by Syd Moore
Standing by a glossy oak table Harry’s wife, Anne, whose eyes I recognised from the door, poured coffee into three glass mugs.
‘Do come over, dear. Mercedes is it? Very nice to meet you.’ She smiled and gestured to one of the chairs, as if the bizarre entry routine had never happened.
She’s obviously used to it, I thought, and took a chair. ‘Actually it’s Sadie,’ I said and sat down, though I was thinking ‘It’s not. It’s Mercy. Mercy Walker.’ How did I go from that to Mercedes Asquith? Why had Mum completely changed my name? She’d also evolved hers, from Rose to Rosamund. What was in that? A familiar wrench of guilt tugged at me. Harry shouted something at the dogs, which were sniffing me cautiously.
‘Do put them in the snug, Harry, won’t you?’ said Anne and shone a regal smile at me. ‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Both please. One sugar.’
‘I guessed it would be,’ she said and handed me the cup she had already filled.
‘Told you she has a sense for these things.’ Harry called over, shooing the dogs round the door.
I took a sip of coffee and smiled at Anne. Harry returned and grabbed his mug. ‘So Sadie, do you mind going over your interest in this as you did with my good lady wife?’
I gave them a brief history, but Harry was full of questions, and soon my story was cutting into the good part of an hour. At some point the coffee was replaced by a bottle of red wine, and, although I had declared that I was driving, a full glass appeared before me.
I tasted it when Harry finally allowed me to get on to the diaries. Bringing that part of the story to an end, I asked him if they were still in the house.
‘They are no more,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid they perished in a fire not long after that article was published. We sold what was left of the collection after that. Brought us nothing but bother if I’m honest.’
I was immensely disappointed but it gave me an opener to what I really wanted to know. ‘That’s a real shame. You must have had a lot of interest in it?’
‘Oh yes,’ Harry’s eyes darted to Anne’s. She nodded imperceptibly. ‘There was a flurry of activity when we decided to sell.’
‘We had a university who wanted to study the diaries,’ Anne continued. ‘But after the fire that petered out.’
I opened my notebook and took out a photo of Mum circa ’99, all shining black locks and sunhat. ‘Do you remember if she looked at them? I think she may have. Do you know her at all?’
Harry took the photo and squinted.
I held my breath.
‘Not sure. Need my glasses.’ He made no move to get them but passed it to Anne who had a pair dangling round her neck on a golden chain. She slid them along her nose.
‘Yes, she came and looked at them.’
I swallowed. ‘She looked at the diaries? Did she say why she wanted to look at them?’
Anne took her glasses off and twirled them in her hand. ‘I think, though I can’t be entirely sure – it was a long time ago – she said it was personal. Nice woman, if I remember correctly.’
‘Personal.’ I repeated her words. ‘Why?’
Anne dropped her glasses and grasped her hands. ‘No idea. I merely let her view the collection.’
‘Did she say anything? After she’d read them?’
‘Not that I recall. Thanked me and went on her way.’
That stumped me. Mum had never expressed an interest in Hopkins before. Well, not that I’d noticed. True, we’d talk about politics and literature and she was interested in local history, but that was about it.
Anne had turned to Harry. ‘I think it was only a couple of days later that the American showed up.’ She stressed the word American. Harry nodded, made a tutting noise then looked at her.
One of the dogs in the snug yelped.
His wife nodded. ‘He was very interested in Nathaniel’s diaries. Very. He made us an offer for the document.’
‘A very handsome offer,’ Anne repeated.
‘We said no,’ Harry said.
‘He was most disappointed,’ Anne added.
‘Bordering on hostile,’ Harry chimed. ‘They get like that, some of those Americans, don’t they? Think money’s the answer to everything. But then we had the fire in the study.’ His voice dropped. ‘Unusual eh?’
‘Oh Harry, don’t go on,’ Anne sent me a wink. ‘He loves a good conspiracy.’
‘Why didn’t you sell them?’ I asked, keeping them on track.
‘They belonged in a museum or a university,’ said Harry firmly. ‘Personally I’m not fussed but it was what Uncle Alexander wanted.’
‘Sorry, Uncle Alexander?’ Where had that come from?
‘From whom we inherited the house and the collection. He was an academic. Obsessed with the Civil War. Spent a lot of time building up a library of authentic witness accounts. He was writing what he considered to be, the definitive book on the subject when he died. I believe he bought the diaries in a private sale after they were discovered in an old house near Chingford. The family had to give it up and sold it to a developer who wanted rid of the contents.’ He smiled fondly. ‘Recorded everything in his notes did Uncle. Fastidious.’
The clock on the wall struck five-thirty.
‘His notes?’ I said.
‘Oh yes,’ Anne said brightly. ‘There’s reams. All stacked up in chronological order. We never got rid of them.’
‘Seemed disrespectful to the old man,’ said Harry. ‘You might want to see them. I haven’t looked at them all properly. Keep meaning to but somehow never find the time. You should read the early stuff; I think that there’s a transcript of the diaries in there somewhere. Can’t be authenticated, though. Just his notes. Worthless now really.’
I doubted that; if they could give me more information as to what Mum had been looking for then they could be priceless. And there might be additional information in there for my book. At the very least, I could plunder some of the phrases for quotes.
‘Sadie,’ Anne said looking at the clock, ‘why don’t you join us for supper?’
I thanked them for their generosity but said I’d really like to see the transcripts, if that was possible. If they said no, I’d consider taking them up on their offer and trying again later. I wasn’t going anywhere without seeing those pages.
‘Of course, have a look and let us know. There’s rather a lot of them. You might have to come back tomorrow.’
I was delighted and nodded vigorously at Harry who stood up. ‘Here, let me show you where they’re kept.’
He led me through the snuffling dogginess of the snug into the large hallway. I watched him walk with his chin up, almost as if it was a gesture of defiance against the older parts of the building that whistled and shrieked. Harry trudged along a wide gallery, then held aside an old tapestry that concealed a narrow hallway. At the end of this he opened a door.
‘The study,’ he said. ‘This is where the fire broke out. Don’t worry, it’s all fixed up now.’
‘Gosh,’ I said, taking in the room as Harry flicked on the lights. ‘Thank you.’
It was smallish, with a large window at the far end draped in heavy red velvet curtains. The wall opposite me was lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. In between the gaps were dozens of framed pictures; some were certificates, others miniatures, sketches and ancient documents. In the middle was an oak writing desk, its legs labouring under the weight of a huge, borderline-antique, computer. The Phelps were obviously not technically minded. There was a leather writing square, with a blotter on one side and over that, a reading light.
‘What a lovely reading room. Is the transcript in here?’
Harry nodded, picked up a pair of spectacles that lay on the corner of the desk and went to a section of the bookshelves over by the window.
‘The Braybrook diaries come in at volume seventeen,’ he said and put the glasses on to read the spines. ‘He indexed everything.’ He selected several leather notebooks and carried them over to me, putting t
he pile on one side of the desk. Then he switched on the reading light, picked up the first volume. Opening it on the desk, he fingered a number of pages, and pointed to a section.
‘Start here, if you want.’ Then he quietly switched off the main lights and exited the room.
I sat in the chair and stared at the book, illuminated in a circle of white.
With a tingle in my fingertips I began to read.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Nathaniel Braybrook had lived in a turbulent time. An educated man, he was the only son of a well-to-do merchant based in London. Despite the unpredictable nature of business, fortune had shone on the Braybrooks, enabling them to come through the bloody Civil War largely unscathed, if not a little worse off.
It appeared Braybrook had links to the wool trade in Chelmsford that necessitated some travel between there and his family home in Epping, and it was on one of these journeys in 1644 that Braybrook witnessed the execution of the witches. His account lent me no new understanding of the trial, describing the process as I had read it so many times before in pamphlets. But there was one line that drew my attention. Braybrook, it seemed was a religious dissenter, traumatised by the unspeakable acts of violence that were part and parcel of everyday life during the Civil War. He supported neither the royal cause nor the extremism of the Puritans. In fact, I read in Alexander Phelps’s notes that Braybrook was later to become part of the religious movement that grew into the Quakers. The man obviously had a conscience, which informed his later actions.
Writing up the hangings he recorded this: ‘The haste with which the deed was done was ungodly. I did sight the wretch who confess’d passed off. How much of the covenant she did freely declare amongst some there is great doubt. Her being fore known as a Christian in her village.’
This had to be a reference to Rebecca. An incident that I had ‘seen’ myself – Rebecca being ‘passed off’? I flinched as the sight of Anne West’s scalp skittered across my mindscape. Such brutal times, so harsh and inhumane. If only Rebecca had known that there was someone in the crowd who was not so full of blind hate.
The transcript went on to describe Braybrook’s hasty retreat from the scene and his journey home. The next wedge of pages testified to his daily life, seasonal observations and rumours from London about the King. There was a mention of the Suffolk trials: ‘This Witchfinder and his man, Stearne, have inflict’d such greate pain and agonie on many who were innocent but for loss of their senses. They say they do take much delight in the torment of these soules and the procurement of money from villages to feather themselves a good nest. More than four score were sent to their deaths, in that County, and some only childs.’
I copied it down and flicked through the pages till I reached the end of that volume. The text was fascinating but not incredibly useful. I was in two minds as whether to read the next volume; sleep was calling me and the wine had dulled my senses.
Thank God I did.
It began in March 1647. I read about Braybrook’s exploits with some degree of interest until I came to another entry concerning Chelmsford, dated to August. This journey took Braybrook further north, to a merchant in Ardleigh, a village set between Manningtree and Colchester. My heart began to quicken as I read his words:
‘A bad day of trade. Glad to leave. Towards Colchester, my horse did much afear’d rise up for a figure did shoot forth from the hedgerow. I was thrown and once recover’d saw a young woman fallen across the way. She was much aggriev’d and beset by woe, without her wits. I was loathe to leave her and so did pick her up and transport her to Colchester town, whereby I install’d her in a room at my lodgings.’
I turned the page. The next entry was presumably dated to the following day although there was nothing on the transcript to indicate a break in time but a couple of blank lines.
‘The morning I visit’d the market. When I return’d to the Inn, the woman was recovered in the flesh, yea still pale as milk. She did put me in mind of my own dear daughter Catherine who departed from this world twenty years long. Her’s too was hair the colour of moonless nights, eyes a paler stone. In those attributes the likeness was striking. But at this present time the young woman’s wits are disordered and her spirits much distress’d.
Later upon learning it was I who roused her and conveyed her to this place she did, straight off, throw herself at my feet and cried out for some small “mercy”. Alarm’d I bid her tell me her sorrow.
The dreadful tale she did recount most provok’d me. For she had been cruelly treated by a gentleman who had stolen her virtue and left her with child. Some moneys being left for her upkeep did afford her a modest cottage. Though this did not last long and soon she was cast out of doors. Shunned by the village and shamed she was reduced to poverty, able only to provide for the child by way of begging.
When she did lately hear that the man had return’d from his travels she sought him out and implor’d him to relieve their suffering. The gentleman did give her a guinea and, seeing she could not care for the child, took it from her to be nursed.
Rebecca, for that was, I learnt, her name did find herself in grievous distress, enduring great misery without the babe and soon did repent of her decision. When she went to the gentleman for her child he was terrible cold. He scorn’d her and did throw her off. Rebecca swore before him she would repeat her pleas time and again in his ears until he did tell where the child now liv’d. The gentleman did wickedly laugh and tell her she could ne’er follow him where he was bound. When she pressed him he did boast of travelling the morrow to London and henceforth voyage across the sea.
Rebecca’s spirits flew about her heart. She was put into great fright and made off to find her cousin, Robin Drakers, most recently returned from war. I had stumbled over her as she made that journey to his house in Boxted.
I was sincerely affect’d by her discourse and truly her tale did fire my heart. She did appear very like Catherine, her being of small size and brittle. My daughter, though, did have me. Rebecca had none there to look to but her one cousin. As she spoke I was driven to such an extremity of vexation as the like never known to me. My inclination was to assist the woman in finding Drakers and I did tell her such forthwith. This proposal was met with tears of gratitude and warmth. Soon I did call for a horse and coach and, having made preparations for victuals, we set off for Boxted.
This at last did pacify her as well as it could for the hours we travell’d over the bad ground.
Once reach’d Boxted we spent little time searching for the cousin and when we discover’d his dwelling he was at home. Rebecca did straight off avail him of her plight and beseeched him to petition the gentleman to release her child. Robin Drakers had more years in age, far greater stature and strength than his fairer cousin. His face was rough and scarr’d by battle. I could see that he, in his circumstance, was past the operation of fear. Now, Rebecca did call the gentleman by his name and I saw Mr Drakers did catch some meaning when she said it – Master Hopkins. His face did tremble and when he spoke it was with a raised voice and dark countenance. He did foreswear to make haste unto the Port of London, to find the Gentleman and bring him back. Rebecca did at once stand up and entreated him with desperate pleas only to find the child. At length he consider’d this and so did agree to be led by her need. Thereby he promis’d to deliver the whereabouts of the child. Mr Drakers did accompany Rebecca and I to Colchester. Then with monies secured by myself he did procure a horse and set forth for London.
I cannot but reflect as I commend these words that my perception and concern in the matter has been sent from the heavens. It is my belief The Almighty God did place Rebecca in my path as he so placed the half dead Levite for the Samaritan to pity. He did bandage his wounds and pour on oil and wine, and so brought him to an inn and took care of him. As Christ did show the way I too shall follow.’
I was gobsmacked. Could this be my Rebecca? I felt sure that it was. The time was right, the name was right. Even the locale was spot on. So
cruelly treated by a ‘gentleman’? Hopkins. I remembered a dream when I had seen a man come onto me – a nightmare creature with red eyes and stinking breath that smelled like tar? Was that a vision sent from Rebecca? Had the Witchfinder taken her and separated her so he could enjoy his dirty concubine? I shuddered. It had certainly been suggested by a couple of historians.
I started to copy the passage down into my own notebook but realised I was too impatient and needed to read on to find out what happened.
Irritatingly, Braybrook blabbed on for a good page recording his business in Colchester, but then he returned to the Inn. Here he found Rebecca in a terrible state, worried by her cousin’s continued absence. It seemed she had been expecting him back that day. I reckoned that was too optimistic if Drakers made the journey from Colchester to London on horseback; it was a distance of about forty-five miles. A good horse could cover, what forty or fifty miles a day? There and back. That’s at least two days. Mind you, if this was Rebecca West, which I was becoming convinced it was, she probably didn’t have a clue about distances. I doubted if she had ever gone further south than Chelmsford, for the trial.
Braybrook entered some calculations and made an appointment to see a merchant the following day. Rebecca, he said, was taken with ‘the ague’, which forced her to retire to her quarters. He recorded she was given a potion of herbs by the innkeeper’s wife. I raced through to the entry for the following day and found Braybrook’s account of what happened next.
‘Robin Drakers did arrive late of the afternoon. He had the appearance of one greatly vexed. He did take me aside and tell these words: Having arrived late he did secure lodgings and the following day made his way to the dock. By and by he discovered there were no ships to sail that day. The vessel bound for New England had depart’d. Compell’d by his cousin’s desperate plea he did go to see the offices, and did speak with the shipping clerk. He was not forthcoming yet once his hand had been greased with coin he did show Mr Drakers the passenger list. The gentleman was known to the clerk, for he had some trade once with the company. The clerk took out the ledger and showed Drakers he had set off with a different name, wanting to obfuscate his true origins, for the country was much turn’d against him. Mr Drakers did pay for the notice and, not being schooled in reading, did bring it for me to inspect. The clerk had noted the entry of the gentleman with his true initials “MH”.