For a moment Emma couldn’t speak. ‘You mean Dad’s family have lived here for hundreds of years?’
‘Sounds like it. Have you seen it? Does it still exist?’
‘It still exists. It’s the local manor house. Someone called Colonel Lawson lives there. I’ve seen him walking his dogs up the lane.’
‘Well, perhaps it helps to explain your love of Liza’s. You are a native of the area.’ Peggy laughed gaily. ‘You ought to go and see it, darling! See if he will show you round.’
‘I might. Ma, when are you coming down to see me again?’
There was an unmotherly chortle from the other end of the phone. ‘It may not be for a while, Em, I’m sorry. I was hoping to come again soon, but guess what? Dear old Dan wants us to go on holiday. To Mexico! I can’t believe it! He won a premium bond, the first win he’s had in about forty years and it’s enough to take us away for two months! I’ve found someone to look after the shop. Look, I’ll register this parcel of things to you. There are a few letters and two albums, then you’ll have them safely, then I’m going shopping!’
Emma could hear the excitement bubbling away behind her mother’s voice and she smiled. It was time Peggy had some fun and this sounded the most wonderful fun.
She sat where she was for several minutes after she put the phone down, lost in thought. Her head was reeling with the news. She did belong. Her ancestors had called to her down the centuries and she had heard without knowing why. Overly Hall was a lovely house; she had passed it once or twice on her explorations of the district. It was fifteenth-century, she guessed, gracious, mellow, perhaps the house to which Liza’s and Liza’s old walled garden had belonged once upon a time.
Almost without realising it she pulled on her coat and boots and she found herself wandering up the lane towards it, drawn by her excitement. It took her fifteen minutes to reach the elegant wrought-iron gates. She stopped and peered in. Two cars stood outside the front door and as she was standing there, wondering if she dared go in and knock, another car drew up behind her. She stood back out of the way, but the driver lowered his window and glared at her. It was Colonel Lawson. ‘Can I help you?’
She hesitated. ‘I’m sorry. I was just looking. I’m Emma Dickson. I live down the lane at Liza’s.’
‘I’ve seen you.’ He did not smile.
‘I have just found out that my ancestors lived in this house and I couldn’t resist strolling up the hill to have a look.’ She shrugged.
‘Indeed.’ His expression did not soften. ‘Well, it is not open to the public I’m afraid, so you will have to content yourself with looking from there.’ He pressed a remote control on the dashboard of his car and the gates opened; he drove the car in and the gates closed behind him.
Emma was left open-mouthed, standing in the road. She turned away abruptly, hot with embarrassment. He could at least have smiled; have been friendly. She was, after all, a neighbour. So much for the hope that he might ask her in and fête her as a descendant of the family who had once lived in the house.
She stepped away from the gate, then hesitated for one last glance over her shoulder at the wisteria-covered walls, the tall barley-sugar chimneys and the windows with their elegant mullions. It was with a shock of recognition that she realised that in her dreams she had looked out of those same windows; that once, long ago, she had spent her childhood in that house and that it was there that a woman called Liza had cared for her, in the nurseries under the ancient slates.
45
After returning to the rectory from the churchyard, Mike had spent an hour pacing up and down. He had tried to reach Tony on the phone twice but there had been no reply and his two visits to parishioners on the other side of the town had done nothing to distract him. Walking back into the house he listened briefly to a phone message from Judith, decided to ignore it and reached for the whisky bottle; as far as he was concerned, the sun was over the yard arm. He drank a hefty slug and sat down at his desk with a sigh. Where was God when he needed him? Perhaps he should go to the church to pray. It was on days like these that he wondered if his faith was strong enough; had he made a dreadful mistake in joining the church? Reaching for the bottle again, he stared at it for a moment and then pushed it away. He rubbed his face hard with his hands. The trouble was, he was exhausted.
If someone had looked through the window ten minutes later they would have seen the rector fast asleep, his head cushioned on his arms on his desk, an empty glass at his elbow.
Matthew Hopkins slept badly; his phthisic dreams were violent and sudden, full of horror and fear or they were erotic beyond bearing. He was having one of the latter now. He had seen Sarah running towards his house in South Street, her shoes clicking on the rough cobbles, her skirts flying out behind her. In his dream she ran up the stairs, tearing off her cloak, her hair tumbling free of her cap. ‘Master Hopkins, where are you?’ He heard her throw open one door after another as she ran, searching for him. ‘You have to speak to me. We can find a way for you to release Liza; for you to find her innocent!’
He smiled. There were always ways, if one knew how. He was standing in the middle of the room, his arms folded, waiting. When she came in he knew what the bargain would be. And now there she was, in the doorway, staring at him, her eyes alight with challenge.
‘So, mistress. What will you offer for Liza’s freedom?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘What will you take, Master Hopkins?’ She took a step nearer. He could smell the scent of her skin, the rosewater on her hair, hear the faint rustle of her petticoats. He frowned. This was the daughter of a royalist family, beautiful, carefree, dedicated to a life of enjoyment and pleasure. The sorrow in her eyes was only temporary. It came from her brother’s, her husband’s deaths and her worry for her nurse and friend and, no doubt, coven sister, but it would soon pass and she would revert to type as a worthless hussy. He shuddered imperceptibly at the thought of such delicious, such forbidden fruit.
‘Is the price my body, Master Hopkins?’ She had moved closer. If he raised a hand he could touch her arm. He could see the faint down on her skin. See the trace of sweet moisture as her tongue ran quickly, eagerly, over her lips. ‘Do I have your word that she will go free?’
He couldn’t speak. He was fighting his own lust, his longing.
Smiling, she took a step closer. He could see the detail of the pretty ribbon galants at her waist and sleeves. Why was the woman not in mourning? Such clothes were an affront to all. Such extravagance. Such lack of prudence and wisdom and purity. He swallowed hard, feeling a constriction in his chest. Now was not the time to cough. He was finding it hard to breathe, but even so, without conscious thought he had reached out towards her, his fingers gently, so gently, touching the silk of her gown above her breasts.
She wore a chemise of the softest lawn and white stockings held up with green garters. ‘Do I have your word, Matthew?’ Her voice was soft, persuasive as she reached out to stroke his face. No woman had touched him with such gentleness since the day his mother had bathed his wounds after his grandmother had beaten him. On that occasion she had kissed his head and shrugged and told him to keep himself clean and chaste or he would be beaten again, and worse, he would go to hell and then she had turned away from him. His father had not been bothered with the matter; it had been the last day of his childhood.
His longing was unbearable. His loneliness of such aching depths that he could not contemplate a life where it continued. And here was Sarah, with her beautiful hazel eyes, her ripe breasts, her sweet, soft skin, offering him bliss and certain damnation in one sweet night of heaven. He was fighting himself as he stood, his hand on her breast, torn in two by fear and hunger, watching as she stepped away and, her foot on the chair by his table, peeled down first one stocking then the other, tossing her garters onto the table where they came to rest on his open notebook. The chemise slipped easily from her shoulders and fell to her feet, to lie in a warm soft pile on the floor.
She was naked
before him.
He stooped and picked up the chemise, holding it to his face, inhaling her scent. It was still not too late. He could still hold back.
‘Matthew?’ Her whisper was husky, inviting. ‘I need a paper with your signature to say Liza can go free.’
He had to move her garters, embroidered ribbons of green silk, to pick up the notebook, the notebook which held his list. The Devil’s List. He turned the pages where Liza’s name and Sarah’s too were written, and when he came to an empty page he tore it out. His hand was shaking as he reached for a pen. She watched him write.
‘How will I know you will go through with this?’ The lawyer in him was frowning his displeasure, whispering warnings in his ear.
‘You have my garters, sir. You may hold them hostage.’ She raised her arms to unpin her hair and he saw the heavy weight of it fall down her back.
He groaned, and reaching out his arms he pulled her against him and buried his face in the luxurious chestnut softness, feeling her breasts pressed against the white linen of his shirt.
With a shout of horror, Matthew woke and flung himself across the bed. His fever had returned and he could feel the sweat running down his body. He staggered to his feet, coughing violently, and turned to look at the bed. It was empty. The dream hovered seductively at the corner of his consciousness for a few more moments, then as he fell to his knees it was gone, washed away by tears of bitterness and shame.
Mike woke to find his own face damp, his fists flailing and grasping at the mess of papers beneath his elbows on his desk. He pushed himself upright with a groan.
He remembered every detail of the dream. Both dreams. Oh God, what was happening to him?
Christ be with me. Christ within me.
He went into the kitchen and helped himself to a glass of water, then he walked out of the house. Almost without realising it, he pointed his car towards Liza’s.
The house appeared to be empty when he walked up the path and knocked on the door. He stood for a moment, listening to the echoing silence, then he turned to find Emma coming in through the gate behind him.
The sight of her here in the flesh in front of him made him catch his breath. Why in God’s name had he come?
‘I’ll go if you’re busy,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I just thought I would drop in as I was passing.’ He had parked his car next to hers in front of the shed she used as a garage.
Kill the witch!
The whisper in his ear was very quiet.
She smiled at him and shrugged. ‘No. Come in.’ Leading the way into the sitting room, she turned to face him. ‘Are you still witch hunting?’
He stopped in his tracks.
A moment’s silence stretched out between them. ‘What is it, Mike? What’s wrong?’ The sitting room was cold and dark without sunlight shining through the windows.
What was he doing here? He stared at her, trying to put the picture of her naked, dangling a pair of green silk garters from her fingertips, out of his mind.
‘Why did you ask about witches?’
‘We were talking about Lyndsey last time we met.’
‘Of course.’ He smiled at her, in relief. For a moment he had been terrified she could read his mind.
She sat down and turned half away from him, gesturing him towards the sofa. ‘How can I help?’
Lowering himself gingerly onto the cushions he leaned forward, his hands clasped on his knees. ‘I’m not sure if you can.’ The words were unintentionally ironic.
She waited.
He couldn’t think what to say next. As the silence lengthened he could see the tension rising inside her. ‘Look, Mike. I have had a bad morning. I’ve just been up to Overly Hall and Colonel Lawson ticked me off for looking in at the gate; just for looking at his house! He made me feel about so high!’ She held up her two hands only a couple of inches apart. ‘My mother had just rung me to tell me my family used to live there hundreds of years ago. I wanted to see it. I didn’t want a tour! Well, yes I did if I’m honest, but he had no need to be so rude! And now you’ve appeared and you are looking as though I’ve crawled out from under a stone somewhere. Why have you come?’
He took a deep breath, visibly collecting himself, desperately searching for something to say. ‘I just thought you would like to know that I hadn’t managed to talk to Lyndsey yet, although I do intend to as soon as possible. I wondered, would you rather I didn’t mention your involvement?’
‘I’m not involved!’ She frowned. The warmth and humour he had displayed when they had coffee together was gone. He looked ill at ease and she found herself reacting to him uncomfortably. ‘Please, don’t mention me at all. I have seen her. I had a cup of tea with her yesterday, as a matter of fact. We talked. What she does or doesn’t do as her religion is really none of my business and with all due respect, I’m not sure it’s yours. Being C of E isn’t compulsory, is it?’
He looked up and at last he smiled. He did not realise how handsome he looked when the preoccupation had cleared from his face. ‘No, of course not.’
She was not to be placated that easily. ‘Then I don’t see why you should have to get involved, either.’
‘Because evil is my business, as well as social work.’ He paused. ‘I take it there hasn’t been any further activity in the churchyard?’
‘No, and I told Lyndsey I wouldn’t go there again.’ She shuddered ostentatiously.
‘Do you mind me asking what you think of her?’
Emma shrugged. ‘That’s hard to say. She’s not an easy person to get to know. She’s on the defensive all the time and for some reason she sees me as the enemy. I think I shall suspend judgement. You will have to make up your own mind when you meet her.’
He held her gaze for a moment. Her eyes were very beautiful; the eyes he had seen in his dream.
Christ be with me. Christ within me …
She was smiling now. It was a warm, sexy smile. A smile he found very attractive indeed.
‘Mike, it’s cold in here.’ She had relented suddenly. ‘Do you want to come into the kitchen and I’ll put on some coffee? It’s warmer in there. It’s a bit formal in here.’ She gave a self-deprecating grimace.
Don’t accept. This is a house of evil. There is danger here.
But the voice in his head belonged to someone else. He felt himself tensing with anxiety. This was nonsense. This was a lovely house and Emma was a lovely person.
‘Mike?’ She was standing up. Her smile had faded and she looked puzzled.
‘Sorry!’ He leaped to his feet. ‘Yes, thank you. That would be nice.’
Christ be with me.
‘You said your family came from Overly Hall?’ The name was familiar of course. He knew Colonel Lawson. After his first meeting with the man in the lane outside this very house he had called on him and he too had been sent away with a less than hospitable greeting. He was following her into the hall.
She nodded. ‘The Bennetts. My father’s mother’s family.’
Mike stopped in his tracks. ‘Bennett?’ he repeated. It was barely a whisper.
‘That’s right.’
Christ be with me. He closed his eyes.
‘Mike? Are you coming?’ She led the way in. She had left the radio on while she was out and the midday concert was in full swing on Classic FM.
He followed her in and then stopped dead. The two black cats were sitting side by side in front of the Aga. She followed his gaze. ‘You don’t mind the cats?’
‘No, I like cats.’ He slid into the chair she indicated on the far side of the round table. ‘Usually, that is.’ It was odd. These two were regarding him with something that felt like malevolence. He eyed the narrow intelligent faces, the large pricked ears.
The witch has her familiars. They are all evil. Creatures of the Devil, all three.
The voice wouldn’t leave him alone.
‘I blessed the churchyard this morning.’ He dragged his gaze away from the cats to watch her reaching for the kettle.
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br /> ‘I see.’ She had her back to him.
‘Lyndsey won’t like it, of course, but if she is genuinely in touch with Satanic forces, then I have to take action. It is part of my job as a Christian minister.’ He swallowed, trying to steady his voice. ‘As you say, in our society what she believes is her own affair, but that will not stop me praying for her.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t expect me to come to your service.’
Why did that not surprise him?
‘It wasn’t a service as such.’ The cats were still sitting watching him. They were making him feel increasingly uneasy. As did the memory of their mistress dressed in a pink silk petticoat and soft revealing gown; the gown which had slipped so easily to her knees …
Christ be with me. Please.
She had found the biscuit tin again. There was no plate this time. She just plonked the tin down on the table with the two mugs of coffee.
‘Lyndsey will be very angry if she finds out what you’ve done.’
‘I’m sure she will.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Leave that to me. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you, but I wanted to explain in case – ’ He paused. In case of what? In case his prayers reached her; in case she realised that he sensed evil round her, close, in this pretty, inoffensive house. In case she realised that he suspected so much of the evil came from her?
‘In case?’ She was waiting for him to finish the sentence.
‘In case something happens, I suppose. In case you had seen or heard anything. In case I feel I have to do it again.’