'It's Matilda!' James gasped, the sudden realisation hitting him like a rock in his stomach. 'You're talking about Matilda! Ye gods, what have you done to her?' The fellow started to laugh and then, to James's surprise, his features took on a quizzical look, the rough laughter turned into a sort of choking sob and then, as blood began to spray from his mouth, he pitched forward face first into the straw at James's feet, knocking the makeshift table and its precious contents flying and only just missing the spluttering lamp.
'More a case of what the bastids haven't done to the poor child.'
James looked up again in sheer confusion, but there was no mistaking that voice, a voice he had heard many a time throughout his young and formative years.
Hannah Pennywise stood framed in the doorway, her cane gripped now in her left hand, in her right a long, thin and very sharp looking knife and, as James continued to gawp, slack-jawed, she carefully began to wipe its blade in the folds of her skirt, removing from it the last traces of blood - the same blood that even now was beginning to seep out from beneath the lifeless body which lay between them.
Thomas Handiwell sat and listened very carefully as Harriet related what the boys had discovered, though she carefully avoided mentioning his daughter Jane, or the fact that she might, in any way, be involved in Sarah's abduction. When Harriet had finally finished the innkeeper sat back, gnawing lightly on his knuckle, considering the implications.
'It's a delicate situation, Miss Merridew,' he said at last. It was curious, Harriet thought, how he still refrained from using her Christian name, even though he had several times hinted heavily at the possibilities of a marriage between them. 'Young Ellen Grayling is an odd one, of that there's no doubt,' he continued, 'and I'd definitely not discount the chances of her being in some way involved in this. The Graylings have ridden roughshod over people in these parts for as long as I can remember and even before that, but then that's so-called noble blood for you.
'On the other hand,' he said, 'we have nothing beyond the observations of a village lad and nothing to connect Lady Ellen with the other two wenches.' He sat back, stifling a yawn, his features looking pale and drawn, a clear indication of fatigue, for it had been well past two in the morning when he finally returned.
'I suppose Captain Hart could arrest the other two and see what they have to say for themselves,' Thomas suggested at length. 'We do, after all, have three witnesses that can place them at the scene where the boat was left, but that is no more than circumstantial and I'd wager the wench who returned that boat has some sort of story ready, in case she was seen.'
'Whatever we do, Master Handiwell,' Harriet said carefully, 'we must act quickly. I am supposed to take the ransom money, and the boat, and there are only a few hours before I must leave. I presume your offer is still open?'
'Yes, of course.' Thomas nodded. 'I have the money here, so there is no problem. However, I do not like the idea of you taking it alone. Ned's boy is quite right in his reasoning. They will not be at the original rendezvous this time and anything could happen to you.'
'I don't see that I have any choice in the matter,' Harriet replied. She shook her head slightly, blinking eyes that were becoming heavy and sore from her own lack of sleep. 'I have to deliver the money. Also,' she added, 'I have to return and make sure my father is all right. Besides, there are cows to be milked at first light.'
'Forget the cows,' Thomas said. 'Young Matthew and Billy can take care of the milking. We'll maybe have use of Toby, however. A sharp lad, that one, and no mistaking.'
'He is certainly intelligent,' Harriet agreed, 'and he knows the woods well.'
'Aye, he probably knows more than is good for a lad of his tender years, too,' Thomas said. He paused, considering again. At last he rose stiffly, stretching his leg muscles with some care.
'I think,' he said, nodding, 'that I have an idea. Let's have young Toby in here and see what he thinks, eh?'
Chapter 13
Simon Wickstanner stood quietly in the cellar doorway, studying the figure sprawled against the far wall. Her face and head still tightly enclosed in the leather hood, Matilda lay, legs splayed, her feet still encased in the ugly, heavy penance boots, arms once more cuffed to either side of the broad leather belt, oblivious now to her surroundings or sufferings.
Crawley's two henchmen had used her for several hours, Wickstanner knew, for he had ventured down on several occasions during the night, mostly listening to the sounds of their abuse from the security of the darkened passage and eventually, when he could control himself no longer, pushing open the door to the chamber and watching through the crack.
Eventually the two men had tired, and the minister retreated further down into the vaults, waiting for them to leave, and then returned again, but Matilda was by then exhausted and even the sound of his voice failed to stir her.
That had been two hours or more ago and still the wretched girl showed no sign of regaining consciousness. Wickstanner moved closer, raising the lantern he carried and stood, unmoving, his eyes roving over the display of naked female flesh, his tongue running lightly back and forth over his dry lips, beads of cold perspiration forming on his forehead.
Matters had not progressed the way he originally envisaged, and he was uneasy. He had been sure that the old woman, Matilda's grandmother, would pay up a sizeable sum for her granddaughter's release and absolution and that, in addition, he would have been able to set a further penance that would have placed Matilda in his power for at least a year.
Twelve months, in which the memory of her ordeal at the hands of the witchfinder would have been fresh in her mind, and Wickstanner had been confident that she would have come to view his petitions in a different light, probably turning to him as both confessor and confidante.
What he had not anticipated was the debauched approach Jacob Crawley and his minions had taken with the girl. Scourging with the lash was quite acceptable - it had been for centuries - and even the treatment of stripping her, shaving her hair and parading her naked before the village, but what had been happening here, in the vaults beneath the church itself, went far beyond what Wickstanner considered acceptable.
Then why, the voice of his conscience pricked him, had he not done something to stop them earlier? Why had he simply stood back, listening and eventually even watching, his entire body shaking uncontrollably? And why had he found himself imagining that it was he, Simon Wickstanner, who was thrusting himself in and out of the helpless girl's sex?
He groaned, aloud this time and bit his lip, drawing blood, which mingled with the sweat now running down into the corners of his mouth. The time was long past for him to turn back. If he was not damned in the eyes of his Church, Wickstanner knew he most definitely was damned in the eyes of his God.
Shivering, his stomach aching, he turned away, stumbled towards the door again and there, as he lurched into the passageway beyond, he was violently, noisily sick.
Jane Handiwell sat staring into the crackling flames for a long while after Hannah Pennywise had gone on her way again, her thoughts wandering as the sparks floated up from the slowly burning wood and the smoke drifted in small coils on the night breeze.
At last, as if breaking out of a trance, she snapped upright, her eyes darting around the perimeter of darkened woodland and then travelling upwards, to where myriad stars twinkled in the moonless sky. Pursing her lips she shook her head and smiled grimly.
Let the old woman attend to her own problems, she thought. After all, her granddaughter, Matilda, was nothing to her, just another young woman she would sometimes see walking through the village or out along the country lanes. Why, Jane thought indignantly, they'd never even exchanged more than a couple of polite words in passing, so why should she put herself out now?
Of course it was ridiculous, what was happening back there in the village, but someone would be bound to stop things before they got too far out of hand, probably her own father once he returned from the coast. Matilda Pennywise a witch? T
he idea was laughable and Jane snickered to herself at the thought.
Now, if Wickstanner and this Crawley fellow had accused Hannah herself, well then, Jane smiled, that would have been an entirely different proposition, though to actually describe the old harridan as a witch? Well, she did have some curious powers, that much Jane knew at first hand, but then Jane herself was capable of picking up emotions, feelings, signals and also quite expert now at using her own powers in order to persuade certain, more susceptible people, to do what she wanted them to do.
Hannah Pennywise, for all that air of mystery with which she liked to surround herself, was probably not any different from herself, Jane thought. Certainly, when Jane had first begun to experience the unsettling feelings, to feel the auras that surrounded some people, Hannah had been quick to notice that there was something wrong with the then gawky teenage girl and she had, true, taken her aside and tried to explain, but that did not give her the right to demand things of her now, surely?
Except, Jane mused, she had the uncomfortable feeling that the old woman knew a bit more about her than she was letting on. No. Jane shook herself mentally. No, that was ridiculous, there was no way Hannah could know anything about what she and her friends were doing, save that they met out here in the woods each month and...
Well, if people wanted to think of that as some kind of witchcraft, then let them. In truth, they were nothing more than simple rites that came from centuries in the past and meant nothing whatsoever. Jane and Ellen Grayling had only started it in the first place as a dare, when Ellen, then only fifteen and seemingly as innocent and naive as a puppy, had looked up to the older girl with whom she romped in the woods.
Then, one night, when they had both sneaked out to rendezvous in the darkness, giggling, nervous and rapidly becoming drunk on the bottle of rum Jane had liberated from her father's cellar, Kate Dawson stumbled across them, and the twosome became a trio after that. Quite why Kate had been out here, in woods that were part of the fringes of the Grayling estates, they never did discover, but it mattered not, for she quickly proved herself a loyal and trustworthy friend.
It had been Kate who introduced them to Mary Watling, the near giant of a girl who could wield axe or pitchfork to match almost any man and whose stature had first given Jane the idea that the four of them might dress up and pass as men in order to rob the coaches on the London to Portsmouth road.
Not that either Jane or Ellen needed the money that their nefarious enterprise brought them; indeed, rather they did what they did for the pure excitement, for the feeling of power it gave and for the sheer joy of being able to thumb their noses at so-called masculine controlled authority. It was also the same, though to a lesser extent, for Kate and Mary, though in their respective cases an extra few guineas every now and then did not come amiss.
No, Hannah couldn't know anything about that side of their lives, or she would surely have said something by now, Jane was certain. She laughed, this time out loud.
'So, why should I help you, Mother Pennywise?' she cried, her voice echoing back from the circle of trees. 'Think you can scare me, the way you manage to scare most of the other poor fools? You want to find your precious granddaughter's beau, then you go right ahead. Don't expect—'
She stopped suddenly, her narrow brow furrowing deeply.
'Except...' she breathed, her eyes gleaming brightly. Except, she thought, that maybe there was a way in which she and her friends could help the old baggage save her granddaughter and, at the same time, deal with Jane's other little problem. Of course, the fact that it would also discredit that bumbling fool Wickstanner and that awful creature Jacob Crawley at the same time, that was indeed a bonus!
'Indeed a bonus,' she repeated, in a harsh whisper. She looked up at the night sky again, trying to calculate the probable hour and how much time remained before daybreak. The timing would be tight - very tight - but then maybe it would be possible to persuade Crawley to delay his planned noon deadline. A guinea, maybe two?
If he could be made to think that the money had come from Hannah herself, as a gesture of good faith, and that the rest of his demanded tithe might yet be forthcoming, Jane felt confident he would agree. Slowly she rose to her feet, dusted the seat of her breeches and turned to walk back to where she had left Marquis.
By the time Sarah recovered her senses sufficiently to take stock of her surroundings again, she found herself laying on a massive, canopied bed, alone and in a room that was different and far larger than the one in which Prudence and Justine had dressed her and Kitty earlier.
Sitting up, Sarah examined herself morosely. She still wore the corset, stockings, boots and gloves, and the stiff lined collar was also still about her neck, but her hair, which had been so meticulously prepared earlier, now hung about her shoulders in a tangled mess, damp with her sweat and cold on her naked shoulders.
Tentatively she swung her legs over the side of the bed, lowering her feet to the thick rug and stood up, swaying slightly at first as blood rushed to her head, so that she was forced to reach out for the nearest upright bedpost for support. Closing her eyes, Sarah tried to breathe in and out as deeply as the strictures of her corset would permit, and slowly the dizziness passed.
She opened her eyes again and looked about, studying her latest surroundings. It was, as she had first noted, a very large bedroom, the walls draped as elegantly and fussily as the earlier bedroom, dark rosewood furniture, including two chests and a long dressing table upon which stood an ornate gilt framed mirror.
Slowly, wobbling on the unaccustomed heels, Sarah swayed across and leaned forward, studying her reflection and wincing as she saw the picture she now presented. The earlier powders and paints, so skilfully applied at the time, were now a sad wreckage, black smudges beneath both eyes merging with the white foundation to form various grey rivulets that had, mercifully, dried.
Sarah groaned, not so much at her appearance, but at how that ravaged countenance reminded her of what had happened to produce that effect and more so because of the memory of how she responded to her mistreatment. She closed her eyes again, unwilling to face the travesty of what she now imagined she had become, and turned away, feeling blindly back towards the bed.
'I see you are back in the land of the living?' The new voice, female, aristocratic, youthful and also mocking, brought Sarah up short. Her eyes flew open again and she stopped short, staring at the newcomer in a mixture of guilt and shame. The girl, seeing this reaction, smiled crookedly and stepped further into the room, closing the door behind her.
She was, Sarah realised, even younger than herself, slightly smaller in build though scarcely less tall, once the height of Sarah's heels was discounted. Her long, strawberry blonde hair was tied back into a loose ponytail, revealing a face that was lightly freckled, pretty and surprisingly innocent looking, with wide, unblinking green eyes.
Her mode of dress was curious for a female; tight male riding breeches, a pale blue silk shirt, unbuttoned to display the beginning of her modest cleavage, and soft black kid leather, wrist length gloves. Over her left arm she carried a black velvet jacket and Sarah realised, suddenly, that she was actually wearing an outfit designed for riding, though she had discarded her boots somewhere and her feet were bare.
'Who are you?' Sarah said, eventually finding her voice when it became clear that the girl was in no hurry to break the silence that had descended between them. The girl smiled again, crossed to stand on the opposite side of the bed from Sarah, and carelessly tossed the jacket onto it between them.
'My name,' she said easily, 'is Ellen Grayling, and this house belongs to my father, Lord Grayling, though the way my dear brother acts you would think it were he that owned it.'
'That terrible man is your brother?' Sarah gasped. 'But I thought he was Lord Grayling!'
'No, my papa may be getting on in years and totally disparate, but he is not yet dead, at least not to my current knowledge,' Ellen Grayling said. 'However, the servants all address da
rling Roderick as if he were already the viscount and he does nothing to discourage them, but then such is the vanity of men.' She sniffed disdainfully and then the smile returned once again.
'You are Sarah Merridew, I suppose?' she said. Sarah nodded, but said nothing. 'You look a little different from when I last saw you, but then it was dark then and you were attired, shall we say, a little more modestly. I must say, however, that you really do have a perfectly splendid body, though your make-up does leave a little to be desired right now.' She giggled and Sarah felt herself blushing.
'Oh, don't be such a silly and modest little goose,' Ellen said scornfully. She began walking around the end of the bed. 'I know exactly what goes on here whenever Roddy brings a couple of slaves up to the house. Those two little heathen serpent bitches of his can't wait to get their snake tongues into fresh fanny!'
She stood only a foot or two away from Sarah and was once again looking her up and down appraisingly, a superior yet softening expression on her youthful features.
'I'll say one thing for my brother and dear prudence,' she said at length, 'they do know how to present woman flesh to its most appealing advantage.'
'I find little appealing in my current state of dishabille,' Sarah returned softly. 'And I doubt whether you would, either, if the boot were on the other foot.'
Ellen gave a little sigh and reached out a tentative hand. Sarah's immediate instinct was to recoil from her touch, but at the last moment she held her ground. The soft gloved fingers stroked her left breast gently, a feathery, butterfly wing caress. 'Not as big as your little friend's,' Ellen whispered, 'but then I never have had a taste for overly big boobies.' With her other hand she flicked open two more buttons on her shirt, pulling the front apart to reveal her own unfettered breasts, smaller than Sarah's by some way, but with firmly pointed nipples.
Cauldron of Fear Page 18