by Syd Moore
‘But not any more?’
‘No,’ I told him truthfully. ‘Not any more.’
He replaced his drink and moved his hand to my knee. ‘Good,’ he said and shot me a look that had my stomach flipping. God, those eyes were as dark as chocolate. How had I never notice that before? But I brought myself upright – must focus – and shook myself to attention.
I pointed to the map of Essex, pinned up over the fireplace. ‘I need your expertise, PC Joe.’
He tugged his gaze away from my face and looked at the map.
It took me about five minutes to explain as concisely as possible what the crosses and circles meant. When I finished he stood up and took his glass over to the map and leant against the wall, taking a couple of minutes to process everything I had said.
‘Okay?’ He looked up expectantly. ‘And your query is?’
I turned the New England map around to face him.
‘Right, well this is New England: Massachusetts and Connecticut.’ Then I took him through the red marks, drawing my finger inland down from Hartford to New Haven and Old Lyme on the Long Island Sound, an estuary of the Atlantic Ocean.
‘Now look at the coastal region here.’ I read out the names and recounted some of the accusations and trials, not forgetting to mention Margaret Jones, the first victim, whose trial took place slap bang in the middle of Boston, where immigrants from England were likely to have first disembarked.
He came back to my map and squatted over it. Despite the booze I could see Joe’s interest was piqued. He listened to me going over the chronology of the trials, citing some of the methodologies used, shaking his head and tutting. I was so used to the casual brutality evoked in these trials I forgot about how Joe might react. I supposed that as a policeman he was hardened to the grotesqueries that life and criminality threw his way. But I could see from the paling of his face that he was horrified by it all.
There was certainly something pathetic about the nature of the witches’ crimes. And in most cases their status was already at the bottom of the social scale in the place kept for the mad, debased, disabled, starving. It made the aggression of the accusers all the more despicable. I saw Joe physically wince when I told him about Alice Lake and her phantom baby.
Though my position had changed a bit. I still sympathised and wanted justice for them but I was also on the hunt for the bullies. I gave him some time to recover before I asked him, ‘In your view, can you see similarities? Could this American map chart the same MO?’
For three long minutes Joe didn’t speak. Then he stood back and rubbed his hand across his short crop. ‘I’m not a profiler, Sadie. With something like this I’d suggest you take it to Chelmsford and try and get someone there to look at it.’
It wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear. It wasn’t an answer at all really.
I had to push him. ‘Come on, Joe. I told you – it’s off the record. I’m not going to quote you on this. Just give me a clue. What do you think?’
He stroked his chin and picked up the New England map, holding it up next to the Essex map. After another long pause he straightened up. ‘I’d say it was worth investigating.’
I breathed in deeply. ‘Really?’
He nodded. ‘You’d need to go into more detail with victims and areas if you wanted a profiler to give you a full report, but I’d say something is going on here.’
He cast the map down. It swung through the air, landing a foot from me.
I gathered it up and thanked him very genuinely for his time. ‘Are you ready for pasta?’
He nodded but he looked weary. His eyes had lost their benevolent gleam.
Over dinner Joe was more reserved. I guess this wasn’t the sort of evening he’d anticipated. I sat him with his back to the window in the best chair and tried to chat about his work. He didn’t bite. In the end he said, ‘This is dark, Sadie.’
I scooped a spoonful of sauce and parmesan into my mouth. ‘Tell me about it.’
Joe put his elbows on the table. ‘Has it occurred to you that all this research might have affected you? Mentally?’
‘Absolutely,’ I told him with a little laugh. I meant it to sound like a joke though it was true.
He sighed. ‘No. I was talking about what happened on your computer. When Lesley and I were last here you said you had someone saying they were frightened of the Devil.’
I put my spoon down and looked him straight in the face. ‘I did.’ I kept my gaze steady.
His eyebrows dropped. ‘Lesley was concerned. There was no evidence of any “chat” on your internet history.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘That’s because …’ my words died before they reached my tongue. I was going to say it was because it was Rebecca, but I knew how that would sound.
Joe didn’t let it go. ‘Because?’
He seemed a whole lot more sober now. I almost regretted feeding him.
I shrugged. ‘Nothing.’
‘Go on.’
I shook my head. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Try me.’
‘No,’ I said and forced a smile. ‘How’s your pasta?’
He ignored the comment and placed his hands on the table. ‘What happened to your mirror?’
Ah. I had forgotten about that. After I’d tried to call Rebecca up and failed, I had covered it over with a blanket. I didn’t want any surprises, I think. Seemed perfectly sensible at the time, but I could see, now, that to an outsider, it probably looked freaky.
‘I had an accident,’ I said simply.
Joe wasn’t having it. He leant forwards. ‘What’s going on with you, Sadie?’
His face was so full of concern it touched me. I was a tough cookie, but to look at him just then, sitting across the table, wanting to find out what was happening with me, for no other reason than that he cared about me – well, it made me crack a little. And I had so much to bear on my own. Maybe if I just told him a bit, maybe he could help me.
‘I think I’m being haunted,’ I said, my voice breaking slightly. ‘I saw someone in the mirror. In fact, I know who she is now.’ And I told him how I knew.
I could hear how it sounded as it came out, so I peppered my narrative with qualifiers. I even told him what Felix had said about incorporating some of these experiences into the book.
When I finished Joe had his arms crossed and a stern look about him.
Very gently, he asked, ‘Is there any history of mental illness in your family, Sadie?’
I laughed out very loudly. Too loudly. ‘Not the reaction I was hoping for,’ I said.
He repeated his question. ‘Don’t be evasive, I’m trying to help.’
‘Well, you’re not. It’s nothing to do with my mental state.’
‘It’s not?’
‘No.’
‘But your mother suffered from depression and psychosis.’
It was like a slap round the face. I pushed back from the table and expelled a long noisy breath, breathing in again quickly to try and stifle my building anger. It wasn’t easy. There was so much of it in me, coiling and uncoiling like a serpent in my stomach. ‘How do you know that? Have you been looking me up in your databanks?’
He held my gaze. There was peace in his eyes and a kind of rigorous strength. ‘You told me,’ he said very calmly. ‘The first time we met, sitting on the beach in Westcliff.’
I ran my hand over my lips. Of course. I had forgotten about that. ‘Sorry. Listen, I’m not experiencing psychosis. This is something different.’
‘It doesn’t sound like it. I’d like you to promise me you’ll see a doctor.’ He could have been talking to a twelve-year-old.
‘No, I won’t,’ I half shouted. The serpent was uncoiling. I pushed it back down and commuted my anger into a sulk, quite forgetting that the same thought had occurred to me only two days since. I moderated my tone. ‘If it sounds like madness then why has my editor asked me to put some of my experiences in the book, eh?’
‘It seems bizarre,
’ he said softly. ‘I really don’t have a clue why he’d want you to.’
‘Exactly,’ I said with a nasty hiss. It was coiling upwards through me. ‘You don’t have a clue. You’re a policeman not a creative.’
He didn’t even smart. ‘In my job I have seen how people can,’ he paused to find the right words, ‘how they can spiral downwards quickly. Especially after a shock or a bereavement. One minute they’re on a minor with a “drunk and disorderly”, the next you’re locking them up because they’ve turned to junk or they’re homeless. It doesn’t take much. You could organise some support. Talk this through with a counsellor.’
But I wasn’t listening. I wanted him to believe me, regardless of the incredible nature of my tale. I thought he liked me.
‘Nor are you a bloody doctor or social worker.’ The fury was rising up, taking control. Was he suggesting I was losing my mind? Comparing me to a junkie? I stood up. ‘I’d like you to leave now please.’
Joe threw up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Okay, okay. I’ll go. I’m only saying this because I care about you. You know that. This research that you’ve sunk yourself into – it’s morbid. And unhealthy. I think it’s affecting you.’
I couldn’t say a word. If one came out it would be followed quickly by lots more of varying degrees of nastiness. I marched to the door and held it open for him, pursing my lips as he went through.
He stopped outside and pulled out a card. ‘Got a pen?’
‘Not on me.’
He pulled a pencil out of his back pocket and leant against the wall, scribbling something on the back of the card. ‘Look, take this number. A mate of mine is a therapist. Think about giving her a call.’
I said nothing but took the card with one hand and with the other held on to the door handle, knuckles turning white.
This time Joe trundled slowly down the stairs, zero spring in his step. I waited until I heard the sound of the outer door close then I went back into the living room and sat on the floor.
I knew he’d only said what others would if I told them the same tale. But, I thought as the serpent settled, I wasn’t mad. I was right. In fact I was righteous.
However, his words had warned me: whatever path lay ahead, I’d be walking it alone. Excepting spirits and their bleak and lonely moans.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The next day I sat down to my book. Despite my conviction the previous evening, some of Joe’s words had impacted on me. Particularly what he said about putting the mad stuff into my writing. It was preying on my mind as I tidied up my first chapter on Matthew Hopkins. I entered some of the details I ‘saw’ at the Hopping Bridge. It certainly brought it to life, but it could be construed as fantasy and undermine some of the solid evidence I had amassed to support some of my claims.
In the end, about eleven o’clock, I decided to run the whole thing past Felix himself and picked up my phone.
I went through to a voice I recognised to be Delphine, who told me that she’d see if Felix was free. After a short wait, he came on the line. He was breathless, like he’d been running, and told me he had only a few minutes to spare.
‘Important meeting?’ I asked.
He laughed out something that sounded like a hybrid of a chortle and snort. ‘Have you not seen the news today?’
I told him I hadn’t.
‘We’ve had some damn leak about Robert.’
I assumed he meant Cutt.
‘The press are up in arms about a book he’s halted. There’s a reference to a Russian deal he brokered a couple of years back. The writer’s hinting at large scale involvement with the mafia. Quite ridiculous.’
I expressed surprise that this was a Portillion book.
‘Oh God, no. It’s a minor press we acquired last week. Obviously as soon as we found out about the content we then had to pull the book. Now there’s speculation that Robert bought the outfit purely to stop the publication.’
Ha ha, I thought. ‘Oh dear,’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘So I’ve got to go into a damage limitation meeting in a sec.’
‘Okay, I won’t hold you up,’ I said, and asked him how much of my ‘experiences’ he wanted me to put in. And would that affect the credibility of the book?
He didn’t seem to think so. So I told him, rather guardedly, about the Hopping Bridge section.
‘Go for it,’ was his conclusion. ‘Spices up something that’s otherwise quite dry.’
I took his advice and after hanging up wrote the scene into the chapter. Then I attached the document to Felix’s email.
‘Please like it,’ I muttered and hit ‘Send’.
Chapter Thirty-Three
It was my second day at the National Archives.
Though interesting, the first had not been at all rewarding. The phone call with Felix and then embellishments to the chapter had set me back a couple of hours, and when I finally reached Kew Gardens it was getting on for half past three. I knew I was pushing it.
The girl on the reception desk was pleasant and told me that I’d need to register on the second floor. This took longer than I’d predicted as I had to trawl through an instructive tutorial regarding the handling of ancient documents. That completed, I had a mug shot taken, then popped down the stairs to the first floor where I went straight in and plonked myself on the enquiries desk.
A young guy in a purple t-shirt and jeans was very obliging when told him I needed to see passenger lists from between 1646 to 1650.
He was unsure at first as to whether passenger lists were held there but when I mentioned the fact I’d seen the document registration online, he searched the catalogue. An entry came up confirming a couple of fragments of passenger lists, but only from 1634 to 1677. That seemed to cover what I wanted so I asked him how I went about ordering up the documents.
‘Mmm.’ He glanced at his watch, peeping out between reams of raggedy festival bands. ‘You’ve missed the last call, I’m afraid. You have to get requests in before four. It’ll have to be tomorrow now. Sorry.’
I sat back into my chair. ‘Shit. I’ve come up from Essex.’
‘Sorry,’ he repeated and shrugged.
Then a thought crossed my mind. ‘Do you know why there are only fragments? Where were they kept back then?’
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Now you’re talking. You’d have to delve into the history of the public records office itself to find that out.’ He slipped a piece of paper under his hand and wrote down a reference. ‘If you take this upstairs they’ll sort you out with the volumes.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, rather grudgingly.
He picked up on my tone. ‘You have to remember that not everything survives. Things get lost, water damaged, burnt or just disintegrate with age. Look, here’s the reference number for your enquiry. Just log on to the computers tomorrow and order it. It’ll probably take forty minutes to come up.’
I thanked him and went upstairs.
An older guy in a smart white shirt with strange facial hair (full iron-grey moustache), a burgundy tie and tank top, dealt with me. He appeared a little bewildered when I gave him the paper. His gaze skimmed over my jeans and leather jacket. I didn’t know what people with an interest in the records office looked like but I obviously didn’t cut the mustard. Nonetheless he rubbed the whiskers on his chin and sorted me out with two large red volumes.
I’d always thought the bureaucracy in our country was a little extreme but reading through these books confirmed my prejudice. The departments that our governments had instituted to deal with the day-to-day machinations of the country were mind-boggling. I found myself almost laughing at the mention of the Kafkaesque ‘Ministry of Power’, tutted at the ‘Statistical Department of Departmental Statistics’, frowned at the ‘Standards Department’ and shuddered over the ‘Lunacy Commissioners and Board of Control’.
The path that I trod through the narrative was uneasy and chaotic and I was just about to abandon all hope when someone touched me on the shoulder.
It was the moustache man from the desk.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘We’ll be closing shortly. I’ll have to get those volumes off you.’
I looked round the reading room. There were only another two researchers left.
‘That’s okay,’ I told him and handed them over. ‘I think I’ve given up on that lead anyway.’
‘Oh?’ he said. ‘Not helpful?’
‘Not really,’ I replied. ‘I was looking for some passenger lists that might not exist. Was just trying to find where they might have been kept, that’s all.’ I yawned.
‘Oh right,’ he nodded and smoothed down his moustache. ‘Family tree is it?’
‘No, actually,’ I said and grabbed my bag to get up. ‘I’m interested in Matthew Hopkins, the Witchfinder General.’
‘Oh yes?’ he said. ‘I remember the film. Hammer wasn’t it? Quite disturbed me at the time. But that was back in the sixties. I don’t watch that sort of thing any more. I thought he died in Essex?’
‘Yep,’ I said, letting a small sigh escape my lips. ‘That’s what they say.’
‘But you think differently?’ He hugged the books to his chest and made no move to return to his desk.
‘Possibly,’ I said getting up from the chair. ‘It’s alleged that he died in the summer of 1647. A few months later a spate of similar killings broke out in New England. Same MO. I mean, they look like the witches were detected through similar methodologies.’
‘And you think they might have been carried out by him?’ he said, moving his body towards the exit. I took the cue and fell into step beside him.
‘I’m following a hunch, I guess.’
‘My wife’s a bit like you. Loves a mystery. Can’t get her off the detective stories.’
‘Well, I’m not sure I’ll detect anything. But I’m going to come back tomorrow to have a look at the fragments of the passenger lists. That’s all they are, though – fragments. He might not even be registered on them. And anyway, I don’t think he would have travelled under his own name. But there may be something similar.’