It better not be any more cops she thought to herself grimly as she opened the door. But it was a UPS guy smiling and holding out a large flat rectangular shaped box.
‘Olivia West?’
She nodded curiously.
‘Sign here please.’
She scribbled her name quickly and took the parcel, shutting the door with a soft click as she wandered into the library, stepping over the dirty plates and glasses from the night before. The still cold fireplace seemed to note her entrance and burst cheerfully into flames, enveloping the room in a warm comforting heat.
Tearing open the box, she almost laughed out loud when she pulled out a thick warm winter coat. Mags always seemed to have a knack for knowing not only what she needed but exactly when. She picked up the note which had fallen from the folds of the coat.
‘Happy Birthday, enjoy the Massachusetts weather!’ Love Mags
Olivia shook her head in amusement and draped her present over the back of the couch while she disposed of the packaging and dirty plates. Once the room was set to rights again she pulled out the box she’d brought with her from Providence and settled down on the cushions in front of the roaring fire. Opening her laptop she quickly found her notes and scanned through to remind herself were she’d got up to, digging around in the box to pull out random journals and files.
An hour later her head dropped back against the couch and she sighed in frustration, she still couldn’t concentrate. Her gaze absently scanned the room until it stopped on a very small, very old trunk, perched atop one of the bookcases. With curiosity getting the better of her, she hauled herself to her feet and dragged a chair across the room. She climbed up into the seat and then onto the arm balancing precariously as stretched out barely grazing it with her fingertips. She slowly and painstakingly edged it towards her with difficulty, she definitely should have got a taller chair or maybe a step ladder she thought to herself. Finally it toppled and fell into her hands sending a cloud of dust scattering across her hair and face. With a loud sneeze she hopped down from the chair and once again settled herself down on the cushions in front of the fireplace.
The trunk was small and rectangular and made from some sort of dark wood bound in leather reinforced with metal edges. The flat top was an inch deep in dust. Wiping it clean with her hand revealed the name ‘Hester’ branded into the leather in an ornate curly script.
Olivia sucked in a breath; this trunk had once belonged to Hester West, her great great grandmother, with several more greats added in. She was the first generation of West’s to settle in Mercy and it was a widely held belief that Hester and her twin sister Bridget had founded the town in 1698 after they escaped the persecution of Salem.
Bursting with curiosity Olivia carefully lifted the lid, her historian’s soul hoping desperately that the contents also belonged to Hester. She knew nothing was ever discarded or thrown away in her family but was passed from generation to generation. This house along with all its contents contained hundreds of years of secrets.
The hinge gave easily as she cracked the trunk open. Inside lay what looked to be several leather bound journals, and laid across the top of them was a small cloth figure. She lifted it out carefully and turned it over in her hand.
It was a poppet, she smiled to herself. These dolls could be made from carved tree roots, corn, even potatoes and clay but most often they were made from cloth and stuffed with herbs as this one had been. It was where the myth of voodoo dolls had arisen. But these dolls were used for sympathetic magic and could be used not just to harm but also to heal the person it was intended for. She’d seen illustrations and a few in museums but never touched one this old. Even though the material it was made from was coarse and threadbare with age and smelled musty she could feel the low hum of energy through her skin. Even after all this time it still contained traces of power though the witch who created it was long since dead. Whoever had constructed it must have been a very powerfully gifted witch.
‘Were you used to harm or to heal?’ she murmured softly to herself.
Laying it aside she turned to the books. Three or four of them were similar in size and when she flipped through a few pages they all seemed to be written in the same curly script. Obviously by the same author, she thought as she turned to the front page. But when her eyes fell on the same script on the first page her heart stuttered. They were all written by Hester West, these were her private journals.
Doing a mental happy dance she smiled as she picked up the last one, carefully turning it over in her hands. It was thinner than the rest and larger, like a sketchbook. Almost as if the book itself had read her mind a page slipped loose and fell into her lap. It was brittle with age and carefully she held it up to the light. It was a drawing from the look of it and seemed to be a 17th century house, possibly a farmhouse nestled against a stormy sky. A horse grazed absently nearby as the long grass bent in an invisible breeze. Olivia breathed in and could have sworn she caught the hazy scent of a summer storm.
Shaking her head to clear her thoughts she laid the drawing aside and opened the book. She couldn’t say why but suddenly her fingers trembled as if she were looking at a person’s most intimate thoughts. On the front page in a similar type of script but obviously different handwriting was the name Theodore Beckett. She traced the name lightly with her fingertips as she cast her mind back to her family tree. She couldn’t recall a Theodore Beckett at all, so why would his journal be in the trunk with Hester’s journals. If she remembered correctly Hester had married a Thomas Hale, so who was this Theodore?
Skipping lightly to the next few pages she saw page after page of stunning black and white sketches. More of the house and several of faces she didn’t recognise. There was a picture of a young dark haired boy smiling as he chased across the field past the horses, with an even younger boy trailing behind him. They both ran towards a woman in the distance. It was too far to make out her features but she held out her arms towards them as if to catch them. In the following pages the boy appeared several times, each time a little older and gradually his face changed it lost that youthful exuberance and slowly became sadder, more cynical, before the final picture of him. He looked to be in his thirties, his hair was pulled back from his face, his mouth set in a hard and unforgiving line but it was his eyes that caught Olivia. They were so angry, even drawn on a page she could feel the palpable hate and fury.
Rolling her neck to shake the unease which had settled between her shoulder blades, she turned to the next picture and saw a beautiful child with dark hair and dark eyes. The picture held so much love, not just in the girl’s expression but in each stroke and line on the page. The artist created her image with so much love; she could feel it in the paper itself. Glancing down to the bottom corner of the page she could make out the letters TB scrawled messily by way of a signature.
TB, Theodore Beckett, she surmised. If it was him, he was an incredibly talented artist. She flipped through the next few drawings, there was another picture of a house which she was about to bypass, when she stopped suddenly. Her nose wrinkled as she studied the picture more closely. It was slightly damaged, with the faint linger of smoke about it and the picture itself was smudged with what looked at lot like ash. Iit was a picture of a house, backed by a wood on the edge of a lake and it kind of looked a lot like her house. She looked down into the corner and there were the telltale letters TB. It couldn’t have been her house he was drawing; she shook her head as if answering her silent accusation. Her house hadn’t even been built until over two centuries later. It was just some weird coincidence and she dismissed it.
Scanning past all the other pictures she finally came to journal entries which she scanned through lightly, she would take the time later to go back and read them all in detail but for now she was just trying to figure out who he was and how the hell he was connected to her family.
She stopped on the final passage in the journal and read it slowly.
August
1695; Logan asked me again this day and again I lied to him. I cannot tell my brother the truth, he would not understand. It weighs so heavily on me, he believes it is God’s will but in my heart I cannot bring myself to believe God would condemn these women as we have done. I see their faces when I close my eyes, sleep will no longer come to me without the dark dreams. Their blood is on my hands and sometimes I fear it will never wash clean. I know what drives my father and brother; it is vengeance for Temperance, for what the witches did to her. But I must confess to myself here within these pages I cannot deny the doubt in my heart. I want to have faith, to believe as the others do but I know that if Temperance were still alive she could not condone what we have done in the name of God and under the guise of righteousness and morality. I find myself questioning where will the madness end? The children brought before the court today were scarcely more than eight years old. Surely God would not wish for us to murder children in his name? I am lost a wretched creature of dust and ash, my soul will burn for what I have done I am certain of it. I am not strong enough to stand against the tide and I fear there will be more death before sanity returns but by then it will be too late. We have all damned ourselves with the stain of blood on our souls. I do not believe there can be any redemption now, for any of us.
Olivia frowned as she re-read the entry, it sounded as if he were a witch finder. The dates seem to match the tail end of the witch trials although she’d never heard of a Logan or Theodore Beckett. She grabbed some spare paper and began to scribble down notes and names, he mentioned Logan as his brother and he also mentioned his father although not by name. She also noted the name Temperance, although he did not mention his relationship to her she seemed to be someone he was close to, someone who had died and if she were to believe the journal entry it seemed his father and brother believed her demise was a direct result of witchcraft.
Picking up one of Hester’s journals she began to scan quickly through the text looking specifically for any mention of a Theodore Beckett. It wasn’t long before she hit a useful entry.
January 1701. Bridget does not wish me to speak of him; she says no good can come of it. What is done is done and should remain in the past. But I cannot forget him, and my sister does not realise how important Theodore Beckett is to our bloodline. He saved us, I could feel the oppressive weight of darkness pressed down upon his soul and yet he was still capable of an act of mercy. Had he not saved us we would have suffered the same fate as the other women at the gallows. I owe him not just my life but the lives of all who come after me, it is a debt I will never be able to repay. I worry for my sister; she is much changed these past few years. The gifts we were born with and which are such a joy and a responsibility to me, are such a burden to her. Her magick takes her to a dark place and I fear what is yet to come.
Olivia frowned; it was still a very vague reference. She needed more to work with and gazing down at the journals she knew it would take her days to get through all of them. There was one other place she could try and that was the local museum; when she was a child she was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. She would spend hours staring at all the displays of the history of witchcraft and her town. There was even a whole display dedicated to Hester West that was her favourite one.
If she recalled correctly the curator had been a small softly spoken German woman by the name of Ms Gersten. Wondering if she was still there Olivia began to put the journals carefully back into the trunk. She tucked it into a quiet corner of the room so she could come back to them later. Scooping up her new coat from the back of the couch she turned to the fire which was burning enthusiastically in the fireplace.
“Out” she commanded softly and it winked out as obediently as if someone had just cut the gas.
Satisfied she slipped the coat on, pleased at how soft and cosy it was. She picked up her notes, tucking them safely under one arm as she headed out into the hall to pull her boots on. She scooped up her keys in one hand and with her purse in the other she slipped out of the door locking it firmly behind her.
She could still hear the commotion in the woods whilst the police continued to work the crime scene and remove poor Adam’s remains. Not wanting to stick around any longer than necessary she trotted down the front steps and headed for her car. The rain managed to hold off and glancing up at the sky as she drove into town she figured the cops might have caught a break. At least it didn’t look as if the skies were going to open. It was now clear and the air was crisp.
She arrived in town and parked as close to the museum as she could but the town was buzzing. Decorations hung from every window and door frame, creepy spiders and plastic black cats with glowing green eyes. Enthusiastically carved pumpkins were everywhere flickering with candlelight which bobbed and danced in the wind while rubber bats dangled from streetlights and shop signs.
Smiling to herself as she passed the bakery Olivia couldn’t resist the fragrant scent of a soft warm pastry which teased her and as her stomach growled in protest. Glancing down at her wristwatch she realised it was nearly lunchtime anyway. She popped in and two minutes later was happily meandering down the sidewalk with a hot sweet coffee in one hand and a pastry in the other.
Smiling at the kids already in their Halloween costumes who were rushing past her she took a leisurely walk down to the front steps of the museum. Depositing the wrapping from her pastry in the trash outside she climbed the steps and opened the door.
Once again she felt as if she’d stepped back in time. Nothing much had changed, it still felt and looked the same. It even smelled the same and there was something decidedly comforting about that. Taking her time she spent the next few hours going through the exhibits, specifically looking for any mention of Theodore. She didn’t really expect to find anything as the museum mostly dealt with the history of witchcraft and more specifically the town of Mercy itself. Although, because of its ties to Salem and the trials, there was some overlap even in this section Olivia still couldn’t find any mention of the Becketts.
Finally she returned to her favourite display, the one of Hester. Behind the glass display cabinet stood a portrait of her painted by her daughter Miriam. Although Hester was in her thirties in the picture and older than Olivia, she could still see the strong family resemblance. Glancing at the small plaque mounted on the wall next to the painting it read, on loan from the West family.
‘That one always was your favourite,’ a soft accented voice spoke behind her.
Turning around she spotted a small woman in a tidy blouse and skirt with sensible shoes. Her white hair was swept back into a tidy but soft chignon and her eyes wrinkled as she smiled. Although she now stooped slightly and walked with a cane she was still the same woman Olivia remembered.
‘Ms Gersten,’ Olivia smiled in return, ‘I can’t believe you’re still here, I did wonder what had happened to you.’
‘I’m still here child,’ she replied as she moved closer. ‘I wondered when you would return home, I was sorry to hear about your Aunt Evelyn.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I also hear you are doing very well for yourself.’
‘I’m doing okay,’ Olivia shrugged.
‘Don’t be so modest I have read all your books, they are very good and I hear you are coming to be regarded as somewhat of an expert in the field of New England History and the history of Witchcraft itself.’
‘You read my books?’ for some reason that really pleased Olivia.
‘I certainly have, in fact we stock several of them in the museum gift shop.’
‘Wow,’ Olivia answered.
‘So what brings you to the museum today?’
‘Research actually,’ Olivia frowned, ‘Maybe you can help me I’m trying to find any information about someone called Theodore Beckett. He would have lived in or close to Salem around 1695, He may have had a brother named Logan and there is some reference to a girl named Temperance, although I don’t know the exact connection. I think this Theodore
may have been a witch finder and he has some tie to my family.’
‘That is not a lot to go on,’ Ms Gersten mused, ‘I certainly do not recall ever having come across the name and I have studied the Salem witch trials. Come with me,’
Ms Gersten beckoned Olivia towards a door marked private and she followed curiously. The door opened into a large room which held a study area and several rows of book stacks holding not just books but manuscripts and file boxes.
‘What is this room?’
‘My personal project for the last twenty years,’ Ms Gersten smiled proudly. ‘It’s a reference room that has as many books and manuscripts and supporting research as I could get my hands on, to do with Salem and Mercy. It’s not just that, it’s so much more. I have also amassed a huge collection of books on witchcraft, magic and the occult. There’s more in the upstairs storage rooms.’
‘Holy cow,’ Olivia’s mouth fell open.
‘Close your mouth girl and follow me,’ she commanded briskly as she hobbled down one of the aisles. Tapping a box smartly with her cane she looked to Olivia, ‘Start with this one.’
Olivia pulled the box file down and moved to the large rectangular study table which was surrounded by several chairs and held three or four lamps. Dropping the box down on the table she lifted off the lid and began to carefully remove the files, glancing at the labels.
‘Are these copies of court records?’ She breathed
‘They certainly are, from Salem. The Curator of the Peabody and I are on good terms.’ She nodded as she took a seat at the table and sorted through the files until she found the one she wanted. ‘Ah here we go, court records for 1690-1697 Salem Massachusetts, these deal specifically with those appointed by the court as official witch finders. You probably won’t find much in there as you know the trials had begun to wind down by then. We may have to go back further.’
Mercy (The Guardians Series 1) Page 7