Clutching her dressing gown around her, she tiptoed down the landing into the bathroom. It was irredeemably cold, with cracked linoleum on the floor and chipped white enamel fittings. The hot water however came from an electric immersion heater in the linen cupboard which blessedly and unexpectedly worked with enormous enthusiasm. She ran a bath and added some shower gel beneath the taps. Carpet, bathroom fittings, shower, hot towel rail – they were all on her list.
She rubbed steam off the mirror with the corner of a towel and peered at her face. It looked grubby: dust and earth had transferred from hands to nose, hair, eyes, and she was grey with fatigue. She frowned. That did not look like the face of someone living out their dream. She peered closer. For a moment it had not looked like her face at all. Frightened, she glanced behind her. But of course there was no one there.
Exhausted, she slept the moment her head touched the pillow, one cat at her feet, the other in the crook of her elbow. In the bathroom the steam slowly cleared. As the temperature dropped one by one the old oak floorboards creaked, settling into place.
Quietly, Min extricated herself from Emma’s sleeping arms and, jumping from the bed to the window sill, sat staring down into the dark garden.
22
The dream was there lying in wait for her. One moment she was drifting in and out of consciousness as she tried to get comfortable on the new unaccustomed mattress, still missing the solid reassuring form of Piers beside her, and the next she was standing, dressed in a long gown and embroidered shawl, in a strange room, by a heavy oak table staring at an open window where someone had called her name.
‘Mistress Sarah! Hurry!’ The figure at the window looked surreptitiously over his shoulder, clearly afraid. ‘Hopkins and his madmen have gone for Liza. You’ve got to come!’
She felt her stomach turn over with fear.
It was Hal. His father Tom managed the Bennetts’ farm. She hurried to the door. ‘Hal? Where are you?’
But he had already run away.
Her breath came in short gasps; her mouth was dry with terror. It was only when she could see the thatched roof of the cottage that she slowed down and began to think. Hopkins was a dangerous man. She knew how he worked, setting neighbour against neighbour, encouraging spite, subtly enflaming suspicion and engendering hatred. Anyone who crossed him or questioned his methods was liable to be arrested. Everyone despised him, but with the country at war with itself and everyone afraid, and with him claiming to have Parliament’s authority for what he did, there was no one to gainsay him. No one!
Her heart hammering under her ribs, she climbed awkwardly over the fence and tiptoed down the line of the hedge towards the back of the cottage. She could hear shouting. Men and women. They must have come and found Liza somewhere in the garden. Oh please God, let her be all right. There was a rousing cheer. She crept closer. She couldn’t see round the corner of the wall. Keeping out of the sight of the windows as best she could, she ran towards the cottage and edged carefully along under cover of the tall hollyhocks, then carefully she peered round. She could see them now, a crowd of men and women in the lane. They were bundling something – someone – into a cart. There was another cheer and they were gone. She could hear the horse’s hooves on the mud and stones of the lane and then the laughter and shouting of the crowd who followed behind.
‘Wait!’ she shouted. No sound came from her mouth. For a moment she found she couldn’t move, then she was running towards the gate. On the path she stopped suddenly, looking down. The old cat lay there, its body broken and bloody, its eyes still open as it stared up at the sky. ‘Oh no!’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh, Liza, no.’ She crept down the path into the cottage and stared round. The room was empty. Where was the other cat? Suddenly it was terribly important that she find him. ‘Blackie? Blackie, where are you?’
She glanced up the stairs. ‘Blackie. Are you there?’
The cat had crawled upstairs to die. It gazed at her from swiftly dimming eyes, its ribs broken, stomach and spleen ruptured, its face smashed, all from the boot of one man. As she knelt beside it and put a gentle hand on its head the pain and fear were already passing. In a minute it was dead.
She looked round, sobbing. ‘Liza?’ The word was soundless on her lips. ‘Liza, why didn’t you hide from them?’
Sweet Jesus. She could feel it. She could hear it in the echoes. Evil. Terror. Death.
‘Liza!’ She was screaming now as she ran down the stairs. ‘Liza, come back!’
Her sorrow and fear turning to anger, she ran towards the gate. There was no sign now of the rabble in the lane. The dust was settling. Nearby a thrush hopped out of the hedge, a snail in its beak, looking for its usual anvil. The stone had been pushed to one side by the scrabbling of a dozen pairs of feet but the bird spotted it at once and began to hammer the shell in quick brutal thumps as she watched.
Sobbing, she made her way home.
‘Papa?’ There was no answer. ‘Papa? Where are you?’ Her voice echoed down the oak-panelled corridor.
He was in the great hall, speaking to his steward. ‘What is it, Sarah?’ Anthony Bennett turned with a frown. His expression softened as he saw his only daughter.
‘They have taken Liza. The witchfinder and his rabble have taken Liza, Papa. You have to do something!’ She saw her father’s steward scowl. John Pepper had worked for the Bennetts for as long as she could remember. She had never liked him.
‘It was only a matter of time, mistress. That old woman has cast the evil eye too often for my taste, or anyone else’s in the town.’
‘That’s not true!’ Sarah’s eyes blazed. ‘She has done nothing but good. I remember her making medicines for your family many a time, John Pepper!’
‘And my family died, mistress!’ The retort had an almost triumphant tone to it.
‘They died of marsh ague, not of a curse!’ She was indignant.
‘And who is to say that? Liza gave them medicines. Maybe they were poisoned.’
‘Enough!’ Anthony Bennett slammed the book he had been holding down onto the table. ‘Leave us please, John. We’ll continue our discussion later. Sarah, calm yourself. I fear there is nothing you can do. The law must take its course. I am sure justice will be done.’
‘Justice!’ Sarah stared at him, white-faced. ‘Where was the justice for the others? They had done nothing wrong.’
‘If that were true, my darling, they would not have been hanged.’ He held out his hand. ‘Come and sit by me and we will discuss it, see if there is something we can do.’
She was trembling. ‘He will hurt her, Papa. He will force a confession.’
Anthony Bennett frowned. ‘Liza is not entirely innocent of whatever charges have been laid against her, Sarah. You and I both know that. Her intentions may have been benign, but her methods have not always been Christian.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Have never been Christian, if we are honest! That is, sweet daughter, why your mother first dismissed her from our service. She decided Liza was not a fit nurse for you.’
Sarah’s face was burning with indignation. ‘But you brought her back, Papa, after Mama died. And she cared for me as her own child. She never harmed me –’
‘No. She never harmed any of us. She has been loyal and kind to the Bennett family, which is why I gave her the cottage, and for that reason we will support her and do what we can for her.’ He stood up and walked towards the window. His elbow resting against a carved wooden mullion, he stared down into the garden. ‘I will speak to our neighbour, Sir Harbottle, who may well end up the judge of the case,’ he said slowly. ‘Our friendship is severely strained however, as you know, as he is for Parliament and we are for the king. It is not a good time to seek favours.’ He turned back to her. ‘You must leave this to me, Sarah.’ His voice was suddenly stern. ‘Do not become involved.’ He knew his daughter. For a while, during her short-lived marriage to Robert Paxman, she had settled into blissfully demure matronhood, or so it had seemed to her father. He had sighed w
ith relief. His daughter was safely settled, married to a good, wealthy man. Not gentry, as he would have wished – she had spurned the suitable men whom Anthony had produced for her inspection – but a decent burgess of Colchester who was strong, well-educated, successful and she adored him. The only blight on their five-year marriage had been the emptiness of the nursery. The cradle remained unused, to Robert and Sarah’s deep unhappiness, and when Robert had died of the pox Sarah was left wealthy, independent, and alone. Anthony sighed. This was the third time she had ridden over to see him in as many weeks. The loneliness was beginning to wear her down.
He glanced at her face, taking in the heightened colour, the brilliant eyes, the nervously fidgeting fingers. He sighed again. ‘I shall call John to escort you home, Sarah. The countryside is still full of soldiers, God help us all, and you shouldn’t ride alone. Leave this with me, child. I shall enquire where they have taken her and what is to be done. Don’t fret.’ He shook his head. He had seen rebellion in her face and he knew the danger she would face if she were to interfere. He had watched Master Hopkins in action over the last year as he travelled the eastern counties. He did not like the man, or his mission.
Sarah stood up and joined him at the window. ‘Where will they hold her?’
He shrugged. ‘Most probably they’ll take her to Colchester and put her in the castle until she can be sent for trial in Chelmsford. He will probably question her at Mistley Thorn or in Manningtree first.’
‘No.’ It was a moan.
‘Maybe he won’t bother, or have the time to do that.’ He was trying to reassure her. They both knew what questioning meant. Legally it might not be torture, not in the eyes of the law. In the eyes of any sane, God-fearing man or woman it was no less.
‘I’m not going to let them kill her, Papa!’ The tension in her voice made it shrill.
‘Do not interfere, Sarah!’ Her father was very stern. The unspoken thought swam into his mind. I have lost a son, only a few months ago, at Naseby, dear God, please don’t let me lose a daughter too, in this accursed land where next-door neighbours are at one another’s throats and brother fights brother. ‘I absolutely forbid it. Your own life would be in danger. They would drag up tales of your childhood in her care. Your name would be sullied by their foul accusations. You must not become involved, do you understand? You must not …’
His voice was growing distant. It was echoing in her head. ‘Sarah? Sarah, are you listening to me?’
‘Yes, Papa.’ Sarah was still staring out of the window. She was no longer hearing him, her eyes fixed on the hedge beyond the lawn. ‘I have to help Liza somehow. I have to … I have to …’
Sarah’s voice echoed in Emma’s head as the dream lightened and dissipated into fragmented sounds and pictures and finally disappeared. When she woke in the early dawn light she was conscious only of a feeling of deep unease. The cats were no longer in the room.
23
Monday October 5th, London
‘Take a look, Mark.’ Joe pushed the button on the remote and the video started to play. They were silent, Mark half-seated on the corner of the desk, Colin standing by the window.
‘There’s always noises. People walking up and down.’ Stan Barker’s voice rang out in the silent room. Then Mark’s. ‘And at what point did you decide that the house was haunted by Matthew Hopkins, the Witchfinder General?’
‘It’s good. He comes over better on film than he did in real life.’ Mark chuckled.
They all watched for a few moments, then Joe stepped closer to the screen and squatted on his haunches in front of it. ‘OK. It’s about here. Hang on. Right. Freeze.’ The picture stilled and Mark found himself staring at it intently. ‘See? There.’ Joe reached forward and touched the screen with his finger. Behind Stan Barker’s head they could see the staircase leading up out of the shop into the shadows.
‘It’s too blurred.’ Mark tried to fight back the uneasiness that had dogged him ever since Joe had phoned him.
‘Wait. I’ll play the rest, then wind it back.’
The film sequence resumed. Mark saw Stan wave his arm in the air, gesturing behind him. Then he saw it. A face peering round the corner of the stairs.
‘Christ Almighty!’ he heard himself exhale loudly. ‘Who is that?’
‘Quite.’ Joe pressed rewind. ‘Take another look.’
They viewed the shot three times in silence, then Joe switched off.
‘He doesn’t appear again?’
‘Nope.’
‘Why didn’t we see this before?’
Joe shrugged. ‘It’s very blurred. I guess we were all concentrating on Stan when we viewed this material. We put it aside. We did those other shoots. We’ve been working on other bits of the series. We didn’t sit and look – really look – at the film. Col and I spotted this last night. We came up to watch the whole thing through to make a start on it. And there it was.’
Mark stood up and walked over to the window. Joe’s small editing room and studio was at the back of his narrow, tall, terraced house in Highgate. They were on the third floor and Colin was still puffing slightly from the climb.
Mark eyed him. ‘You’re so unfit. Why the hell don’t you lose some weight, Col?’
Colin grinned. ‘Now, now. You know I have. And I’m a damn sight fitter than old Joe here.’ He eyed their host, who was as usual brandishing a half-smoked cigarette. ‘When are you going to stop smoking, Joe? It’s going to kill you, you know.’
Joe grinned. ‘Change the record, Col. Now, Mark, what do you make of the face?’
‘It’s amazing!’ Mark threw himself down in the swivelling chair behind the desk and eloquently wiped the palms of his hands over his denimed thighs. ‘And it scares me witless. It’s not imagination, is it?’
‘Nope.’
‘Has Alice seen it?’
‘I haven’t shown her the tape.’
‘Why don’t you get her up here and let’s see if she spots it.’
‘I suppose we could.’ Joe pulled a face. He stubbed out his cigarette.
‘Go on. Give her a yell. She’s not squeamish. Don’t say anything. Just show her the sequence.’
‘She’ll want to know why. I don’t usually ask her opinion.’
‘Well, perhaps you should. Now is a good time to start.’ Mark levered himself out of the chair and strode over to the door. ‘Alice?’
‘What?’ The voice from somewhere below them sounded distinctly graceless.
‘Can you come up a mo’? We want to ask you something.’
He imagined the groan, the toss of the head and grinned to himself. She would come. And sure enough, seconds later he heard the clump of her clogs on the polished wood of the stairs.
‘So, what do you lot want?’ She was dressed in cropped jeans and a lime-green T-shirt. Mark noted a new stud since he had last seen her. This was above the right eyebrow.
‘We’re editing the Manningtree film. Remember the interviews in the haunted shop?’
‘Mark!’ She was scornful. ‘It was only six weeks ago!’
‘Sorry. It just feels like a long time to us old folk!’ He gave Colin a complicit glance. ‘OK. So, I want you to take a look at this sequence.’ Colin was winding it back again as Joe’s daughter sat down on the floor in front of the TV. She crossed her legs. ‘So, what are we looking for? The ghost?’
Mark kept his face impassive. ‘Look. Then we’ll talk.’
Colin began to run the sequence and Alice sat forward, elbows on knees, staring at the screen. ‘Boring old bugger!’ she muttered. Then she widened her eyes. ‘Fucking hell! It is the ghost!’
Colin froze the picture. ‘What can you see?’
‘There’s a face, peering down the stairs. Oh, bloody hell!’
‘We just wanted to check we weren’t imagining it.’ Mark could feel a sudden film of sweat across his shoulder blades. ‘So, who do you reckon it is?’
‘Hard to say.’ After her initial reaction, he reckoned she was more inter
ested and excited than scared. ‘There’s too much shadow to see anything other than the face. It’s kind of disembodied.’ She gave a delighted chortle.
‘OK. Cut the comedy.’ Colin ran the sequence back and played it once more. ‘Man or woman? What do you reckon?’
‘Man.’
‘Woman.’
Mark and Alice spoke simultaneously.
‘Right.’ Colin gave a wry shrug. ‘What can we agree on?’
‘Long nose. Piercing eyes. Sort of brown. Chiaroscuro,’ Alice said thoughtfully. ‘Kind of Rembrandt figure.’
‘No prizes for guessing what you’re studying.’ Mark walked over to the TV. There was a pencil in his hand and he pointed at the picture. ‘See this bit? There. Do you reckon that’s part of the figure? A leg perhaps, or a skirt?’
‘You can’t tell. Not really.’ Alice was staring intently at the screen. Then suddenly she turned round. ‘Do you realise that he/she/whatever, was watching us?’ Her eyes rounded. ‘Look. It’s not looking at Stan. It’s looking straight past him towards you and Dad.’
‘That hadn’t occurred to me.’ Joe looked at Mark. ‘I rather wish it hadn’t occurred to you, Al.’
‘Especially as we are going to have to go back.’
‘Go back?’ She stared at him. ‘Groovy. Can I come?’
Mark laughed. ‘If your Dad thinks it’s OK. I don’t see why not. You’re not scared, then?’
‘No.’ Course not.’ She rose to her feet, graceful in spite of the clogs and deliberately awkward manner. ‘I thought the old boy said we couldn’t go near the shop once the new tenants had moved in.’