by Syd Moore
She was leading me now. ‘And?’
Amelia’s brow dropped. A ‘humph’ pushed out through her lips. Downwards curves appeared at the corners of her mouth. It was a similar expression of muted irritation that my mum used to wear. Immediately I regretted my impatience.
‘Sorry, do go on.’
She angled her head towards the document. ‘Well, here we have the second wife. Witham, of course, was her married name. Before that she had been Mary or Marie Hopkins.’
‘Oh.’ Now I was beginning to catch her drift. ‘Oh! You reckon that was Matthew Hopkins’ mother? Previously married to James Hopkins?’
Amelia shrugged. ‘Could be. It never occurred to me as relevant before. But Sunday, when I was looking at it, it struck me as odd. Look.’ She took another sheet from the pile and spread it in front of me. It was a sketchy family tree. ‘See here: James Hopkins died around 1634, a year after Parson Witham’s first wife. His second wife, Mary Witham, was certainly the mother of “John Hopkins” who was also buried in Mistley Churchyard in 1641. The entry reads 1641 Dec 24 John son of Mary Hopkins (wife of Mr Witham, parson). Also, from what we know, the Hopkins named their sons after the disciples: Thomas, Matthew, James. Why not John?’ The dates are all about the right time. Mary Hopkins and Parson Witham must have known of each other. Great Wenham, where the Hopkins family lived, is just across the water in Suffolk, only five miles away as the crow flies. Both Mary’s and Witham’s spouses die within a short time of each other. On one side of the Stour you have a bereaved Minister and on the other a bereaved Minister’s wife. They’ve both got children. One batch without a mother, the other without a father. A quick practical marriage would have addressed their mutual material and practical needs. Ergo they unite the households and move to Manningtree or Mistley. Witham becomes stepfather to a teenage Matthew Hopkins. Who knows, the parson may have even played a part in supporting young Hopkins’ prosecution of Devil-worshipping witches.’
‘Yes,’ I said, picturing a thin tight-lipped man smiling down at a similarly sickly-looking youth. ‘It makes sense.’
Amelia rubbed her hands together. ‘It explains why Matthew returned to Manningtree and Mistley. Why do that unless you’ve got a reason to come back to the place? It’s the scene of his first prosecutions. The tide had turned. His actions here had caused several families to suffer. Why come back when you know you’ll be greeted with hostility? Why not go back to Great Wenham instead? The village where you were born and a place where no witches were to be found. The Wenham population might be more, let’s say, welcoming?’
Her hands were open, facing up to the ceiling.
I had my hand on my chin. ‘Why not indeed?’ I said slowly. ‘You’re suggesting he came back here because his mother was in Manningtree. Interesting.’ I was processing the information at a pace now, absorbing each detail wholly and completely. ‘But it’s hardly front page news.’ I spoke without thinking and saw Amelia bristle.
‘No. You’re not listening to what I’m saying. How old was Hopkins in 1647 – twenty-six, twenty-seven?’
‘One of those. No one is sure.’
‘He’s young though, right? What if he didn’t die of TB?’
‘Stearne said he did.’
‘Yes, well, Master Stearne had his own reasons for distancing himself from the unpopular Master Hopkins.’
‘So what are you saying? That he didn’t die? That Mary Hopkins persuaded her husband …’
‘Matthew’s stepfather …’
‘… to enter the record of Matthew’s death falsely? Why?’
‘The war was ending. Men were returning home to find their villages decimated and their womenfolk gone, dead. They wanted someone to blame. Manningtree and Mistley had lost a fair few souls. Belligerence towards her son must have characterised many of the returning villagers and concerned Matthew’s mother. The situation may have got very nasty indeed. Mr and Mrs Witham had other children to protect. It would compromise everyone if Matthew continued to live with them. He had no respectable future any more. One way out for them all would be to tell everyone the Witchfinder had died, then get him out of the country. Just as Bishop Hutchinson wrote.’
I thought about this for a moment. ‘But where would he have gone?’
She unfolded a photocopy of a photograph – the original will, proved in 1634, for James Hopkins, the vicar of Great Wenham.
I recognised it. ‘Matthew Hopkins’ father.’
‘That’s right.’ She pointed at a paragraph.
It read ‘My sonne Thomas My Mynede & Will is that my Executrix shall as soone as she can finde opportunitie send him over the seas to such our friends in Newe England as she shall thinke fitt.’
‘New England,’ I murmured. ‘Of course.’
‘Uh huh,’ Amelia harrumphed with victory.
My hand was starting to tingle. It made sense.
‘So,’ continued Amelia. ‘Then I thought – what if he did go out there and couldn’t resist getting up to his old tricks?’
I was nodding along with her, willing her to speed up. She pulled another piece of paper out of her bag. ‘Well, looky here. I looked up “early witch hunts in New England” and guess when the first one is?’
I shook my head.
‘1648. One year after Hopkins disappears off the face of the earth. Well, the Essex earth anyway. How long would it have taken to cross the Atlantic back then? Maybe four, five months?’
‘About that, I’d say.’
‘And guess what else? In that very same essay that Bishop Hutchinson talks of Hopkins leaving the country, he also mentions Cotton Mather. Mather was actively involved in the Salem witch hunts. He writes about it in his History of New England. And,’ she drew the last word out for drama, ‘he also mentions two cases in Chelmsford from the year 1645.’
‘The Hopkins witch hunts,’ I said and exhaled all my breath.
Amelia nodded. ‘Hopkins’ stories were out there in the New World. Was he?’
She sat back, picked up her glass and drained it.
‘Bloody hell, Amelia. You’re a little gem. You really bloody are. This is excellent. Shit. I suppose you want to investigate this now?’
Amelia smiled. ‘To be honest I’ve done all I want to on this horrid man. This is for you. Also I’ve got no time now. I’d rather read a couple of books with a bit of a Greek flavour. Soak up the atmosphere out there. Just let me know how you get on and give me a credit when you publish your piece – Amelia Whitting.’
That was extremely generous and I told her so. The implications that this could have for my book were fantastic. ‘It could be a staggering revelation,’ I piped up and rather excitedly clapped my hands together with almost childish glee. ‘I’m so grateful …’ I was about to thank her again but my attention was caught by the chap sitting alone on the small round table behind her. I hadn’t noticed him previously. But now he was staring at me, his body very still, shoulders rigid with tension. Then suddenly he jumped to his feet, spilling his drink over the small table, and raced for the door. Surprised that he would leave the contents spreading over the surface onto the floor, I looked after him. The angle where I was sitting meant I only caught the profile of his face. But I recognised it. He was the man I had knocked into at the garage after Uncle Roger’s party.
Amelia had turned to see the commotion. She looked back and raised her eyebrows. ‘Some people!’
‘He’s not a local then?’ I said as he disappeared out the front door.
‘No. Not seen him before. Actually I was going to say earlier – I thought you’d pulled!’ She snorted with laughter again. ‘He couldn’t take his eyes off you, the whole time we’ve been here. He was at the bar when we were, then took a table after us.’
Unusually I felt myself blush. At least I think it was a blush. A surge of heat spread through my body, leaving me slightly nauseous and queer.
‘Are you all right, Sadie?’ Amelia asked, eyeing me up and down.
I told her
I was feeling a bit dodgy and got the bill.
As we wound down our chat Amelia suggested I should take a trip to Kew Gardens.
‘The National Archives are in Kew. They keep passenger lists for ships bound to America.’
‘Great,’ I said, enormously indebted to my new friend. ‘Ever thought of going into journalism?’
‘Couldn’t hack the hours,’ she said with a grin.
I paid up and called a cab, then saw her out onto the pavement. Just before she got into the car, she darted back and gave me a hug. ‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘I mean, with tonight. Don’t let the ghosties or the bedbugs bite.’
I kissed her goodbye and watched the car disappear round the curve of the road. I can almost see myself standing there, waving into the distance. I wish she’d have told me to ‘gird my loins’ or something. It might have helped.
My night at the Thorn was just about to begin in earnest.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Amelia had given me a lot to think about. I was buzzing with ideas and theories and was now able to understand her earlier exuberance. My scalp was itching with excitement. This stuff was good.
I returned to my room, pulled out my notebook and started to annotate the sheets that she had given me. I think I was at it for a good hour until my neck started aching, forcing me to change position. I flopped on the bed, stretched and rubbed my back, realising as I relaxed that I needed to pee, so nipped into the ensuite.
I splashed some water on my face, turned off the tap, inspected a fading blemish on my chin. Then I opened the connecting door and took a couple of steps back into the bedroom.
I don’t know what I noticed first – the drop of temperature or the warping blackness on the far side of the bed. At first I skated over it and my feet automatically continued walking. But when the sight registered with my brain, my whole body stopped stone dead. Slowly, my eyes swivelled back to the other side of the bed.
A woman was standing there.
Shorter than me, her hair was tucked under a white linen cap. She was looking down at something in her hand.
Perhaps, I thought in a flash of reason, it’s one of the staff.
I took in the dress – a grey, stiff, linen shift that reached to the floor, patterned with large grey flowers. Over this she wore an apron. There were smears of blood on it.
I hadn’t exhaled since I’d caught sight of her, but in shock at the sight of bloodstains I released an untidy bustle of air, drawing in quickly once more when I realised it wasn’t her dress that was patterned with flowers. It was the wallpaper on the far wall. I could see it through her body and dress. The woman was insubstantial, wavering.
I did absolutely nothing. My brain had completely closed down leaving me helpless, unable to move.
Wavy lines appeared like visible air streams between us. The bedside lamp flickered and dimmed. My breath came out like fog. The atmosphere was charged with an almost palpable sense of menace.
Then the spectre’s head began to turn upwards, towards me, creaking like an old wooden post, the sound of bone grating on bone.
I did not want to see the thing’s face. I knew that. Yet I was completely unable to tear my gaze away and could do little else but watch with a sense of passive inevitability as she turned towards me. The malignancy in the room doubled. I breathed in a gasp of textured, unnaturally thick air. Nausea came over me suddenly, as it had in the dungeons at the castle.
I could see the face now – the features wizened and extensively wrinkled, the eyes entirely grey – no iris, no pupil; just opaque holes like great cataracts bulging out of her face.
Then she spoke. ‘This one’ll not last long. Would you fancy to finish her?’
Her voice was coarse, the words pronounced without any trace of emotion.
I didn’t speak. Nor move.
Her hand spasmed by her side and, like an old juddering puppet, she brought it up to offer me the thing that was in it. A bronze dagger, its handle and blade pointed down. Drops of red liquid slicked off the end and splashed onto the carpet beneath.
Unwilling to take in any more, I clamped my eyes shut.
‘If you open your eyes, Sadie,’ I told myself silently, ‘you will see that there is nothing there. This is just a trick of the light. You’re getting carried away, you silly cow.’
I breathed in through my nostrils and haltingly opened my eyes.
She was still there, waiting. There was a door behind her, half open.
‘She’s through here,’ she gestured.
I looked around, thinking to flee. The room had changed. Gone were the bed, armchair, and dressing table. The wallpaper and carpet had been replaced by flaking white walls and exposed wooden beams.
‘Come.’ Her voice was impelling. When I looked back she had stepped inside.
Without any conscious thought of compliance my body followed her through the doorway and stepped down into a half-lit room. Two gentlemen sat in the corner beside a candle. One wore his hair short, cropped, the other had on a stiff blue coat. Their eyes flitted to me, momentarily registering the interruption. Neither surprise nor shock appeared across their faces. The one in blue acknowledged my presence with a slight nod and returned to study a spot on my left. I followed his gaze. Strapped onto a chair was a chaos of limbs and clothes. A pale languid form was wrapped within. The woman’s breasts, exposed over the coarse ripped dress, dripped bloody tears from wounds around the nipples. Her legs and arms were bound to the chair by tight ropes. A darkness seeped outwards from her groin, staining the petticoat brushed aside to reveal the scarlet gores of her flesh. Her head lolled backwards and she moaned.
It was a sickening display of weakness, a degradation so bleak and wanton that I gasped in. As I did I felt a stiffening between my legs, a charge of excitement shooting through me.
The woman who had come into my room placed the dagger in my hand.
‘She has confessed.’ She closed my fingers over the cold wet hilt.
A surge of power exploded through me, a seduction of the flesh, sending warmth through my body and quickening my heart. I licked my lips and took a step towards the pathetic horror, so limp and without power, opened up so brazenly, presenting herself to me in utter abjection. I let out a loud uneven breath that betrayed my arousal.
The floorboard under my foot creaked. The woman’s head lifted up. She gazed at me, her eyes glassy and unfocused. Grimy streaks striped her face. Beyond the terror that contorted her face I recognised the human creature within.
‘Rebecca.’
The shock of recognition slapped me into the moment. My God, what was I doing? I looked down at the knife in my hand and, appalled, threw it to the floor.
‘Master?’ The woman from behind. Skirts brushed against my leg as she snaked closer, blocking my view of Rebecca.
The old girl’s eye formed a lascivious half wink as she opened her scrawny hand and said, ‘Master’s pipe want suckling?’ In her palm I saw something L-shaped, spattered with vivid red and brown drops – a small white pipe.
Again my groin stirred but this time my repulsion rose against it. ‘Jesus Christ,’ the words came out twisted into an accent that was not mine. The woman took my hand and closed my fingers over the pipe. ‘The witchpricker. Go to her.’
With a tremendous effort I turned away and threw the foul thing on the floor. The head broke off and rolled to the corner. The men were now looking at me, faces wrinkled in surprise. The man in the blue coat stood up.
‘This is evil. Can’t you see it?’ I implored him, my voice breaking as if unused for years.
He said nothing. His companion stooped down to the broken pipe and picked it up gingerly. ‘Then we will bury it, Master, on sacred ground.’ He looked at me with uncertainty.
I wrenched myself away from them and looked back at the terrible sight of the young girl splayed on the chair. The old girl stood by her, idly tugging a lock of Rebecca’s hair.
Anger exploded out of me. ‘For God’s sake, w
oman, release her.’
The old lady’s face turned up to me, neck still stooped, bony shoulders hunched, hands grabbing themselves together. ‘Let her go?’
Doubt had sharpened her features, lending her a vulture-like aspect. ‘But she has confessed …’
I had started shaking, fear overtaking horror. I had to get out of here. Willing my body towards the door, I made for the bedroom. ‘Cut the bonds.’
Another voice, one of the men. I didn’t turn round to see who. ‘To the castle?’
My strength was ebbing. I was focused only on escaping the vile scene. ‘Yes, yes.’
As I unbolted the door I heard the old woman cackle, knowingly. ‘At your pleasure, sir. I daresay she will have her uses.’
Then I was through, back in the bedroom, amongst the duck-egg blue wallpaper and Egyptian cotton sheets. I turned round and looked at the wall behind me. No woodwork. No frame. Nothing to indicate there was a doorway there at all or ever had been.
I staggered forwards onto the bed and threw myself face down. Minutes later I rushed to the bathroom and brought up my dinner.
Chapter Thirty
It was sick. Utterly sick.
I was sick.
What the hell was I doing? Dreams of the Witchfinder’s sadistic perversion were not what I had ever expected to find here.
When I came out of the bathroom I sat back on the bed, trying to ground myself.
The ambience had returned to normal. The subtle background of twenty-first-century Essex replenished the room. My laptop buzzed on the floor, and beyond it I could hear the clinking of the kitchen staff clearing up after a regular Wednesday night, the low gurgle of a TV from a room down the hall.
The whole episode had taken no more than a matter of minutes but I felt like the life had been sucked out of me. Ill with shame, repulsed by the sexual quickening, I recalled the unholy sight of Rebecca tortured and bound. Why had she shown me that? It was so disturbing. So damn wrong.