Sarah leaned forward, crooning in the horse’s ear. ‘Faster, sweetheart! Faster.’ She couldn’t breathe. Some of the men behind them were on horses too. They were galloping across the meadow, leaving the crowd on foot far behind, skirting round the shoulder of the hill. Below them the estuary lay, a streak of silver.
‘This way!’ John leaned over and caught her rein, wrenching the two horses sideways onto the track. ‘Here.’ Galloping fast, he led the way across a second meadow and into the trees, guiding them into the deep shadows of the wood. There, he pulled his horse back onto its haunches and slid to the ground. Running to her side, he put his hands up to her waist and pulled her off. ‘There. Let the horses go. We can’t ride in here. They won’t find us, if we send the horses home.’ Turning Sarah’s mare, he pointed its head back towards the house and smacked its rump.
‘John, we’d do better on horses. They can’t catch us on horses!’ Sarah screamed, but it was too late. The two animals were cantering back up the slope into full view. In the distance they heard a shout of triumph. The men had spotted the riderless animals, and had turned at once towards the trees.
‘Gone to ground!’ She thought she heard the call, echoing round them.
‘This way!’ John was racing back towards the lane. The high hedges on either side cut out the moonlight and they ran on. Both were gasping for breath. He had her hand now. He was dragging her after him, desperate to find a way through the hedge as the sound of horses behind them grew closer. Sarah slipped, her foot in a puddle, and her shoe flew off. They couldn’t stop. He dragged her on, aware of the horse gaining on them, aware of her terror. The horse was nearly upon them, and he heard her scream just as a gap showed for an instant in the high thorn hedge beside them. Pulling her through it, he glanced round and gasped with relief. They were back in the wood. Dodging through the trees, they made their way further and further into the darkness. The warm sweet smell of leaf-mould surrounded them. They could no longer see the moon. Overhead the leaves were a thick canopy against the sky.
‘Where are we going? How can you see?’ Sarah gasped.
John chuckled. ‘A misspent youth poaching your father’s game, I fear,’ he said quietly. ‘Don’t speak now, mistress. Just follow as quiet as you can. And if you know any spells to hide us, now is the time to use them.’ She thought she caught sight of the whites of his eyes as he flashed her a nervous glance. ‘I go in danger of death as much as you, so do as I say.’ He had her wrist in his hand now, as he stopped. He seemed to be searching around for something in the dark. Sarah could suddenly hear the sound of shouting again in the distance. The men hunting them had doubled back. They had found the gap in the hedge. The sounds of pursuit were growing closer. ‘They are in the wood, John!’
‘Shh!’ He tugged at her wrist and she stepped after him blindly.
Suddenly he swore. ‘We have to cross that clearing in the moonlight. I had forgotten it was so open.’ He looked back over his shoulder. ‘Hurry, it’s all we can do. Once we are over it, there are places to hide a month and none will find us.’ Without pausing, he launched himself out into the open, running low and fast, dragging her after him. Behind them there was a shout of triumph, followed by a sharp crack. ‘John, they have muskets!’ Sarah screamed. She faltered.
His grip was firm and she had no choice but to run with him.
‘Run!’ He dragged her on.
There was another bang, a spurt of fire from behind him in the dark, and John let out a cry of pain. He dropped her hand, clutching at his shoulder.
‘John, you are hit!’
‘It is nothing.’ His teeth were gritted. ‘Come on, we can’t stop or all is lost. Only another few yards and we are safe!’
Somehow he made it, forcing himself to run the last few steps, and they were once more in the thick shadow. This time the wood was far denser, the old oaks interspersed with holly and bramble and dark-red dogwoods. He ducked sideways and pulled her with him into the shelter of an old hollow tree. There he collapsed onto the ground. ‘I’m done. If they come, you must run alone.’
‘They won’t find us, John. They have no dogs and they can’t see anything in here.’ Crouching beside him on the ground, she could smell his blood. Cautiously she reached out in the dark and touched his shoulder. ‘You are a brave man, John Pepper. You risked your life to save me.’
‘For your father’s sake!’
‘And for mine! I will remember this, John.’ She paused. They could hear the shouting again. The voices were quite close, in the clearing now, but they were growing no closer. The men were casting about, trying to find their trail, searching for the place they had entered the wood. They were coming closer. Beside her she felt John slump lower to the ground. His breathing was coming in short, painful gasps. If their pursuers came any nearer they would hear him.
Nearby an owl hooted. She glanced up. Judging by the sudden attentive silence, the men following them had heard it too. They were trying to read its message. Had it seen the fugitives in the wood? ‘Lead them away, sweetheart. Lead them away,’ she murmured. In the dark she could not see the suddenly spread wings, the silent flight, the circling, but the men in the clearing saw it swoop low over their heads and with one accord they turned the way the owl had come, plunging into the trees on the far side of the clearing. Within minutes the sound of pursuit had died away into the distance.
‘They’ve gone.’ Her voice was barely audible. She reached over and touched his sleeve. There was no answer. ‘John?’ Gently she nudged him. In the dark she felt him slump forward to the ground at her feet. He was no longer breathing. ‘John!’ She shook him. ‘John, don’t die!’
Silence.
She stared round helplessly. Who could she turn to now, what could she do?
Sarie, my dear.
It was Liza’s voice. Liza, from her dungeon under Colchester Castle.
You can’t do this alone, my Sarie. Avenge me. Avenge us all. And help John Pepper. Call on the Lord Lucifer, Sarie. He will help you.
‘Liza?’ Sarah had gone cold with fear. Around her the rough, weathered bark of the old oak was a shelter against the breath of icy wind off the estuary.
Gently she touched John’s face. It was growing colder every second.
‘Lord Lucifer,’ she whispered. She paused, sick with fear. ‘Help me now and I will serve you for the rest of my life. Save my good servant, John. Save him and make him well again.’
Her hand was on John’s cold forehead. He did not stir. She waited, half expectant, half terribly afraid. In the distance the owl hooted again. Nearby a twig cracked sharply. She held her breath. There was someone there. Hardly daring to move, she craned her neck out of their hiding place to look out into the dark. It was lighter now. A glimmer in the sky to the east bled pale shadows into the darkness of the wood. A black-and-white shape moved quickly out of the corner of her vision and again she heard the crack of twigs. It was a badger.
And then they were upon her, materialising out of the mist which had curled in amongst the trees, cold cruel hands pulling her from her hiding place, a pike stabbing at her shoulder, the night loud with shouting and with fear and pain.
93
‘He’s dead, Mike!’
On her knees, Ruth cradled her husband’s head on her lap. She glanced up and for the first time seemed to notice what was happening.
Mike was crouching near the altar, coughing blood, his breath failing as the woman, transparent as glass, stood over him, her eyes blazing hatred.
‘Oh, no!’ Somehow Ruth managed to stem her tears. ‘You bitch! You will not have him as well!’ Gently she lifted Tony’s head off her knees. She bent down and kissed his forehead, then she climbed to her feet. ‘Get rid of Hopkins, Mike. It is Hopkins she is after.’ Her voice was gaining strength. ‘Push him out! You can do it. Pray now –’ She stopped suddenly in mid-sentence. The anguish in her face was transformed. ‘Tony is with us.’ Her voice was full of awe. ‘I can see him. He is holding us in his a
rms. He is here!’ The tears were flowing again. ‘He is surrounded by light, Mike. She can’t bear the light. She is a creature of the darkness. Push Hopkins away, Mike, and she will go.’
He could hear her only dimly through the roar of blood in his ears. Somehow he looked up, desperately trying to catch his breath, trying to hear what she was saying. Sarah was so close. So strong. She was so beautiful. He struggled to draw another gasping lungful of air and suddenly he too saw Tony. The old man was standing by the altar, his arms outstretched, a glow like sunlight surrounding him. The sight gave Mike a huge surge of hope. He turned back to look at Sarah, wiping the blood and spittle from his chin.
She stepped towards him, her hate a tangible weapon. Before it, Mike could do nothing. Choking, he collapsed onto the altar steps, reaching towards Tony. But he couldn’t get close enough. His strength was going. Sarah was still there, between them.
‘Why?’ he gasped as she bent over him. ‘What did Hopkins do to you?’
94
Asleep, Emma dreamed on.
The shouting, the roughness of their hands, the huge frothy gob of spit full in the face terrified her as she felt them grabbing at her wrists, felt the rope snake round them, pulling tight, felt her feet go from under her as they lifted her off the ground.
‘Catch the witch! Try the witch! Take her up! Take her to Master Hopkins!’
Someone else bent over John Pepper.
‘He’s dead!’
The kick to his ribs was vicious. She did not see it. They had wedged a cloth in her mouth to stop her screaming. Another was tied around her eyes. She could not see if Stearne and Hopkins were there or if these men who surrounded her were merely their dogsbodies. Her fear was so intense she could barely breathe. Perhaps she lost consciousness; she was aware of nothing but terror until later, much later, they tore off her blindfold and she found herself sitting in the chair in front of Hopkins’s table.
Immaculately dressed, without a speck of mud on him, he was watching her through hooded eyelids. The screaming crowd had gone. Outside the window a thick dark fog swirled up the street.
‘So, Sarah. We have you at last.’
Her wrists were still bound. She had lost her shoes and her feet were bare.
He smiled coldly. ‘Yours is the last name on my list, I think.’
His notebook was open on the table in front of him, in his hand the quill. He reached towards the inkwell and his hand was shaking.
Sarah moaned. She tried to spit out the gag, but it was tied too tightly. She could barely move.
‘Mary?’ Hopkins had not looked up. He was still writing in his small meticulous hand. ‘Are you ready?’
A figure moved in the corner of the room at the very periphery of Sarah’s vision. Mary Phillips stepped forward. She was wearing a clean white apron.
Hopkins still did not look up. ‘I fear this young woman is clever. The Devil particularly favours her,’ he said, his tone weary, barely interested. ‘It will be hard to discover the Devil’s tits, Mary. You will probably have to prick every bit of her to find them.’
Sarah groaned. She shrank into the chair, willing herself to disappear as Mary turned and smiled at her.
‘Proceed.’ Hopkins put down his pen at last. He straightened in his seat and for the first time looked directly into Sarah’s eyes. His gaze was triumphant.
Mary Phillips moved to stand in front of Sarah. She put her hand into her pocket and drew out the long pin set in its wooden handle. For several seconds she stood considering, her head to one side, then she reached forward and plunged it into Sarah’s thigh through the skirt of her nightgown.
The pain was so intense she nearly fainted, her scream of agony muffled by the gag.
A small patch of blood spread over the white fabric. Mary stared at it, shaking her head. ‘We’d better search for it. Seek out the little marks.’ She smiled gravely. Then she bent and pulled up the skirt, leaving Sarah as naked as Liza had been. Sarah closed her eyes in terror, aware of Hopkins’s eyes on her, greedily taking in every detail of her body, but then she realised he was shaking his head. He had gone pale, sweat breaking out over his forehead. ‘Cover her!’ His voice was peremptory. He stood up and staggered over to the window, coughing. ‘Search her breasts, Mary. That’s where you will find them.’
Mary gave him a scornful glance but she grabbed the hem of Sarah’s nightgown and yanked it down over her knees. In almost the same movement she reached out and tore the garment to the waist, leaving Sarah’s breasts bare.
‘Why not test for yourself, Master Hopkins?’ she called out. Her voice was insolent.
He shuddered. Turning, he stood staring down at the woman in the chair, his eyes feasting on her white blue-veined breasts, watching her straining against the ropes, unable to move as the vicious spike hovered uncertainly in Mary’s hands as she waited, her eyes on Hopkins’s face, for his signal. For a moment he hesitated, then he nodded. ‘Do it,’ he said, his voice muffled in the handkerchief he had clapped to his mouth.
Sarah’s shriek of agony was loud even through the gag and he stepped back, somehow shocked by the amount of pain in the sound. He winced and held up his hand as Mary was about to plunge the pin in for a second time.
‘Wait.’ He took a deep breath. ‘To make this stop, Sarah, you have only to confess.’ He paused. ‘Move the gag, Mary, so we can hear her.’
As they pulled away the rag she found herself retching so much she couldn’t speak, and he called for a glass of wine. Carefully, almost solicitously, he held it to her lips, careful not to touch her, shrinking from her breasts where a trail of shockingly scarlet blood ran down into the stained folds of white lawn about her waist.
‘So, Sarah, do you confess?’
‘Oh yes, I confess!’ At last she had found her voice. ‘I serve the Lord Lucifer!’ She spat the words in his face. ‘I am his and always will be now. You have driven me into his arms, Master Hopkins, and I call down all the curses in Hell upon your head, with his blessing. You will die in agony for what you have done to me and if I hang so much the better, for be sure of this: I shall usher your soul into the depths of Hell with my own hands!’
95
Sunday November 1st
Jane Good had pedalled up the lane to the rectory most Sunday mornings since Mike had arrived in Manningtree. Her weekly bike ride brought her past his door and she had taken to dropping in at about nine to have a cup of coffee with him after he got back from celebrating Holy Communion. A shrewd, motherly woman, she had recognised in Mike a man who needed to have someone to talk to, was probably desperately lonely even if he would die rather than admit it, and who found the slightly plump (hence the weekly bike ride), kind doctor’s wife someone in whom he could if needs be confide. In her bicycle basket were a couple of croissants for them to share over their coffee and two back copies of Country Life, which she would have to have back from him in due course so she could put them into the waiting room.
Leaning the bike against the wall, she walked up the steps. The front door was unlocked. She pushed it open. ‘Mike, are you there?’ His car was missing she had noticed, but sometimes he drove it round the back to the kitchen door, and there was another car there, an old Vauxhall, parked under the horse chestnut at the edge of the gravel.
‘Mike, it’s Jane!’
There was no answer. She walked through to the kitchen and put the paper bag with the croissants and the magazines on the table. There were about a dozen teacups stacked to drain upside down beside the sink. He must have had a meeting of some sort the night before.
‘Mike, are you there?’
His study was empty and she stood at the foot of the stairs as she called up. Even if it wasn’t a day for an early service he very seldom overslept. Mike was a natural early riser.
‘Mike?’ she called, more loudly this time. There was something about the silence in the house which was beginning to alarm her.
Cautiously, slightly embarrassed, she started to climb the s
tairs. She didn’t know which was his bedroom, but only one door was closed. The other rooms, behind half-opened doors, were clearly empty.
‘Mike?’ She tiptoed up to the closed door and knocked. There was no answer. She hesitated, her overwhelming feeling of unease deepening. ‘Mike?’
Cautiously she reached for the handle and turned it.
The curtains in Mike’s bedroom were still closed, the bedside light on. Judith was lying halfway between the bed and the window. Jane stared at her, for a moment too shocked and appalled to move. The woman’s nightdress was soaked with blood. Blood covered her face; she had obviously reached for a box of man-sized tissues, a wad of which was clutched in one hand, the box lying near her face on the carpet.
Jane ran to her and knelt down, reaching gently for the pulse point below the woman’s ear. She already knew she was dead from the white face, the cold skin. Sitting back on her heels she took a deep breath, then she glanced round for the phone.
James Good arrived before the police. He found his wife in the cold kitchen, sitting at the empty table. She smiled wanly. ‘It’s awful, James. She’s covered in blood.’
‘I can’t believe it! Was there any sign of a break in?’ He looked up as they heard the crunch of tyres outside.
She shrugged. ‘The front door was unlocked.’
‘Where’s Mike?’
‘I don’t know. I was looking for him.’ She followed her husband into the hall as the two police officers pushed open the front door. The doctor greeted them sombrely. ‘It looks as though we have a murder on our hands. My wife found her.’
‘It’s Judith Sadler. She’s the lay reader at the church.’ Jane had started to shake. ‘She’s in the rector’s bedroom.’
The policemen looked at one another. ‘And where is the rector, Mrs Good? Do you know?’ one of them asked.