Ruth Warburton - Witch Finder

‘I’ll manage,’ Luke said shortly. Then he felt bad. ‘I’ll be all right, Uncle. Go. We need the work.’

It was true. In the weeks Luke had been missing, and since his return, William had let the forge slip and the work had dried up. No one wanted to bring a limping horse to the forge only to find the farrier busy or gone. Now with Luke up and about they desperately needed new work and William was taking on anything he could find – blacksmith work and tinkers’ stuff that he would usually have refused.

‘All right.’ William pulled on his cap and coat and went to the door. ‘Remember, if you’re feeling tired, there’s no shame in stopping—’

‘Go!’ Luke said, more roughly than he meant. William sighed and shut the door behind him. Luke sighed too and put his head in his hands wishing, wishing that he could remember what lay in that great gulf in his mind. Once he had dreamt and there had been the smell of burning rosemary and a gold-red swirl, like forge-flames in the darkness. He had woken with a word on his lips, rose – but whatever it meant sank far away as he rose to consciousness and the memory, whatever it had been, had gone. The more he scrabbled for it, the further it retreated.

Now he got up slowly from the table and went out to the forge to blow the fire into life again.

‘Luke Welling?’ Rosa said again, desperately. There was a catch in her throat. The evening was drawing in and the streets of Spitalfields felt very dark and narrow. In her new silk dress, part of Mama’s trousseau shopping, she stuck out like candle flame in a darkened room, all eyes turning to her as she picked her way through the filth-strewn streets.

Now she stood at a street corner, trying to ignore the gales of ribald laughter coming from the public house in front of her, and asked the girl again, ‘Are you sure you’ve never heard of him? His father’s a drayman. He’s about nineteen, twenty perhaps – he’s lived here all his life.’

‘I’m sorry, darlin’,’ said the girl. She eyed Rosa speculatively through her lashes and Rosa saw, to her shock, that the girl’s lips and eyelids were painted. ‘Someone’s bin telling you porkies.’

‘Porkies?’ Rosa echoed stupidly. She felt close to tears.

‘Pork pies – lies. Ain’t you never heard of rhyming slang?’ She made a face and laughed. Rosa felt her cheeks grow hot.

‘I’m sorry. I won’t waste your time any further.’

‘Not to worry, darlin’. But if your boyfriend lived round here, I’da heard of him. There’s not many men round here unacquainted with Phoebe Fairbrother.’ She gave a raucous laugh.

‘Would your friend know anything?’ Rosa pleaded, nodding at the brunette seated in the tavern window. The girl shook her head, impatiently now, setting her brassy curls swinging.

‘If I ain’t heard of him, Miriam won’t know ’im neither. I’m telling you, there ain’t no Luke Welling round ’ere. The only Lukes what live in this district is Lucas Michaels, but he’s fifty if he’s a day, and Luke Lexton. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got my customers to attend.’

She turned, but before she could go Rosa grabbed her arm.

‘Wait. What did you say? Luke Lexton?’

‘It’s clear you ain’t deaf anyhow.’

‘I’ve heard that name. Oh, God, where have I heard it?’ She shut her eyes, desperately scrabbling for the memory. She had heard it, recently too . . . It came to her suddenly – Minna, in the factory, asking ‘Luke Lexton?’ when she had mentioned Luke’s name. And she hadn’t even noticed.

‘Luke Lexton!’ she cried. ‘Yes! That’s it, I made a mistake. I should have said Luke Lexton, not Welling. Do you know where he is?’

‘Made a mistake, didja?’ The girl snorted disbelievingly, but there was a smile at the corner of her mouth. ‘What do you want with Luke Lexton then? You’d need two more legs for him to take notice of you.’

‘What?’ Rosa said, too confused to be polite.

‘He’s sweeter on horses than women,’ Phoebe said. ‘Not that I wouldn’t give him a ride, if he came asking.’

Rosa knew she should pretend to be shocked, but she didn’t care.

‘Where does he live?’

‘At his uncle’s forge, off Farrer’s Lane. But his father’s no drayman – he’s dead.’

‘Farrer’s Lane – where’s that? Can you – would you show me?’

‘Why should I?’ The girl folded her arms and Rosa felt desperate. ‘I’m a working girl, darlin’. I get paid for my time.’

‘I don’t have any money!’ She could force Phoebe to tell her. That was dark magic, but she had seen the spells in the Grimoire, although Mama had told her never to look at those pages. If only she had a coin . . .

Phoebe looked her up and down appraisingly, her eyes hard. She seemed to come to a decision.

‘Give me that locket.’

‘What? No!’ Rosa’s hand closed around it reflexively. She felt its heavy warmth against her collarbone, where it had rested since Papa had given it to her on her tenth birthday. ‘You don’t understand . . .’

‘I understand that you want a service and you’re not prepared to pay for it. But I don’t care, wander the streets of Spitalfields on your own; you’ll soon find some kind fella prepared to take you under his wing, no doubt.’ She gave a raucous laugh and Rosa bit her lip. She could well imagine what kind of fellows she might meet in the dark streets between here and Luke’s uncle’s forge. They were spilling out of the Cock Tavern now, amorous and angry by turns. One of them plucked at Phoebe’s sleeve.

‘Gi’s a tumble, Phoebs, for old time’s sake, eh?’

‘Oh piss off, Nick Sykes, you old soak,’ the girl snarled. She gave him a shove and he stumbled backwards, tumbling into the filth-filled gutter where he lay, laughing or sobbing, Rosa could not tell which. Phoebe turned back to Rosa. ‘Well? Take it or leave it, I ain’t got the time to be gabbing here.’

‘I’ll take it,’ Rosa said, though her heart hurt as she fumbled for the catch of the locket. Phoebe reached for it, greedily, and Rosa said, ‘Wait!’

She opened it up and, using her nail, prised out the tiny pencil drawing of Papa. She saw now that it was crude, the work of a child. But it was all she had.

For a moment the locket hung from her fingers, still hers. Then she let it drop into Phoebe’s outstretched palm.

Phoebe nodded.

‘Come on then. Look slippy and don’t talk to no one. You’re like a fox in a hen house. No, hang about, that’s the wrong way round. But there ain’t no such thing as a fox house.’

But perhaps Phoebe had it right, Rosa thought, as she followed her down the first dark alleyway between two buildings. She was more dangerous, more predatory than any of the poor drunkards. She could gut them alive if she chose. She was aware, suddenly, horribly, of the power even the feeblest witch held over the outwith. No wonder their kind had been hated and feared for so long.

Phoebe was cheerful now, chatting as she led Rosa through stinking back alleys, where children played in spite of the filth and the darkness. They cut across the corner of a deserted market space, where a few beggars were rummaging in the cast-off boxes, and then up a street less forbidding than the rest, if only because it was emptier. The evening fog had begun to descend and Rosa shivered, wishing that she had not left her wrap in the carriage. What would the driver be thinking? Would Sebastian have noticed her absence?

Then suddenly Phoebe swung left through a low arch and into a cobbled yard. There was a roaring sound, as of a huge fire, coming from a low brick building to their right, and a shower of sparks flew up suddenly from the chimney.

‘Luke,’ Phoebe yelled. ‘Gotta visitor.’