to myself. Ken and I appreciate our quiet life.’
‘While Evie’s taken on the carnival and chaos that you bequeathed her.’
‘I can’t make bequests,’ snapped Lyn. ‘I’m not dead.’
‘All the same, Evie’s proclivities seem to have skipped over a generation, directly from you to her. Lyn, don’t you think she’s damaging herself? Don’t you worry that she’ll – burn out?’
‘Better to burn out than fade away,’ quoted Lyn snarkily. ‘Our Evie’s a beautiful beacon of light in this world. If she chooses to spread that light around, good for her. That’s what I say.’
‘But …’
‘But nothing, vicar. It’s perfectly plain what your agenda is. You’re besotted with her and you want to snatch her from the world and hide her away. Just like … Oh, never mind.’
‘Just like who?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Have you finished that tea? I’ve got to go to Parham for an eye appointment.’
‘You misunderstand my intentions –’
‘Ken! Have we got petrol in the car?’
Adam conceded defeat, drained the tea, made polite goodbyes and left under the baleful eye of Lyn.
Julia Shields almost fell through the open door of the post office as he passed.
‘Mr Flint!’ she barked at him, rustling her copy of the local newspaper. ‘Did you know about this?’
‘About …?’ He took the paper off her. “Reversal of Fortunes”, he read. “Ancient manor house used as pornographic film set”. Underneath was a condensation of Trevelyan’s article for a top-shelf magazine, leaving out anything unsuitable for a “family newspaper” but still somehow managing to be heavy on the salacious detail.
‘That little bugger,’ seethed Julia. ‘He duped me and used my tip-off to get himself a nasty little reputation in the seedy film industry. If I ever see him again I’ll …’
‘You’ve got your publicity,’ Adam pointed out.
‘And where were you when all this – filth – was going on? I thought you went there with him.’
‘Oh, I just kept watch by the wall,’ said Adam hastily. ‘Didn’t see a thing. Had no idea what he got up to in there.’
‘It’s not good enough. Not at all good enough.’
She accompanied him down the lane, brooding all the while, until they reached the lych gate.
‘I don’t know about raffles and suchlike,’ she said abruptly, her eye caught by Adam’s bright red advertising poster. ‘But what you should organise is a day trip.’
�
��A day trip?’
‘Yes, you know. Take the villagers back to the old days of the charabanc to the seaside. They’re always reminiscing about that kind of thing.’
‘An excursion?’
‘Yes. You can get them to sing a few hymns on the coach, just to keep the God angle in there. Set them loose on the candyfloss and cheap beer while you listen to the Sally Ann band on the seafront. Doesn’t that sound like a good plan?’
‘Actually … It does. I like it. Thank you, Julia.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
The screams guided his footsteps, drawing him through the darkened house towards the back.
Adam knew, even in his dream, that he was looking for Evie, to save her. If he didn’t find her soon, she faced the noose, or worse.
At the end of the passageway, candlelight issued from a half-open door, but it was no welcome glow. Instead it was a sickly yellow thing, redolent of torture and suffering. The stench of sweat and blood and burning flesh assaulted his nostrils as he put his hand on the door and, steeling himself, pushed.
The witchfinder stood with his back to him, in his hand a long red-hot poker. The oldest crone lay insensible on the floor while the other two wept in each other’s arms in a corner.
Evangeline Lillie sat, tethered to a chair with rope, her chemise torn down over her breasts, above which the witchfinder brandished his weapon.
‘Now speak, witch, or you will find those pretty dugs in close communion with my brand.’
Despite her fear, Evangeline’s chin was thrust forward, her eyes afire.
‘I have nothing to say to you,’ she spat.
The witchfinder’s elbow moved. Adam leapt forward, the element of surprise working in his favour. After wresting the brand from him, he threw it aside, into the grate.
‘No!’ he said forcefully. ‘She is not to be treated like the others. She is innocent.’
‘So you keep saying,’ snarled the witchfinder. ‘I think her spell has worked on you.’
‘You will leave her be,’ retorted Adam, untying Evangeline and lifting her into his arms, then again, on reaching the door. ‘You will leave her be.’
‘You are bewitched!’ the man called after them, but Adam was beyond reasoning with.
Swiftly he made his way out of the manor house, hefting Evangeline over the wall and running with her to his little cottage in the church grounds.
He laid her on his bed and turned to the water jug, pouring her a cup.
‘What has he done to you?’ he asked, kneeling beside her, putting the water to her lips.
‘I didn’t ask for rescue,’ said Evangeline, every bit as obstinate as her modern counterpart, it seemed. ‘I want to go back. Back for my kinswomen.’
‘Back for a taste of his red-hot poker?’
‘I ain’t scared of him, Mr Smith. I ain’t scared of no-one.’
‘But look at you – you’re bleeding. Let me dress the wounds.’
There was something infinitely blissful to Adam about having the opportunity to touch her gently, to tend to her. Evangeline allowed him to wash the cuts and grazes and to soak up the blood with old linens. His hand drifted down the slopes of her breasts, touching that flesh he yearned for, bringing it relief.
‘Why did you come for me?’ she asked.
‘You know why,’ he said.
‘Witchfinder’ll just come back. With reinforcements.’
‘He can’t take you if you’re my wife.’
She sat up, wincing.
‘Your what?’
‘Evangeline, marry me. I can protect you as your husband.’
‘I can’t marry you.’
‘Why not?’
‘You … I can’t marry a preacher. Not being the sort of girl I am.’
‘The sort of girl you are is exactly why you should marry a preacher. You will stray no longer and return to the fold, where you will be happy, Evangeline, happy and cared for and so much loved …’
He broke off, choking.
Her eyes seemed to burn into him, her face still sheened with the sweat of torture and fear.
‘You are unfair,’ she whispered. ‘You offer what I cannot take.’
‘But you can take it, my Eve, my only love. You can.’
She swallowed then, and reached for his face. What ecstasy in her fingertips as they travelled along his cheekbone. He put his hand over them, holding them against his skin.
‘If you have lived wickedly,’ he murmured, ‘it is because you suffered evil influences to flourish in your life. You did not act against them, and that is your sin. But it is a sin capable of redemption. Allow yourself to be redeemed. Come to me.’
‘You’ve a pretty face and you speak pretty words,’ she said. ‘I could almost …’
‘Consent. And you will be protected.’
‘I will live,’ she whispered.
‘I promise it.’
‘And my kinswomen?’
He hesitated, wanting those inconvenient crones out of the way, but he was so close to having her, how could he let them ruin it?
‘I will do such as I can,’ he said.
‘Then I shall say yes.’
A potent amalgam of happiness and triumph beat in his veins. He leant towards her, breathing in the scent that lay beneath all the blood, sweat and tears – her unique Evangeline Lillie fragrance, that which had driven him wild since he arrived in Saxonhurst.
His lips touched hers, and the flame of desire streaked through him. How she bewitched him, and yet her witchcraft was of a kind he felt he could not live without.
The kiss moved quickly from a tender brush to a raw and salty clash of mouths. Adam felt he could never get enough of her taste, of her warmth, of her tongue. Finally, his increasingly desperate prayers had found their answer, and the answer was yes.
He awoke to find himself snogging the pillow, one hand wrapped tight around his erection. Oh, no Evie after all, no full lips, no slip of tongue, no breasts bared to his eye. But the imprint of her remained on his memory for as long as it took him to bring his cock to complete engorgement.
I should let go. I should turn my mind to other thoughts.
But Evie’s hold on him was absolute now. She had slipped past every moral defence, to place herself at the centre of his world, which was no longer a world of cool ascetic pursuits but one of thunder and blood and lust.
He thought of her underneath him, her curves and smoothness, her careless eroticism, her joy in the act of sex. He had to have her, had to, had to.
He came hard, and afterwards, for perhaps the first time, he didn’t feel guilty.
Adam was surprised at how many villagers had signed up for his seaside trip. Standing at the coach door with a clipboard on a flaming day in early June, he ticked off each new passenger as they hauled themselves up the step.
Lyn and Ken, Julia Shields, Sebastian and Kasia all rolled up for the pleasure trip. But where was Evie?
‘Just five more minutes,’ he said anxiously to the coach driver, who sat with the engine running, checking his watch.
The villagers grumbled and fanned themselves and opened packages of sandwiches while Adam peered up and down the lane.
Finally, she appeared, a vision in a huge straw hat and sunglasses of similar size, tripping along the road in a halter-neck sundress and raffia wedges.
Adam’s mouth watered. Here she was. His future wife. His past wife. His only wife.
‘You waited for me,’ she said with a flirtatious smile. ‘You’re so sweet. Sorry I’m late, Giles from the cricket team kept me up all night.’
Adam’s mouth dried out immediately and he clenched his hands. The clipboard fell to the floor. Evie swung herself up on to the coach as he bent to retrieve it. For one split second, he got an uninterrupted view up Evie’s voluminous skirts. She wasn’t wearing knickers.
She looked over her shoulder at him and winked, flitting away to the back seat where the more disreputable members of the cricket team were already openi
ng cans of lager.
The only available seat was next to Julia. Adam took his place, craning his neck down the aisle to where Evie sat on some yokel’s lap, giggling and being fed Pringles. This was not how he had envisaged things.
But there might be a chance, once they reached the coast, to steal her away from her companions and take a walk on the beach, the two of them alone. Every minute brought him closer to his declaration, after all.
‘Murray Mint, vicar?’ Julia cut into his thoughts, proffering an open bag.
‘Thanks.’
‘You’ve got a good turnout. Told you they’d go for this.’
‘Yes. I should hand out my leaflets.’
Adam had printed a cunning little booklet, which masqueraded as a selection of word games and activities, but was laden with religious references and even the odd Biblical text, snuck into the margins in Comic Sans. On the back were details of church services and times. He passed them around the coach, then returned to Julia, who greeted him with one of her rare smiles.
She looked young and a little bit wicked when she smiled, though actually, Adam thought, she had an ageless quality. She was one of those women who looked the same at 50 as they did at 15. Trying to take his mind off the riot breaking out at the back of the coach, he decided to talk to her.
‘Have you always lived in Saxonhurst?’
‘Of course. You know I have. The ancestral pile and all that.’
‘Are your parents still alive?’
‘No. Well, yes. Yes, they are.’
What a strange answer. Adam waited for her to expand.
‘They’re in a home,’ she said shiftily. ‘They aren’t really all there, mentally, you know.’
‘Alzheimer’s?’ he asked sympathetically.
‘No, no, they’ve been there since I was a child.’
‘That must have been hard on you.’
She shrugged. ‘Things seem normal, don’t they, when they’re part of your childhood.’
‘Who took care of you?’
‘My aunt Cordelia. We lived in the house together until she died five years ago. That’s when things started to get ropey for me. She did all the accounts. I’m afraid I’ve no head for figures, none at all.’
Saxonhurst Secrets Page 11