Hiding From the Light (26 page)

Emma stood and watched her go. Sarah was the name that came to her in her dreams. The woman whose personality was threatening to take her over. The woman who had lived at Overly Hall, and, she was sure, had lived here at Liza’s. She realised suddenly that she was shaking. The fury and venom with which Lyndsey had suddenly exploded had frightened her, as had the news that her volatile visitor was her own cousin. Oh God, that was all she needed!

She was still standing by the gate when the muddy blue Volvo pulled to a halt outside.

‘Hi.’ Alex turned off the engine and climbed out. ‘Was that Lyn I saw pedalling hell for leather down the hill?’

Emma stared at him for a moment, trying to pull herself together. ‘It was indeed,’ she said at last rather grimly. ‘An apt description as it happens.’

Alex followed her towards the house. ‘What’s she done now?’

By the time she had recounted the conversation, Alex was seated in the kitchen with Min on his knees and the kettle was on the boiling plate once more.

‘She scared me, Alex!’

He sighed. ‘Ignore her. She has a penchant for the dramatic.’ He kept his own worries about Lyndsey to himself.

‘You don’t think it’s real, then?’

‘Witchcraft?’ Alex laughed. ‘No way. It’s an excuse for dancing round the bonfire in the nuddy!’

Emma smiled. ‘So I needn’t worry?’

‘No. Put it out of your mind. And don’t let her think she can wind you up. I wouldn’t put it past her to try and get you out of here. For some reason she doesn’t like you, or anyone else for that matter, living here. That’s what this is all about.’

‘It’s because it was Liza’s house. And Liza was a witch.’

‘I don’t see what that has to do with it. She clearly doesn’t need the house now.’

Emma glanced towards the window. ‘No.’

‘You don’t sound too sure.’

‘No.’

Alex took a deep breath. ‘You mustn’t let it frighten you. Every house round here which is called after a woman is supposed to have belonged to a witch of some sort. There’s Kate’s up on the Colchester Road and Betty’s Corner, down Wix way. They were both supposed to be witches. You know, it might actually be a plus, this witch story. It would bring in the tourists. A potted herb from the witch’s garden. In fact what a brilliant name for your business. The Witch’s Garden.’

‘Hang on.’ Emma was half frowning, half smiling. ‘Alex, this is jumping the gun a bit.’

‘You ought to think about it soon. Time is of the essence.’ He grinned. ‘After all, everything you stock will have to be grown. You need to be up and ready to run by the early spring. The actual ground needs working. The barns need repair. Where will the shop be? We’ll have to identify suppliers. Find stationery, paper bags – ’

‘Stop!’ Emma was laughing. ‘I’m not sure Paula would approve of all this.’ And nor would Flora if she ever became involved. Suddenly Emma realised that she rather hoped that Flora had meant it when she said she might be interested in joining the venture. The trouble was, she would not be happy to find someone else coming up with all the ideas.

Alex’s eager grin had disappeared. ‘Paula will come round. Look, I know I get carried away. But I want you to think about it.’

‘What on earth would Lyndsey say if we went ahead with something like this?’

‘She’d be furious.’ He shook his head. ‘People tramping all over the place disturbing everything. You reorganising it. Planting new things.’ He knew Lyndsey used to make secret visits to the garden. He wasn’t sure if she was still doing so, collecting herbs when Emma wasn’t around. Probably not.

‘And she would put a spell on me?’

I had him sealed in. A binding spell
. Lyndsey’s voice suddenly echoed in her head.
It wasn’t strong enough
.

Was that because her spells weren’t efficient or because Matthew Hopkins was too strong for her?

Alex was looking thoughtful. ‘Do you think I’m wrong? Do you think witches actually do have power?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Not those poor old ladies in the seventeenth century, but people like Lyn who study Wicca and believe they can actually force people to do things they don’t want to do?’

Emma raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that what they do?’ She thought they had been talking about stopping people doing things they did want to do. Perhaps it was the same thing.

‘I used to think it was all about herbs and crystals and stuff. Harmless. Rather attractive, really. Pretty dresses and the frisson of thinking that they dance around naked.’ Alex shook his head nostalgically, then he snapped to attention. ‘I didn’t mean that I think about Lyn like that!’

‘No, of course you don’t.’ Emma was laughing again. ‘And I know what you mean. I have a friend in London, Flora, my best friend actually, who is exactly like that. She’s an aromatherapist, but she keeps a broomstick in her umbrella stand in her fourth floor flat. And the flat is wonderful. An Aladdin’s cave. Crystals. Chimes. Wonderful smells. And her plants love it so much they romp all over the place and grab you by the throat as you go in through the door. But never once, in all the years I’ve known her, did I suspect she might cast spells in the nude at midnight. Actually …’ She paused, thinking fast. She may as well forewarn him that other people were interested in this project. ‘She would be a good person to talk to about the herb garden. Something else to sell maybe – essential oils and things? She’s quite keen to get involved. She could be a consultant, too.’

Alex did not seem worried at the idea. He nodded. He was itching to grope in his pockets for a notebook and pencil but resisted. He didn’t want to seem to be trying to take over and he recognised the thoughtful expression on Emma’s face. He had sown the seed. Time to let it mature. Glancing at his watch, he pushed his chair back and eased Min off his knees. ‘I must go. The kids will be home soon. They have tea with one of Sophie’s friends on Mondays and I need to collect them. Can we talk about this again? Soon?’

‘Of course.’ Emma nodded firmly. She in turn recognised Alex’s eagerness. There was a lot of talent and business acumen there, rotting away unused. He could be useful, but she was not about to let him take over.

After he left she pulled on her waxed jacket and let herself out of the back door into the garden. She needed to collect her thoughts. So much had happened today and she was exhausted. She took a deep breath of the cool air and stood staring up at the sky. It would soon be dark. There was still a touch of red in the west, but behind her the cold darkness was rolling in off the North Sea. With a shiver she went to sit on the low wall which bounded the lawn, her hands deep in her pockets for warmth. A few minutes later her eyes had closed.

The dream was waiting for her. In seconds it had overtaken her.

Sarah had tethered the horse at the top of the lane. With a kiss to the soft muzzle and a whisper in its ear to stay quiet in the pitch darkness under the tree she lifted her skirts clear of the ground and hastened down towards the village. The windows of Hopkins’s house were shuttered, but to her amazement the front door stood ajar. She pushed it cautiously and peered in. The house was deathly silent. It was in darkness save for a candle burning on the table outside the door to one of the front rooms. The wax had burned low and dripped into fantastic sculptural shapes in the draught from the open door.

‘Hello?’ Sarah’s voice sounded more confident, and far louder than she had expected. ‘Master Hopkins, are you there?’ Where were his servants? The house was cold, the atmosphere unwelcoming, unpleasant. She shivered, pushing open the door to his closet. She could feel the echoes of his presence in the room. Overwhelming, self-righteous, dark. The notes for the book he was writing were spread all over his desk but he was not there in person. She crept out of the room and stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up. The house was empty. She could sense it and she had no desire to go up and check further. Turning her back on the stairs, she surveyed the hall in the flickering candlelight as if hoping to find a clue as to where he was, and suddenly she knew. Liza had been taken to Mary Phillips’s house in Church Street. He was there with her now.

Running down the street, she neither remembered nor cared whether she had closed the door behind her, glad only to be outside, away from the overwhelming unpleasantness of the atmosphere in Hopkins’s house. The other houses in the street were mostly shuttered; here and there candlelight spilled out over the cobbles but the place was empty. Listening.

Listening for what?

The High Street was busier. The sound of laughter and loud conversation spilled from the coffee house, and she could see the press of figures through the window. From one of the taverns there came the sound of drunken laughter. Men stood in groups outside the Crown Inn, lanterns burned, a link boy ran before two men on horseback, his torch trailing smoke as they trotted down towards the river and a coach clattered past her up the hill. No one noticed her.

The door of the house on the corner of Church Street was barred. She knocked loudly, aware of faces turning towards her now in the dark from the street behind her.

‘Let me in!’

Liza was here. She knew it. She thumped with her fists on the oak panels. ‘Let me in!’ She could hear feet shuffling along the floor behind the door now. ‘Open up. I need to come in!’

The sound of two bolts being drawn back stopped her fists in mid-air and she waited as the door was pulled open a crack. In the shadows the other side of it she could see nothing. ‘Let me in! I have to see Master Hopkins!’

The door opened wider and she saw a muffled figure behind it. The woman was carrying an untrimmed candle which flared smokily, showing a pockmarked face and blackened teeth. ‘Did he say you could come in?’

‘Of course he did,’ Sarah snapped. She pushed the door back with the flat of her hand and stepped inside. ‘Where is he?’

‘Upstairs.’ The woman gestured towards the corner with a nod of the head.

The staircase was in darkness but she could see as she looked up, her hand on the newel post at the bottom, a faint shadowy light above her where it turned the corner into the upper room. She could hear voices. Two men talking softly. Then a woman. Not Liza. Gathering her skirts in one hand, she set off determinedly up the stairs.

The room was low-ceilinged, the window shuttered, the only pieces of furniture a table and three chairs. Matthew Hopkins and his assistant John Stearne were seated at the table. On the third chair the old lady was sitting, her arms bound behind her to the chair back, a filthy drool-soaked rag stuffed in her mouth. Her legs were spread-eagled, her skirts pushed up onto her thighs.

‘Very well, Mary. I think we know where you will find the Devil’s tits.’ Hopkins did not look up from the notebook in which he was writing. The old woman moaned with terror.

‘Stop!’ Sarah threw herself into the room. ‘What are you doing?’ Her voice trailed away as she saw the vicious spike in Mary Phillips’s hand. ‘Sweet Jesus, no!’

Mary straightened. ‘You have no business here, Sarah Paxman. Leave now!’

‘I will not leave. How dare you? How can you behave so cruelly?’

Sarah ran towards Liza and gently pulled down her skirts. Then she reached to pull the gag from the old lady’s mouth. ‘You have no right.’ She spun round to face Hopkins as Liza’s dry choking sobs grew louder. ‘No right at all.’

‘I have every right, mistress.’ He narrowed his eyes as the candle flames smoked. ‘I have Parliament’s commission as their Witch-finder General. Interfering with my business is a crime against the Parliament of this country.’ He leaned forward, his small dark eyes suddenly focused on her, seeming to see right through her. Perhaps he was remembering his dream. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. ‘Punishable by death.’

She stepped back, shocked. ‘I don’t believe you!’

‘You would ask to see my commission? You wish to test my resolve to do the job which God has given me? Mary, continue. I need to know the site of the Devil’s marks and I need to write down this woman’s confession.’ He turned back to Sarah. ‘Leave now, mistress, or I shall call the guard and have you committed to gaol.’

‘You can’t.’

‘I can.’ He stood up at last, and lifting the candlestick nearest him he stepped out from behind the table. ‘Guards!’ His voice was raw and harsh. Stearne had neither spoken nor moved beyond leaning back, arms folded, squinting up to watch his colleague’s face.

‘Liza?’ Sarah turned towards the old woman in despair. ‘What can I do?’

But Mary Phillips had closed in on Liza once more, the pricker in her hand. Dragging back the ragged skirts and forcing the old lady’s legs apart, she aimed upwards with vicious force. The first scream tore into the dark silence of the building as a door in the wall behind Hopkins flew open and two men came in.

‘The Devil will take you, Matthew Hopkins!’ Liza’s words were wrenched from the depth of her being. ‘He will take you to hell with all your foul conspirators!’ She broke into hoarse sobs. ‘Tell Satan what goes on here, Sarah! Tell him and call on him for revenge –’ Her words ended in another scream as Mary Phillips thrust her pricker once more into the old woman’s soft flesh.