Witch Hunt

by Syd Moore

  She smiled sympathetically. ‘Call me, whenever you want to talk. You know there are bereavement counsellors out there. I’m sure I can fix you up with someone I know.’

  I got to my feet. ‘I’m okay. I’m just, I dunno. Put it this way, when I’m on my own it all seems pretty real.’

  ‘That’s the point though, isn’t it? Take it easy for a bit, Sadie,’ she said and grinned. ‘The article you filed yesterday was great by the way. I loved it. Keep positive. Think along those lines. Mind you, don’t for one moment think you’re getting an extension on that other piece we talked about. If that’s what you’re fishing for it ain’t working …’ She winked.

  I tugged myself up from more contemplative depths to meet Maggie’s banter. ‘You gotta give me marks for originality,’ I said. ‘Most prevaricating writers would dish up something like writer’s block or “other commitments”. Not me – I go for full-blown psychotic meltdown.’

  ‘Or tiredness,’ she added and straightened herself up. ‘Though I know you’re really just here for the coffee.’

  ‘Well, it sure ain’t the company,’ I said as I passed through the door.

  She didn’t answer but a pen whacked me on the back as I turned out of sight.

  I navigated around the desks to the front door.

  ‘Er, hi Sadie.’

  It was Flick. She’d stuck her head above her monitor in a half-risen position and was looking kind of sheepish.

  ‘Oh, hi Flick.’

  She sat back into her chair, so I moved round the other side of her Mac to see her as she spoke.

  ‘I’m really sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearing.’ She extricated a strand of dark hair from her mouth. ‘The door wasn’t closed.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. Heat touched my cheeks. ‘Sorry, it was meant to be a private conversation. I was just, er …’

  She cut in. ‘I know, but it was fascinating. When you were talking about that hacker. When you said you were in the coffee shop? Did you say something along the lines that you’d just written the details about where Hopkins was buried?’

  I was looking at her from above. She was slender and petite. Just then her tiny frame seemed so fragile. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And you were freaked out because that meant that whoever had messaged you, could see you and what you were writing.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I thought it could be some virus or remote …’

  ‘You’re hooked on the idea that they’re trying to spook you by implying that they can see you. What if it’s not about that? What if it’s more about the facts that you’re writing? Could they be suggesting Hopkins wasn’t buried there? What if it was what you had just written that was the trigger, not the fact it was you writing it, if you see what I mean?’

  ‘You think the hacker is fixating on me because of my research?’ I looked doubtful.

  She shrugged and cocked her head to one side ‘Forgive me for saying this, but you’re taking a very ego-centric approach to this for someone who professes that it’s not about them. If it’s not your grief and it’s not your work then what is it about? Your irresistible animal magnetism?’

  My eyebrows were practically on the ceiling. The girl had balls – you had to give her that. But she’d gone too far. I was about to respond with unthinking indignation but she continued on. ‘If it’s not about you then surely it’s about what you’re writing. You’ve got a book deal. That means you’ve got a voice, right?’ She looked up, beyond me, to the rafters, thinking through her words as she spoke. ‘I’m not sure. It’s just – is there any doubt about what happened to Matthew Hopkins? I mean, is it concrete?’

  I gave up being offended, pulled in by the fact that, although it had flitted through my brain yesterday, Flick might be right. I had been way too focused on poor me. I mentally rummaged through my files. ‘There is some hypothesis, but it’s not regarded as kosher by academics and historians. Might be worth a squizz though, true.’

  ‘Just a thought,’ she said, as if her comment had been nothing more than a throwaway quip, and drank some water from a glass on her desk. ‘You know there’s this whole thing about automatic writing? Have you heard about it?’

  I had a vague memory of some eighties documentary. ‘Remind me please, Flick.’

  ‘It’s the state that you get into when you sort of lose your overriding conscious and let your subconscious come through. Or other people think, it’s more like channelling, and actually what happens is that a spiritual source is in control.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think I went into a trance or anything.’

  ‘No, I don’t think you have to. I think it can happen in a waking state.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said reflecting. ‘It’s all slightly strange. There’s a lot to think …’

  She sniffed and broke in, ‘Could be your subconscious coming through, trying to communicate with you? To lead you?’

  My frame slumped. ‘Don’t you start. I’ve just had a half-hour psychotherapy session with Maggie.’

  Flick laughed and sat back. ‘I don’t really think that,’ she said and smiled.

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘No.’ She shook out her wispy black hair. ‘I’m more likely to think it’s a ghost.’

  I examined her face to see if she was joking. Too hard to tell. ‘A ghost? Why?’

  She shrugged. ‘Look at me – I’m a Goth. That kind of thinking comes with the territory. I love supernatural phenomena, don’t you?’ She peeked at me, scrutinising my reaction.

  ‘Well, I like it when it’s on the TV or in books or films. Not when it’s happening to me.’

  ‘I’d love it,’ she smiled confidently.

  There was no time to comment, as she was off again. ‘The automatic writing thing is worth looking into. You could try it out. See if it happens when you’re in control and have a go at bringing it on.’

  I rubbed my chin. ‘I don’t really fancy that. It’s too creepy. I’m hoping it’s going to go away.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said and turned back to her computer. ‘Do me a favour and let me know how you get on.’

  ‘How I get on?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, tapping at the keys. ‘I’m interested.’

  To be honest I was more than taken aback. This wasn’t the shy, retiring wallflower I was used to. Still, I told her I would. Then I left.

  I had software to buy and a present to pick up for Uncle Roger’s party.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Despite Janet’s pessimism my uncle was in fine form on Saturday. In fact, seated in a sturdy wooden chair in the shade of the gazebo holding court, he looked like he’d last long enough to see a telegram from the Queen. The weather was exceptionally warm that October weekend and the party had, in Great British fashion, transferred itself to the garden, in order that its pasty-faced revellers might soak up every last ray of autumn sunshine.

  Lucy, my stepsister, who I had last glimpsed gallivanting naked in the tree house, was playing the violin whilst the assorted friends and family listened on in a semi-circle of picnic blankets and deck chairs. She had obviously got a little more self-conscious in the intervening three months and was dressed in a lemon skirt and matching blouse. Her rendition of Happy Birthday to You was slightly squeaky but very well received by the indulgent audience. Once the clapping had ceased I stepped into the garden and coughed to alert the company to my presence.

  ‘Mercedes!’ Dad creaked to his feet from a blanket just in front of Uncle Roger’s chair. There was about eight years between them but whilst my dad looked sprightly for his age, Uncle Roger had an old-fashioned granddad-type look to him. Dad’s hair was greying but still kept some of his youthful deep brown curl, and today he had on a cricket jumper and linen slacks. They were very last season but kind of right for the day it was turning out to be.

  ‘At last!’ Dad’s mouth tucked up into the corners, suggesting a suppression of his usual characteristic irritation. ‘We thought you would never come.’

&nb
sp; I looked at my watch. 1.45 p.m. ‘I’m only forty-five minutes late.’

  Dad kissed me on the cheek. ‘I did say one o’clock.’

  ‘Oh, right. Sorry.’

  ‘Never mind. How are you, dear? Are you coping? Have you managed to do the house yet?’ He reached out and put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a quick squeeze. I wasn’t used to his physical embrace. We never had that kind of relationship. Nonetheless I knew he was trying and smiled.

  I shook my head. ‘I haven’t got round to it yet. Maybe next week. You got something you want me to look out for?’

  Dad gave me another squeeze. ‘Not at all. I thought you might want me to come with you? Help you go through your mother’s things. It won’t be a particularly pleasant experience.’

  I was grateful for his concern but told him I’d be fine on my own.

  ‘Righty ho. Well you know where I am if you need me. You do understand that don’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said and settled a play punch on his belly to mask my awkwardness.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked before releasing me.

  ‘I’m getting on,’ I told him. And I was. Since I had loaded the new firewall onto my laptop the Hackerman had ceased his mischief.

  The nightmares hadn’t stopped. But this was neither the time nor the place.

  ‘Good. Glad to hear it. Now you go and say happy birthday to Uncle Roger. What can I get you to drink? We’re all on champagne.’

  ‘Thanks but I’m driving.’

  ‘What?’ His face fell. ‘We’ve made you up a bed in the spare room. Your cousins aren’t getting here till five. Come on, stay over. What have you got to run back for?’

  I glanced at Janet who had come up to greet me. She had a ‘please’ look on her face.

  Bugger. I would appear churlish now. ‘I’ll see how it goes,’ I said, kissing Janet on the cheek.

  ‘Hello love,’ she greeted me. ‘One glass of fizz won’t hurt will it?’ They were an ebullient couple and enjoyed life to the full. Though if you hung out with them for more than a day or so you did get the impression that alcohol was an integral component of ‘fun’. But it was a good-natured thing.

  ‘You two are terrible. All right, just one.’

  They both smiled and Dad went off to fix me a drink while Janet guided me through the legs and glasses and plates to Roger’s square of shade. ‘We’ve been so lucky with the weather,’ she said. ‘I think this will be the last of it though. We thought we’d enjoy it before it disappears completely. Ah, here’s the birthday boy.’

  Uncle Roger was talking to a plump middle-aged woman with dyed frizzy burgundy hair. They looked an odd couple, sat there against the backdrop of purple agapanthus and Michaelmas daisies; she, in her tasselled hippy skirt and bejewelled flats, he, with his neatly trimmed Captain Birdseye beard and dark tweed suit. He always looked immaculate did Uncle Roger.

  Janet waited for a pause in their conversation before introducing me. ‘This is Mercedes,’ she said to the woman. ‘Ted’s eldest.’

  The red-haired woman tried to stand up to greet me, but she was wedged into a rather small metal deck chair and it was causing a few problems. ‘Oh,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Please don’t get up. You’re comfortable there.’

  She gave up and sent me a look of gratitude. She had pretty eyes highlighted with a matching dab of blue eye-shadow and a cheerful round face. ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Mercedes.’ She held out her hand. Her cheeks looked like rosy Pippins. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m a friend of Janet’s, Amelia Whitting.’

  I grasped her palm and shook it heartily. ‘Please call me Sadie,’ then turning to Uncle Roger said, ‘Happy birthday,’ and handed over my present. He took it and reached up crookedly to kiss me. I bent down quickly to offer my cheek so he didn’t have to rise.

  He smacked his lips on my chin and plopped back down, screwing his eyes up. ‘Mercedes, that’s a very short skirt you’ve got on.’ There was more than a smidgen of disapproval in his eyes as he surveyed my ensemble. Both Dad and he had this superior than thou thing going on. But where Dad tried to hide it, Roger let his disregard run free. I’d chosen the dark linen dress because I knew it would be cool on the leather driving seat. Of course, I should have known Uncle Roger would have found something to censure. He always did.

  Janet beat a hasty retreat, while Amelia cooed out something about me looking smart.

  There were no free seats nearby so I squatted down by his feet.

  ‘How are you then, Mercedes?’ He was easing himself back into the comfy padding of the chair now, putting my package on the coffee table at his side. But I wasn’t having any of that; I’d spent weeks researching his gift. Uncle Roger used to be a shop steward and, like Dad, a thoroughly committed trade union man – the socialist movement ran through their blood. Their father had taken part in the Jarrow March. Neither of them ever stopped banging on about it. I’d managed to track down a very mouldy reprint of the crusaders reaching the outskirts of London, had it restored and framed. It had cost a pretty penny and I didn’t want it left on the table without him commenting on it. ‘Aren’t you going to open the present?’

  Uncle Roger fingered the gift then withdrew. ‘No, we’re opening them when your cousins get here.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, not trying to hide my disappointment. My uncle gave a familiar sigh.

  Amelia took the cue and piped up. ‘So Sadie, Janet and Ted tell me you’re a journalist. What are you working on at the minute?’

  I took a long gulp of my champagne and eyed my uncle, then I told them both about my meeting with the publisher.

  At the end of it Amelia was practically jumping out of her seat. ‘Oh that’s fantastic.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said to Uncle Roger. ‘Can you imagine? A publishing deal?’

  Even he nodded at that, acknowledging it was a massive coup although he’d never had any interest in writing. ‘That sounds interesting, Mercedes. The witch hunts. It’s a sad truth that we know more about the Witchfinder General than his victims. Obviously as a Suffolk man I’d like to point out that our county lost more souls to that nasty gentleman …’

  ‘But,’ Amelia interjected. ‘Overall during the witch hysteria Essex lost far far more.’ She eyed Uncle Roger for a response.

  I was hoping we weren’t getting into a ‘we came off worse than you’ standoff. The truth of the matter was that that argument camouflaged the real nature of the conflict – the rich and powerful versus the poor and beleaguered. Same as it ever was …

  Thankfully Roger agreed. ‘Yes, fair enough. What a horrid barbaric time. Mercedes, are you sure you want to go into all of this?’

  I nodded my head vigorously. ‘I’m Essex through and through. And I’m female. Why would I not want to delve into it? There was a great wrong done to our ancestors, and I’d like to have a go at bringing it into contemporary consciousness to make people think about it.’

  Roger rubbed his beard. ‘Do you not think, Mercedes, some things are better left undisturbed?’

  Amelia glanced at me, sensing a clash coming on. Her look was a hush; I didn’t obey it. I said ‘No way. This is part of my heritage. It’s part of who I am.’

  ‘But what about what’s going on now?’ Roger fixed me with a determined stare. ‘Surely there’s more to be made from scout fetes and council corruption than digging up the past?’

  I glared at him, thinking right, that’s just what you’d like me to do isn’t it? Just then Janet appeared with a bottle of champagne. ‘Oh, empty here are we? Do let me top you up.’

  In spite of my earlier decision re: the car, I let her refill my glass and within seconds more guests had appeared. Roger got up to greet them and moved further down the garden.

  Amelia however was still back in the dark days. ‘Sadie, I’m intrigued. I have an interest in this.’

  I glanced at her skirt. I wanted to steer clear of any airy-fairyness. ‘Are you into that New Age stuff? That’s not the angle I’m ta
king.’

  Amelia laughed. ‘No, not at all. I may wear the uniform but I’m not in the club, so to speak. I live in Manningtree, that’s all. Well, just outside. The local history is fascinating. No one really speaks of Hopkins. Not any more – they’ve been there and done that. But I’m not a native so I’ve found all that side of the town history very interesting. I’m from Launceston originally, in Cornwall. It’s near Boscastle. Do you know it?’

  I shook my head. ‘I recognise the name but I haven’t been.’

  Amelia grimaced. ‘Got hit awfully badly by those floods eight years back. You probably saw them on the news.’ She tutted. ‘Terrible. But,’ she clasped her hands over her knee, ‘they’ve also got a Museum of Witchcraft. Wonderful.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’ I was being genuine.

  ‘I went back a couple of years ago and gave a lecture on what I found out about the dastardly Master Hopkins. Did the Women’s Institute too.’

  She caught me arching my eyebrows. ‘The W.I.’s not all jam and fairy cakes these days, you know. We’re quite progressive. Anyway, it went down well. All quite amateur sleuthing though, I’m afraid.’ She raised her own eyebrow now to imply faux modesty.

  ‘Really?’ I asked. Now I was seeing Amelia with different eyes – as a possible source. ‘So do you know much about Hopkins?’

  She leant her shoulders into me. ‘I know he wasn’t born in Manningtree. Suffolk more likely. There’s a will of a James Hopkins who was a minister of the parish of Wenham. Most people agree that was his father. Personally I’m not that interested in his birth. No, it’s his end that interests me. There are stories that tell of him being lynched by a mob when he returned to Manningtree. Some think he went overseas.’

  I could hear the West Country twang in her voice now.

  ‘I’ve heard some of that before,’ I said, thinking back to what Flick had said about my ‘ghost in the machine’, the unknown hand that had sent that missive to me – ‘He wasn’t he wasn’t he wasn’t’. Thing was, most people thought Hopkins was buried in Mistley and I said as much. ‘I’m sure most of that’s conjecture. Isn’t the consensus that he died of tuberculosis? That’s what his sidekick Stearne wrote, I believe.’