Last Rites

by Neil White

  I looked now at the text in front of me and felt a rush of adrenalin. It was virtually the same. I had been scanning page after page of accusations when I came across it: the judgement in Anne Whittle's case, Sarah's ancestor. I spotted a familiar phrase:

  But the bloud of those innocent children, and others his Maiesties Subjects, whom cruelly and barbarously you haue murdered, sollicited for satisfaction and reuenge, and that hath brought this heauie iudgement vpon you at this time.

  I looked up and saw that nothing had changed, that students were still sitting around, making notes or just reading. But it seemed noisy to me, the excitement of a good story unfolding in front of me, making me want to thump the desk or shout out. And it confirmed that Katie had guessed right: the Pendle witch connection was not a coincidence. The letter from Sarah had paraphrased part of the judgement, the finding of guilt.

  I returned to the books in front of me. I could feel my breath begin to shorten as my fingers turned pages quickly, looking for more words and phrases that might leap out at me, my eyes racing over the text.

  I raised my head and saw Katie pass an aisle, engrossed in a book. I returned to my own study, wondering whether she had found something, and just as my mind began to speculate and wander again, I saw another familiar phrase. It was from the same passage. I'd gone past it first time around.

  I almost shouted out this time. I was getting somewhere, I knew it, although I wasn't sure where. Page after page rushed past my eyes as I looked for more signs, and the more I looked, the more I saw. Some from the letter I had, some from the first two, the ones Katie had. I scribbled fast, made notes, flicked page after page over until I thought they would rip and tear in front of me.

  I grabbed my papers and went to Katie, rushing through the library. I found her with a look of shock on her face. I wondered if she had found the same.

  ‘We need to go,’ I whispered urgently into her ear, and I was pleased to see her grab her papers and follow me out.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Laura looked up when the door opened, knowing that Carson would have complained; after all, she had stood over the boss of the murder squad as he took a piss. She expected her sergeant, maybe higher, but when the door opened she saw that it was someone else from the murder squad, the guy who had smiled at her, the one in the polo shirt and the crew cut.

  Pete looked up, and then said, ‘How you doing, Joe?’

  ‘You know him?’ she asked.

  ‘Everyone knows Joe Kinsella.’

  ‘I don't.’

  Pete smiled, and then he gestured with his hand towards the other man. ‘Laura, this is Joe. He cut his teeth in Blackley before he hit the big time and moved to headquarters. Too groovy for us.’ Pete gestured towards Laura. ‘Joe, this is Laura McGanity She's from London, but I've forgiven her for that.’

  Joe smiled, and then said, ‘It's Laura I've come to see.’

  ‘Are you the forward party?’ she asked. ‘Come here to soften me up before Carson comes down.’

  He shook his head. ‘It's not like that,’ he said, and then he sat down on a chair next to Laura's desk, which was cluttered with papers: the statements from the case and her handwritten account of the police interview.

  Laura looked at him. He was around thirty, slim and toned, his body hidden by black clothing, with just the occasional grey hair, his eyes deep brown and dreamy. ‘What is it like then?’ she asked.

  ‘I've come to say sorry,’ he said, and when he spoke, he sounded measured, comforting.

  Laura paused at that, her face suspicious. ‘Why?’

  ‘For what my team did, the adventure with Jack, the trip to the moors.’

  ‘Isn't it Jack you should be apologising to?’

  Joe nodded. ‘You're right, and I will, if I get the chance. It might not mean anything, because I wasn't there, and Carson won't say sorry, but someone should say it.’

  ‘So why are you bothering?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘Because it was wrong, and I'm on that team,’ he said. ‘And because I wanted to speak to you.’

  Laura was confused. ‘Why me?’

  He smiled. ‘I heard what you did to Carson, giving him a dressing-down in the toilet. But his problem is that he doesn't complain, he just gets even. He's got enough yes-men to help him out, so you won't win, and from what I've heard, you deserve better than that.’

  ‘What have you heard?’ she asked.

  ‘Just your reputation for being a good detective, that people respect you. Don't get dragged into a battle with Carson. We'll be back at headquarters soon, and none of this will matter.’

  ‘You don't sound like you fit in,’ said Laura.

  He laughed. ‘I don't, and that's why Carson likes me. He likes the yes-men around him, but he is a good enough copper to realise that he needs a different opinion sometimes. Carson is a prick, I know that, but he is good at what he does.’

  Laura smiled ruefully. ‘Thanks for the tip.’

  ‘There'll be no complaint from Carson,’ said Joe, ‘but watch your back,’ and then he turned to leave.

  When he'd gone, Pete chuckled to himself. ‘He has that effect,’ he said.

  ‘What effect?’

  ‘Blushing,’ said Pete, pointing at her. ‘He makes women blush.’

  Laura shuffled her papers together, flustered. ‘It's not that,’ she said. She checked her watch. She knew she had to speak to the CPS before she could charge the prisoner, but the Court Welfare meeting was fast approaching. ‘Will you go to the CPS with this for me? I've got to be somewhere else pretty soon.’

  Pete held out his hand, grinning, and as she left the room, Laura felt in a better mood. The sun had come out and the day seemed unseasonably warm for the end of October. She checked her watch. Time to get home to make sure that it was all tidy, so that it looked like a good home for Bobby.

  When Laura jumped into her car, she saw something on the passenger seat. An envelope. She looked around. Who had been in her car? It had been locked, she was sure of that.

  Laura reached for the envelope and opened it slowly. There were photographs inside, A4, colour. The top one was of two people in a doorway, close to each other. It was dark, and so they were indistinct, but Laura could see that it was a man and a woman, and the woman was reaching out to the man, her hand on his cheek. She went to the next one, and her stomach turned over, a sob welling up in her throat.

  It was Jack, and she recognised Katie, reaching out to him, stroking his cheek.

  Laura looked around, trying to see who had put it there. As she looked towards the back door of the station, she saw Karl Carson. He waved, just to make sure she had seen him, and then he turned to go inside.

  She threw the envelope onto the seat next to her, angry. With Jack, with her situation, but also with herself, because she realised that she'd made a powerful enemy.

  She took a deep breath and tried to compose herself, remembering the Court Welfare visit. She had the most important battle of all to come: to keep Bobby with her.

  Chapter Forty

  We ended up in a fast walk through Blackley. My mind was still racing, and I didn't want to speak until I had assembled all I'd found into something real.

  ‘Why the rush?’ asked Katie, trotting to keep up.

  I stopped and looked at her. ‘You were right,’ I said. ‘The Pendle witch connection is no coincidence.’ I was breathless, almost shouting, the words coming out in a rush.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Katie asked, although I could tell it wasn't a simple question. She said it quietly, watching me intently.

  I looked around and saw a fast-food restaurant. Not my preference, but the lights were bright and the tables large. I pulled her towards it, and once we'd seated ourselves in a large alcove, Katie asked, ‘What is it, Jack?’

  I wondered how to approach it, but then I realised that directly was the only route. I spread my papers over the table, photocopies of Sarah's letters.

  ‘I found this first
,’ I said, and I jabbed my finger at the line about the blood of children. ‘Now look at this,’ and I pulled out a photocopy of the textbook page, my highlighter pen making the passage bright orange. ‘See how close they are. The spellings are modernised in Sarah's letter to you, but the words used are too alike to be just coincidence. Same phrase.’

  Katie looked dolefully at me, not showing the excitement I was feeling.

  ‘Do you know where this is from?’ I asked. When Katie shook her head, I said, ‘Anne Whittle's trial. Sarah's ancestor. The same words.’

  Katie didn't say anything, so I picked up another photocopy of a textbook, adding more highlighter pen. ‘So next,’ I continued, speaking quickly, ‘I carried on going through the volumes, and I found something else from Anne Whittle's case.’ I paused for breath. ‘The phrases from Sarah's letter are taken from the trial of Anne Whittle, just twisted and given a different meaning. Look at this sentence from Sarah's letter,’ and I pointed at the page. ‘There is no one alive more unwilling to pronounce this woeful and heavy judgement than myself.’ I pushed the photocopied sheet across the table at her. ‘And now look at this quote from the trial,’ I said excitedly, jabbing at the page with my finger. ‘There is no man aliue more vnwilling to pronounce this wofull and heauy Iudgement against you, then my selfe.’ I smiled at Katie in triumph as she read. ‘Can you see?’ I asked her. ‘They are almost the same.’

  I paused to look at Katie. She looked serious.

  ‘That quote is from Anne Whittle's trial,’ I repeated, ‘the witch Anne Whittle, back in 1612. It was the judgement in the case, finding her guilty of witchcraft. There is a slight difference though. In 1612 it was the judge who was racked with unwillingness. In the letter, it is Sarah Goode who pronounces the judgement against herself. She has turned it around, but it's near enough to be more than just coincidence.’

  Katie looked unsure. ‘Maybe the police have already worked it out,’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I replied, ‘but that wouldn't change anything.’ I pointed down at the paper. ‘This is the sign of a troubled mind. Sarah has turned the original finding of guilt into a confession. “Cruelly and barbarously you haue murdered” into “cruelly and barbarously I have murdered”.’

  Katie didn't look pleased.

  ‘What's wrong?’ I asked. ‘I thought you would have been pleased. You know, we're starting to make progress.’

  ‘I know I said that, but it was just a daft idea,’ she answered softly. ‘Now that we have discovered a link, it seems scarier somehow, that if there is a connection with the Pendle witch trials, for Christ knows what reason, then something is seriously wrong.’ She let out a deep breath and looked upwards. I thought I saw her blink back some tears. ‘I just want all of this to be over,’ she continued. ‘Before today it all looked like a moment of madness. I could deal with that. We all feel passion. We do things we regret, bad things. I can deal with that, can empathise, but what I can't deal with is talk of witches and ancient trials and executions. This is not a witch hunt. This is Lancashire in the twenty-first century.’

  ‘I'm sorry,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I've got a little carried away with myself. But tell me this: why aren't you dismissing it out of hand? If it bothers you, it must be because you believe there might be something in it.’

  Katie didn't say anything. Something was wrong.

  ‘What did you find, Katie?’ I asked, although I knew that it was the same as me.

  She looked at me. ‘I found the same as you,’ she said quietly. ‘Just the same.’

  I struggled to contain my excitement. ‘Show me.’

  She delved into her bag and passed her notes over. ‘I found it all straight away. I just didn't know what it meant.’

  I looked at them, the photocopies used by Katie covered in arrows and underlines, her handwriting turning into scribbles as she found things, as if she was trying to get it all down as quickly as possible before the chance slipped away. I felt my eyes widen as I read.

  ‘This is no coincidence,’ I said in astonishment.

  Katie looked at me with sadness. ‘I knew it meant trouble. When you came over I hoped you'd found something different. I was wrong.’

  ‘But Katie, this gives a direction.’

  ‘No,’ Katie said in protest. ‘For you, it makes a story, that's all.’

  I couldn't respond to that. Instead, I said, ‘Let's look at what you found.’

  I looked at Sarah's first letter:

  Such was the nature of my offences, and the multitude of my crying sins, that it took away all sense of humanity. The murder I had committed, laid open to the world, did certainly produce contempt amongst people.

  Then she passed me a photocopy of a page from a textbook, yellow highlighter over one passage:

  … But such was the nature of her offences, and the multitude of her crying sinnes, as it tooke away all sense of humanity. And the repetition of her hellish practises, and Reuenge; being the chiefest thinges wherein she alwayes tooke great delight, togeather with a particular declaration of the Murders shee had committed, layde open to the world.

  I felt that same cold shiver, that same rush. Something was going on here, something revealing, important.

  I looked at Katie. ‘Where is this from?’ I asked.

  She looked up solemnly. ‘The arraignment against Anne Whittle.’

  ‘What, the accusation itself?’ I asked.

  Katie nodded. ‘The arraignment outlined the actual allegation and what each witness would say.’

  ‘So,’ I said, trying to follow the path, ‘in sending these letters, Sarah, for the wording of the first letter, uses the beginnings of the legal proceedings against Anne Whittle. She twists the words, but it's unmistakably the same. Am I right?’

  Katie nodded. ‘That's how it appears.’

  I pulled on my lip. ‘What about the second letter?’ I asked.

  Katie leaned over and pulled out a piece of paper from the middle of the pile. ‘Here it is.’

  I looked first at Sarah's letter.

  Such is the horror of murder, and the crying sin of blood, that it will never be satisfied but with blood.

  Then I looked at a quote Katie had found.

  Svch is the horror of Murther, and the crying sinne of Bloud, that it will neuer bee satisfied but with Bloud.

  I whistled. ‘Where's that from?’

  ‘It's from the arraignment of Ann Redfern,’ Katie said.

  ‘Not Anne Whittle?’

  Katie shook her head. ‘Ann Redfern was Anne Whittle's daughter.’

  ‘And a witch too?’

  ‘It was a family dispute in reality,’ Katie answered. ‘It was bound to drag the children in.’

  ‘And if Anne Whittle was Sarah's ancestor,’ I said, ‘then so was Ann Redfern. The connection with Sarah is still there.’

  I was deep in thought, my mind turning over solutions and possibilities, when Katie spoke. ‘I wonder what it all means?’ she said, almost to herself.

  ‘Does it have to mean anything?’

  ‘Of course it does,’ she said. ‘There are so many questions, but perhaps the first should be why were those particular sentences chosen?’

  I looked at the notes and scratched my head. ‘There is a path,’ I said, ‘some logic.’

  Katie looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

  I leafed through the papers again. ‘Think about it,’ I said, reading them again. ‘The letters have gone full circle, through the whole legal process.’ I pulled out the copy of the first letter written by Sarah. ‘This letter starts with the description of what the case will be against Anne Whittle. The next letter is the same, but against her daughter. Both are ancestors of Sarah. Then go on to the last letter, the one I looked up,’ and I pulled out the copy of the letter, the one I'd been working on. ‘We move straight on to a twisting of the judgement in the case, the conclusion of the judge. We are in the next stage of proceedings.’

  ‘Except,’ Katie said, understanding
my thread, ‘Sarah confesses rather than there being a judgement against her.’

  I nodded grimly. ‘Maybe that's why the letters were sent in the first place, to confess. She sends a letter to point to the allegation and evidence against her, perhaps in the early stages of her decline, the early signs of paranoia, of self-blame. Not yet ready to confess, she just wants to blame herself. Then the decline hits a lower level, and so she seeks absolution in confession.’

  Katie looked upset. I could see her becoming distant, looking scared.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

  ‘I'm worried,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘Because look at what she has written, and look where she sent them. Why is she writing to me?’

  I looked her in the eye, saw the fear, the worry.

  ‘I don't know,’ was all I could say.

  Katie just looked at the table.

  I dipped my head so that I was able to catch her eyes, and I smiled. I was pleased to see her smile back.

  ‘She won't hurt you,’ I said, trying to reassure her. ‘She's asking for your help. Do you believe me?’

  Katie nodded silently and smiled again.

  ‘C'mon,’ I said, ‘we've both got things to do. You've got college, and I've got a story to write.’

  As I collected my things, Katie asked, ‘If the letters follow the witch trials, the accusations and then the judgement, how did they end?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Judgements of guilt are not the end of the trial,’ she said. ‘There is the sentence as well. That's the end of the case. If the letters follow the witch trials, then what came next?’

  ‘You know what happened to them,’ I said.

  ‘They went to the gallows,’ she said quietly. ‘Anne and her daughter.’

  I nodded. ‘And quite a few others.’

  Katie collected her papers together, her expression grim. ‘Sarah's going to die, isn't she?’ she said.