by Peter Oxley
“And drinking,” added N’yotsu, somewhat unhelpfully with a wry grin on his face.
“Fact is,” said Kate, “that everywhere is the same, far as I can tell. Folks are scared, and them in charge can do precious little to help. So they fall back on the old ways to fend off the demons. Witches are lynched in London all the time, you just don’t hear about them in your circles.”
“But Witchfinder Generals? The world has gone mad!” I said.
“At last, he notices,” grinned Kate. “Though I’m a bit confused about what’s so bad about Witchfinders? I agree that your man out there is creepy, but another person fighting against the demons can’t be a bad thing, right?”
“It’s not, in itself,” I said. “But it’s the title itself that worries me: Witchfinder General. It has some very specific connotations.”
“How so?”
I rested my chin in my hands. “The last person to hold the title in this country was an individual by the name of Matthew Hopkins, back in the seventeenth century.”
“If I recall correctly it was 1645,” said N’yotsu. “It was a particularly hot summer.”
I stared at him and he waved for me to continue. Frowning, I turned back to Kate. “I think it was a title he had awarded himself, and he claimed to have a particular talent for identifying witches and forcing confessions from them. He settled on a number of villages in and around Essex and accused many men and women there of all manner of fantastical things, which he termed as ‘witchcraft.’ Before long, neighbour was pitched against neighbour, raising baseless accusations for the sake of settling petty scores that Hopkins jumped on with startling alacrity. Those who were accused would be tortured until they confessed, often implicating others on the prompting of the interrogator. Once they confessed, they were then put to death.”
“And if they didn’t confess?” asked Kate.
“Often they were tortured to death,” I said. “I read somewhere that something like 300 poor souls were murdered in just a couple of years: all due to the actions of Hopkins, the so-called Witchfinder General.”
“Of course,” said N’yotsu, “this was by no means an English phenomenon. If anything, the English version of the Witchfinders was tame by comparison to their cousins in Europe and the Americas. Heinrich Kramer for example was a particularly unpleasant chap.”
“And none of it was true?” asked Kate. “Them people they were accusin’ weren’t witches or demons?”
“Oh, some of them no doubt were,” said N’yotsu. “But the vast majority were blameless, targeted just because they had upset someone or their face didn’t fit. Hopkins and his like did not really bother too much with little things like actual proof or evidence.”
“Which is why this latest turn of events worries me,” I said. “If we have Witchfinder Generals roaming the country once more, then that can only be a bad thing.”
“Not surprising though,” said Kate through a mouthful of bread. “People are pretty worried about everything that’s been going on. If someone in authority comes along and says he can do something about it, they’re bound to be listened to.”
Nevertheless, I had to understand what was going on and, with another day before our train to London would be ready, I sought out Captain Gilbert and asked for his leave to visit the Witchfinder General.
“Be my guest,” he said. “But do me a favour and take a couple of my men with you. If things start to go wrong, they can get you back here before you find yourself in chains with your feet to the fire.”
I grinned before realising that this was no jest. “So where can I find this Morley fellow?”
“Just step outside the gates and I’m sure he’ll find you. His men have been on watch all night and he’s no doubt pacing the street as we speak.”
He was right: no sooner had we stepped outside than we were met by two policemen who asked us—politely but in a manner that did not allow for a refusal—to accompany them. I agreed, insisting that the soldiers came with me, and allowed myself to be led into a nondescript house in the shadows of the garrison’s gates. The door opened to show a simple room containing a rude table and chairs in its centre. The place smelled strongly of unwashed bodies and burnt food. Witchfinder General Morley was seated at the table, facing the door, and he beckoned for me to sit opposite him.
“Nice place,” I said. “Very convenient, and what a coincidence that it has a fine view of the garrison gates.”
Morley glared at me with naked hostility. “We will be alone,” he said to his policemen. They turned and started out the door, holding it open for the soldiers to follow suit.
“I would feel a lot more comfortable if my associates remained,” I said.
“Why? Do you fear me?”
“The welcome you gave us last night was hardly warm. You have kept watch over us all night, and the first time I step outside I get marched here. Yes, you could say I’m a little anxious about what you might be planning to do if the two of us were alone in here.”
He held out his hands. “I am unarmed, which is more than can be said for you. What if I allow you to keep your sword and pistol, while your men remain just outside that door, able to come in if you call them? Would that reassure you?”
I looked to the soldiers and could see the doubt on their faces.
“I wish to speak freely with you,” Morley said. “I would not feel comfortable doing so if they remained in here.”
I nodded slowly. “Very well, as long as you give me your word that all three of us can walk away from here and back to the garrison when we are finished, without any hindrance or interference from you or your men.”
“You have my word.”
I nodded to the soldiers and took a seat at the table opposite Morley. He was probably a little older than I was, but a lifetime of troubles was etched across his face, worry lines and the ruddy complexion of a hard life lived outdoors giving him the appearance of a much older man. I searched his eyes for some sign of compassion or humour but all I saw was a cold lifelessness, a man who had long ago given up on humanity as a lost cause.
“Augustus Merriwether Potts, I presume,” he said. “The famed demon-killer and chronicler of the events that changed the world. Now working for Her Majesty’s government.”
“I confess you have me at a disadvantage,” I said. “I am aware that you style yourself as Witchfinder General, but apart from that…?” I shrugged.
“I am what keeps the wolves from these peoples’ doors,” he said.
“From what I understand, you are the wolves at their doors,” I replied.
“Explain.” He peered at me intently.
“I understand that the people of this city live in fear of being accused of witchcraft or consorting with demons, with you standing in final judgement over them. We have been here before: a dark chapter in our country’s past. I have no desire to see us return to the misery of those days.”
“Then it is as well that you have no say in these matters. You and your friends created this new world, where demons and evil spirits lurk behind every corner; it is the least that the ordinary people can ask that someone stand up for them and keep them safe.”
I snorted. “How many demons have you killed?”
“It is not always about death and killing, Mr Potts. The demons make vile promises of power and money to lure the innocent and gullible, as well you know. Someone needs to ensure that such transgressions are caught in time and deterred where possible.”
“And that someone is you?”
He inclined his head in a curt nod.
“And who appointed you to this role?” I asked.
“I work for the highest powers in the land,” he said.
“To clarify, who exactly?” I asked. “Not the army, that much is clear. Not the government: I’d have heard of you and your kind if it were them.”
He smiled at me. “I do not need to justify my authority to you. But you are correct, it is neither of those. I work for a higher power than the
m.”
“God?” I felt the familiar hot frustration of colliding head-on with an irritatingly smug obstacle.
“Don’t be flippant. In any case, it is irrelevant: better men than you have tested my authority and been satisfied. Or thrust aside.”
We glared at each other, two stags locking horns to see who would back down first. After a few moments of staring into the pitiless abyss of his gaze I looked away, focusing on the rough surface of the table to avoid being dragged any further into an argument with this strangely bitter man. “I find myself wondering why you asked me to come and sit with you,” I said.
“I was curious to see who would leave the garrison first: whether it would be you or the demon.”
I looked back at him. “N’yotsu, you mean? He is no demon.”
Morley snorted. “Born of demon, has demonic powers. There is a saying: if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck…”
“That was almost humour,” I said. “There was me thinking that such luxuries were beneath you. Regardless of his heritage, he has done many great things to protect mankind.”
“And as a demon it did many things to harm us.”
“We have all done things we regret in our past,” I said coldly. “Even, I would wager, you.”
There was that emotionless gaze again. “A demon is a demon. All of them must be destroyed.”
“And I consort with him, so what does that make me?”
“Someone to be watched. And be warned: we certainly are watching you.”
“We?” I asked. “You mean you and your flat-footed cronies outside? Or are we talking about your higher power again?”
“Both. You would do well not to mock me.”
I rose to my feet, scraping the chair back. “Is there anything of value you wish to discuss? I have the distinct impression that I am wasting my time here.”
“Not at all,” he said. “I simply wish you to know that you are not welcome here; neither you nor the demon or your other co-conspirators. There is no place here for those who consort with demons or make use of their powers. You will remain inside the garrison until your train is ready and then you will depart, never to return. Is that clear? You should be advised that we know all of the so-called secret passages out of Castle Mount and have them all covered. If you try to venture into any other part of this city, you will be arrested and put on trial. The only reason I have not done so thus far is that I gave my word that you would be unharmed, and I do not yet wish to initiate a conflict with the army.”
“Yet?”
“Yet.” He met my gaze with a cold intent that made me want to shudder, but I resisted lest I show weakness in front of him.
I forced my face into an unconcerned smile. “Any other messages? Wishes of glad tidings?”
“Yes. Watch your back. My remit extends far beyond Nottingham and the next time our paths cross, you will suffer.” He stared at me for a moment, almost as though he were daring me to blink, before shouting: “Constable!”
The door opened and one of the policemen who had brought me to the house stepped inside. “Sir?” he said.
“Escort Mr Potts and his friends back to the garrison and ensure they get inside safely please.”
The man nodded and then stepped aside to let me through the door.
I got up from the table and looked back at Morley, who was glaring at me with undisguised hatred. “I do not know what happened to make you as bitter and misguided as you are,” I said quietly. “But you should know that we are not the enemy: we are also trying to defeat the demon threat. You should be working with us, not fighting us.” I looked at him for some flicker of agreement and then sighed. “I have met people like you before.”
“People like me?” the Witchfinder General asked.
“Bigoted, closed-minded. People whose beliefs are so set in a particular way that they will not countenance any difference in others. Dangerous people.”
He fixed me with that dead stare again. “That is correct. I am dangerous: to the demons and those who consort with them. A demon does not recognise right or wrong. It is pure evil. They offer no mercy to their victims and so I do not see why I should afford them that courtesy.”
“It is not your attitude towards demons that concerns me, but towards other people. The thought of the terror of witch trials returning to our land… frankly, it appals me.”
“Why? Because you have something to hide?”
I tried to ignore the sudden heat in my cheeks. “No. Because too many innocent people will suffer unjustly as a result of lynch mobs taking exception to someone for some spurious reason and then being tortured or killed as a result.”
“Ah. You are referring to the old witch trials from centuries ago. Do you think we duck witches in ponds or subject them to trial by burning? We are more scientific now than they were back then.”
“Do you torture the accused?”
“Those consorting with demons do not tend to offer information voluntarily. An element of… persuasion is necessary to extract a confession.”
I folded my arms. “And just as some people will say anything to rid themselves of a pesky but innocent neighbour, so they will say anything to stop themselves being tortured. Tell me, how many poor souls do you have in your torture chamber right now?”
“Right now, none. Although you are sorely tempting me to change that. Would you like to come and examine my facilities? Maybe experience them first-hand? If you have nothing to hide then you have nothing to fear.”
“Maybe some other time,” I said, stepping outside and noting with relief that the soldiers were standing to attention, ready to escort me back to the garrison. “Good day, Mr Morley.”
“Good day,” he said.
I could feel his eyes boring into my back as we walked away, an anxious itch that made me want to burst into a panicked run for safety. I resisted that urge and forced myself into a measured march, a walk that seemed to stretch on for miles and miles.
“Everything all right, sir?” asked the soldier to my right.
“Just keep walking. Please,” I said through gritted teeth.
Eventually, thankfully, we reached the garrison gates and I endured a long couple of minutes while they were unlocked and swung open. I tried to effect a casual air by chatting to the soldiers but I could not forget the presence of the policemen behind us and my neck bristled as though it could sense Morley’s dead-eyed stare upon it, imagining that at any moment I would feel a hand on my shoulder and be pulled towards whatever horrors awaited in his gaol.
I did not relax until we were safely inside the garrison and the gates had slammed shut behind me.
“You all right, cocker?” asked Kate, coming down the stairs to the yard.
“Nothing a stiff drink won’t cure,” I said.
Chapter 7
We watched from the garrison’s high windows as the crowd outside the gates grew in size and ill-temper.
“That one’s got a cricket bat, see?” said Kate, pointing at a burly-looking man on the edge of the mob.
“Yes, and I can see at least five others who look like they are concealing weapons of some description or another. On the plus side, they all look human: no demons.” N’yotsu turned and grinned at us.
“Was that intended to be a joke?” I asked.
“Of sorts. I thought a bit of gallows humour might lighten the mood.”
“Gallows may be very apt,” I said. “This gathering has the feel of a lynch mob about them.”
“Should we read them the Riot Act?” Pearce asked Captain Gilbert.
“We could,” he said, “although I’d prefer it if the police helped us with crowd dispersal. Can’t see much chance of that happening, can you?”
We conceded his point; while the police were present in numbers, they were doing little to control the mob. If anything they were encouraging them, chatting to the ringleaders and occasionally pointing towards us as they made a point. I could see Morley standing at the edge of the mob,
a dark and looming presence that my eyes were constantly drawn to.
A young soldier approached, saluted and handed Gilbert a piece of paper. He studied it and grunted. “Your train is on its way. Barring incidents, it should be here in a few hours.”
“We need to be on that train,” said Pearce, “and I suspect that public order here would be much improved by our swift departure.”
“Agreed,” said Gilbert. “I have some town plans in my office: let us retire there and discuss some thoughts on attack. In the meantime, maybe they will all get bored and wander off home.”
I looked down at the growing anger and resentment in the crowd below, peppered with the odd group of opportunistic thugs clearly spoiling for a fight. “Wishful thinking,” I muttered.
We stood in the shadow of the huge garrison gates, surrounded by soldiers standing three deep with muskets at the ready.
“Remember!” shouted Gilbert. “No one is to fire unless given an express order. If you are attacked, you are to use non-lethal force only, and keep formation at all times. There are a lot of potentially angry and very upset people out there; do not under any circumstances allow yourselves to be provoked into a reaction. You will take your orders from Captain Pearce.” He nodded to Pearce, who was standing at the front of our wedge-shaped company.
The gates swung open and an initial party, led by Gilbert, advanced forwards in line, rifles held ready as they pushed forward to create an opening for us to step into. They shouted at the crowd, barking orders for them to stand back, keep away, stand down. As our party approached, Gilbert’s line split in two, allowing us to drive through them without creating any gaps for anyone foolish enough to try to dive into. We stepped through the shouting line of soldiers and into an altogether more oppressive atmosphere. Men jostled and glowered at us, faces twisted in hatred at the mere suggestion of our presence. The tension in the air was palpable, like the closeness that precedes an oncoming storm, and I knew that it would only take the slightest spark to ignite the crowd into violence.
I looked back to see that Gilbert’s line had reformed and closed again now that we were through, a solid barrier blocking the entrance to the garrison. They stood, rifles raised, watching carefully as we advanced through the throng.