Hiding From the Light

  ‘If I suggest it, Master Hopkins will have you taken up, Mistress Sarah.’ Mary Phillips hadn’t moved. ‘I’ll wager a pretty sum I would find witch marks on your person. You went to Liza for a spell to give you a babe, didn’t you? Don’t think I had forgotten. You asked me as a midwife why your womb didn’t quicken from that fancy husband of yours. I couldn’t help, so you went to her.’

  ‘You wouldn’t help, Mary.’ Sarah glared at her, her eyes hard. ‘You refused. You wouldn’t even examine me.’

  ‘Because England does not need more spoiled royalist brats!’ Mary spat the words at her.

  ‘Is that why you asked a fee so exorbitant I could not pay without asking my husband?’

  Mary shrugged. ‘Whatever. The fact remains that you went to Liza and she gave you a spell.’

  ‘She did not.’

  ‘She gave you a spell and a potion containing the Devil’s seed.’

  ‘That is a lie!’

  ‘It’s easily proven. If you took the potion you too are a witch, confirmed, enslaved, a harlot of the Devil! Well, Mistress Hoity Toity, we shall see. Witch marks don’t bleed from my pin.’ She put her hand into the pocket of her gown and produced a long pin set in a handle. ‘Shall we try it, Mistress Sarah? Master Hopkins heard of this special test that they use in Scotland. It finds the place the Devil sucks his servants.’

  ‘Don’t you touch me!’ Sarah whirled away from her, keeping well out of reach. ‘You are an evil, cruel woman.’

  ‘I just do my job as Master Hopkins bids me.’ Mary held out the pricker at arm’s length. ‘We’ll get to you, my dear, don’t you worry. Liza will confess everything and I shall ask her about you especially.’

  ‘She will tell you nothing!’ Sarah paused in the doorway.

  ‘Oh, but she will.’ Mary gave her a slow, cold smile. ‘Believe me, she will. They always do.’

  ‘There is nothing to tell.’ Sarah could feel the fear spreading through her body like ice-water.

  ‘So you say. Liza will tell it different. By the time we’re finished asking her questions, she will incriminate everyone she has ever known, sweetheart. And you shall be chief amongst them.’ Mary thrust the pricker back into her apron pocket. ‘I shall enjoy questioning you; finding out where you hide the Devil’s tit. In your privy parts, I’ll be bound. It’s always the best place to look.’

  Sarah gasped. Her face was white and for a moment she thought she would faint. Mary took a step forward and Sarah turned. She fled down the stairs, through the taproom and outside to the sound of jeering, beer-soaked voices behind her.

  ‘Mistress Sarah, are you all right?’

  Sarah realised suddenly that Agnes had not followed her into Hopkins’s room. As she went in, Agnes had fled. The girl had been waiting outside the inn, giggling with a couple of maids from the kitchen.

  ‘Where is Master Hopkins?’ Sarah took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

  ‘He rode off, mistress. Along the river.’

  Sarah closed her eyes. She was shaking, she realised, as relief that he had gone swept over her. Shaking and cold with fear.

  ‘We’ll ride home, Agnes. Back to Papa’s. Call John with the horses.’

  ‘Is it going to be all right, mistress?’ Agnes was staring at her. The girl’s face was red with excitement, her eyes sparkling. The reason, Sarah realised suddenly, was not unconnected with the two pot boys lounging at the inn door.

  ‘No, Agnes,’ she said bitterly. ‘It is not going to be all right. I don’t know what we are going to do.’

  ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do!’ Emma repeated the words as she opened her eyes and stared round the dark bedroom. ‘Oh, God, I don’t know what we’re going to do!’

  She lay still, her heart pounding. She must have been having a nightmare, but whatever it was it had slipped away as she woke, leaving terrible fear behind it. She put out her arm towards Piers, seeking reassurance, and then pulled it back. How stupid to expect to find him there after all this time.

  She sat up, shivering. The window was open a crack and she could hear the rain pattering down on the leaves of the honeysuckle on the wall outside her window. The bedroom was cold. There was no sign of the cats. With a groan she pushed her feet out of bed and went to pull on a heavy sweater. Then she went to the window. She pushed back the billowing curtain and was reaching to shut it when she saw a flash of light out in the darkness beyond the garden.

  She frowned, staring out. There it was again. Not in the garden, but across the lane in the old churchyard. Someone was moving around in there, carrying a torch. She leaned forward and pushed the sash down a little further to see more clearly. The night air was cold on her face and she could feel the odd drop of rain.

  Someone was shouting. She could hear a woman’s voice coming from the churchyard. It was anguished, almost screaming. She leaned out even further, straining her eyes in the murky darkness, suddenly afraid. Was someone being attacked out there? Should she call the police?

  She shivered violently. The torch light was waving wildly about, and near it she could see a circle of what looked like small flickering candles.

  Suddenly making up her mind, she ran down the stairs and pulled on her boots. Taking down her raincoat from a hook in the hall she pulled it on over her pyjamas and sweater and reached for the big torch she kept by the hall phone.

  It was cold and damp outside and the mizzle of rain soon found its way down inside her collar as she walked cautiously down the path and let herself out of the gate. Her boots were silent on the wet leaves as she crept through the hedgerow trees towards the churchyard wall. Putting her torch out now she was close and half hidden behind a stunted hawthorn, she peered round. The wind was rising, thrashing the branches in her face, driving the rain into her eyes. It was hard to see. Cautiously she scrambled over the old bricks and crept closer. The dark figure appeared to be walking round in circles; the lights were, as she had guessed, coming from candles on the ground. There seemed to be only one figure there, now she was closer, and she did not seem to be the victim of any sort of attack. She was shouting and gesticulating as she moved round and round in a circle.

  There was no doubt what was going on. It was black magic of some sort and Emma fervently, desperately, did not want to be there. It was as she was turning away that a stronger than usual gust of wind blew out the candles, leaving both women in the dark.

  Lyndsey’s scream as she saw Emma standing near her sent Emma running for the wall. Gripping her torch in her wet hands, she managed to turn it on and the beam of light shone wildly round and up into the sky as she tried to find the gap where she had climbed over.

  ‘Wait!’ Lyndsey too had a torch. ‘Wait, I have to speak to you!’ Knowing the layout of the ground rather better than Emma, she caught up with her easily and grabbed her arm.

  ‘I don’t think so!’ Emma tried to push her off.

  ‘You were spying on me!’

  Rain was streaming down their faces. The hood of Emma’s mac had slipped back and her hair trailed wet across her eyes.

  ‘I thought you were in trouble. I heard you scream!’ The wind tore the words from her lips. She had recognised Lyndsey now as the young woman she had seen with Alex and the knowledge reassured her. ‘Look, this is stupid. Come back to the house out of the rain. We are both getting soaked.’

  Lyndsey hesitated. For a moment she turned and stared over her shoulder into the dark, then she gave in. With a nod she turned to follow.

  They shed their boots and coats and Lyndsey’s robe in the porch and Emma led the way in, heading for the kitchen. ‘Let me grab a couple of towels.’ She pointed at the kitchen door and turning to the stairs, ran up to the linen cupboard. When she came back down Lyndsey was already in the kitchen, standing by the new Aga. She was now wearing patched jeans and a scarlet sweater.

  Grabbing the towel from Emma without a word, she rubbed it over her face and hair. ‘If you weren’t spying, what were you doing out there?’ To E
mma’s surprise she had a clipped, upper-class accent more suitable to Harvey Nichols than to midnight country churchyards.

  ‘I told you.’ Emma was drying herself now. ‘I was woken by your screaming. I thought you were being attacked or raped or something.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you call the police?’ Lyndsey stopped rubbing her hair and stared at her belligerently. ‘You didn’t, did you?’

  ‘No. I reckoned it would take too long for anyone to come, so I thought I would try and scare them off. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to –’ Emma broke off. ‘I wasn’t spying.’

  ‘But you saw what I was doing.’

  ‘Not really. It was too dark.’ Emma refused to meet her eye. ‘Were you alone out there?’

  Lyndsey nodded. She began to rub again vigorously.

  ‘So, what were you doing?’ Emma carefully kept her back turned.

  ‘What you don’t know won’t hurt you.’ Lyndsey threw down her towel. She folded her arms. ‘You keep out of that churchyard. It’s none of your business, what happens in there.’

  Emma frowned. ‘If I may say so, I think it is more my business than yours.’ She turned round. ‘I live right across the road and I don’t appreciate being woken in the middle of the night by banshee wails which scare the living daylights out of me!’

  Lyndsey’s eyes flashed. ‘Then why don’t you put your head under the pillow? You townies are all the same. You come out into the country and you don’t like what you see. You don’t understand it. You don’t know what you’re talking about, but you want to interfere anyway.’

  ‘Hang on a minute …’ Emma could feel her temper rising.

  ‘No, you hang on. You mind your own business!’

  ‘And let you get on with nice country pursuits. What was it, Lyndsey? Witchcraft? Satanism? I’m supposed to put up with that on my doorstep, am I?’

  ‘That’s the point, isn’t it!’ Lyndsey stormed to the door. ‘It’s not your doorstep. It’s Liza’s doorstep. And don’t you forget it!’ Grabbing at the latch on the door she fumbled for a moment, pulled it open and ran into the hall.

  ‘Look, wait!’ Emma called. ‘At least let me drive you home. It’s a filthy night out there.’

  ‘No, Miss Dickson,’ Lyndsey managed to make the name sound like an insult. ‘It’s not a filthy night. It’s a country night!’

  Ramming her feet into her boots, she grabbed her jacket and let herself out into the dark, slamming the door behind her.

  31

  Wednesday October 14th

  ‘Right, kids. Breakfast finished? Teeth next please. Now! Mrs Cox will be here any minute to take you to school.’

  Alex presided over the kitchen table like a board meeting. Morning: review the day to come. Evening: discuss the day that’s over. Food: each item ticked off and eaten, or if rejected, a reason given. Then, if it was Molly Cox’s day to deliver, plates into the dishwasher, shopping list checked, day to himself. If it was his turn, two extra houses to collect three extra children, push the kids into the school door, then a mooch around Colchester, or if there was a collection and tea at going home time organised, a trip further afield. Cambridge or Norwich perhaps. Not London. Not if he could help it. London brought back memories of sitting on the train, shaking with exhaustion; burn out; depression.

  Today he was going to ring Emma Dickson and arrange a date for that dinner party to introduce her to Paula.

  He paused as he stacked the cereal bowls. Paula hadn’t been as pleased as he had hoped when he told her about Emma’s arrival. And he was so certain they would get on. Two strong, intelligent women, similar backgrounds, Paula stuck in the country, Emma probably missing the City.

  He frowned, recalling Paula’s reaction. ‘Of course you can ask her over, but I don’t suppose it will make a difference to how I feel about this place.’ This place meaning Bradfield, Manningtree, Essex, the countryside – anywhere he was – and it frightened him as quite a few of her remarks lately had frightened him. ‘When the kids finish at Cambridge House we ought to review the situation, Alex. It’s the perfect time to think about the future.’ What she meant was: move. And move meant move back to London. He whistled through his teeth, pushing the thought out of his mind and, reaching for the piece of paper on which Emma had scribbled her number, he picked up the phone.

  She seemed pleased with the invitation but her manner was a little reserved, which, he discovered, disappointed him. He hesitated as she wrote down his address. Then he came out with it. ‘Emma? There’s nothing wrong, is there? I haven’t offended you in some way?’

  She laughed. ‘No, of course not. In fact –’ she paused and he could picture her frowning, wondering if she should tell him whatever it was that she was worrying about. Clearly she decided she could. Her words shocked him. ‘It’s about your friend Lyndsey. She and I had a bit of a set to last night.’

  He listened without comment while she explained what had happened and in spite of himself he felt a shiver of unease.

  ‘Lyn is a complete clot!’ he commented when she had finished. ‘Right out of control.’ He sighed. ‘But she is harmless, Emma. I told you. I wouldn’t trust my kids to her otherwise. I think she does consider herself a bit of a witch. Wicca they call it now, don’t they? She was probably embarrassed at being caught at it. Look, I’ll have a word with her. Don’t worry. Whatever she’s up to I don’t suppose it will do any harm.’ He paused. He hoped Emma was convinced, but when she spoke again she still sounded a bit dubious.

  ‘OK, I’ll leave it to you. I don’t want to make an enemy of her.’ There was another infinitesimal silence, then she spoke again. ‘Alex, would you think me awfully rude if I asked if I could bring someone with me to supper? My ex.’ She gave a small, nervous laugh. ‘He might come down for a weekend if there was something exciting laid on.’

  He could hear the wistfulness in her tone as she hung up and for a moment he frowned. Poor Emma was obviously finding life in the country more lonely – and more frightening – than she had expected. Picking up his car keys he headed for the door. Young Lyndsey obviously needed a good talking to. And soon.

  She was out. He stood on the quay, the wind ruffling what remained of his hair, staring up at her windows, then he knocked at the door again. ‘Lyn?’ He stooped and opening the letterbox, he called through it.

  The house was silent. Crouching low, he peered into the small living room. She had left the curtains closed and the room was dark. He frowned, standing up once more, and turned to face the river. The heavy overnight rain had cleared. Across the water weak rays of sunshine illuminated the low green swell of the Suffolk coast. The tide was neither out nor in. Broad swathes of grey-black mud bordered the slow lazy strip of dull water as it crept slowly towards the town.

  He sighed. Had she come home last night, or had she gone away and holed up somewhere? There was no way he could tell and no one to ask; he knew she did not talk to her neighbours.

  Turning, he walked back up the quay between the cottages, back to the road where he had left his car. Instead of heading up the hill towards home, he decided to drive on into Manningtree to pick up some things from the deli. It was as he drove slowly down the road along the river that he saw the rector standing, hands in pockets, staring out across the water, much as he himself had been doing only minutes before. Alex slowed the car thoughtfully and, decision made, pulled into the kerb.

  Mike raised a hand in greeting. Alex was not a parishioner of his but he had seen him occasionally in the town. ‘Nice to see the rain has stopped,’ he commented as Alex climbed out of the car and joined him.

  ‘Indeed.’ Alex rammed his hands into his pockets. ‘I wondered if I could have a word, Rector.’ He paused, watching a flight of birds making their way low over the water towards the mud banks.

  Mike glanced at him, noting the tense shoulders and the anxious frown. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I was just speaking to Emma Dickson – I don’t know if you’ve met her yet?’ Alex glanced at him quic
kly, caught the slight shake of the head and went on. ‘She’s bought Liza’s.’

  ‘Ah.’ Mike nodded. ‘I know where you mean.’

  Alex chewed his lip for a moment thoughtfully. ‘Do you mind if we walk? I’m not sure whether I should be mentioning this.’ He paused again as they turned and fell in step together, walking the way Alex had come.

  When Alex showed no inclination to say anything else Mike prompted him gently: ‘It is a good place to think, watching the tide go in and out, seeing how the birds follow it.’ He paused. ‘You live in Bradfield, I believe?’

  Alex nodded. ‘This isn’t about me. It’s about Emma and Lyndsey Clark.’

  ‘Ah. Lyndsey.’ Mike nodded.

  ‘You know her?’ Alex finally glanced at him.

  ‘Not personally. Her name has been mentioned to me.’

  Alex stopped. He faced Mike almost aggressively. ‘In what context?’

  Mike shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘She’s a witch, is that the context? A stupid, childish, over-dramatic kid who is in danger of getting in over her head.’

  Mike scanned his face thoughtfully. ‘Have you known Lyndsey long?’

  Alex nodded. ‘About five years. Since we moved down here from London. But just lately she’s changed.’ He resumed walking slowly and Mike followed. ‘Last night she was up at St Mary’s churchyard.’ Briefly he recounted Emma’s story.

  ‘I suspect Lyndsey would not welcome my interference,’ Mike said thoughtfully when Alex had finished. The two men had drifted to a halt again. ‘I will pray for her, of course. And for guidance on what to do.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps in the meantime I should go and visit my new parishioner. Emma Dickson, you said?’

  Alex nodded. ‘I think the whole episode upset her quite a bit. She’s on her own up there and it must have been very, very scary.’