Syd Moore - Witch Hunt

‘It’s clear, when you actually sit down and read about the trials, that there are instances when you can see his victims were just repeating what he’d told them to say.’

Felix leant back. ‘Give me an example.’

‘Right,’ I said, selecting an episode from my memory. I didn’t then know how or why I found it so easy to recall facts and figures from these particular witch hunts. Ask me the balance of my current account and I’d be umming and ahing but Hopkins’ crimes were burnt into my brain. ‘Well, in the Huntingdonshire trials you start seeing “witches” cite names of imps that have already been used in the Essex trials: Blackman; Grizzell; Greedigut for instance. Quite distinctive. Some of the witches forgot what they were alleged to have said and were prompted by Hopkins at the trial.’

‘Idiot,’ Felix said quietly. I was really starting to like him. That full mouth was definitely quite passionate, I could tell.

‘So he was greedy and power hungry without discipline or intellect,’ he said eventually. ‘It has to be handled firmly – power and money – if one is to succeed.’ He took a hand and smoothed it back through his hair. A little lock fell down over his forehead.

‘Well, you’ve obviously known power. I can’t say I have.’

‘No. I mean – look around you. Look at all the corruption and greed – business, politics …’ he sighed and took up his glass. ‘It’s a disgrace.’

‘I’m hearing you,’ I said.

He looked up into my face. ‘I guess you are too,’ he said and smiled appreciatively.

Of course, I thought. He can’t come across many like-minded individuals being stuck working for Cutt. I would have felt sorry for him had another strong emotion not started to simmer within.

I swallowed and pushed around some food on my plate. ‘I’m sure Hopkins was also a sadist,’ I said, getting back on safe ground. ‘But able to get away with it. Though now demanding of closer inspection, I believe.’

Felix joined my gaze and smiled.

‘Which brings us neatly to our purpose,’ he said. ‘Essex is certainly full of surprising little gems.’

I popped an olive into my mouth and looked at the table again.

‘Are you from Essex by the way, Sadie? I know you write about it, but an interest doesn’t necessarily make one a native?’

‘I am indeed lucky enough to have been born in that county, yes,’ I ventured so far as to send him a wink.

‘That’s grand,’ he said and pushed his plate into the centre of the table for the waiter. He folded his arms and regarded me. ‘So do you go back a long way? Both parents?’

‘Dad’s originally from Suffolk, just north of the border.’

‘And your mother?’

‘Yes. Born and bred.’

‘Grandparents?’

‘One left on my dad’s side.’

‘And on your mother’s?’

I paused. What was he fishing for? Enough credentials to validate my links to the county? ‘I never met them. They died before I was born.’

‘Oh, that’s a shame.’ Felix nodded, that sympathetic wrinkle sewn back across his forehead.

‘Yes, well.’ I refocused the conversation. ‘Don’t worry. You don’t need old family connections to get the gen on Essex folk. We have a brilliant records office and don’t forget, I am a journalist. My press card opens doors. As does my winning smile.’ Cue cheesy grin.

Felix shifted then leant forwards, his eyes a little misty. Any remaining formality had vanished.

I glanced down at his hands. No wedding ring. He caught my gaze.

‘So,’ he said, cleared his throat and grinned. ‘What’s Manningtree like? Where Hopkins commenced his hunt? Is it very rural? I’ve never been.’

‘Oh,’ I said, a little shamefacedly. ‘I haven’t actually visited the place yet.’

Felix’s eyes widened in mock horror. ‘But the home of the beast himself! You must go. I say one can learn a lot about a man, or woman, from their home and surroundings. It might make interesting reading.’

He was right, of course. ‘I’ll stick it on my list of things to do,’ I added. ‘In fact I’ll schedule it after Colchester. I’m planning to go there next week. That’s where the witches were gaoled. Haven’t been since I was a school kid.’

‘Ah. Colchester. What day are you planning to visit?’

I shrugged. I liked to keep my diary flexible in case any local jobs came up.

‘If you make it next Monday,’ he was saying, ‘I might just be able to accompany you to the castle. I quite fancy the idea. One of my authors has moved down to that neck of the woods and she’s due a conversation about her last edit. Could kill two birds with one stone? Visit said writer, and combine a short tour of the city with another from the Portillion fold.’ His eyes arched expectantly. I saw, with a mild buzz of appreciation, that they glinted with splinters of quartz. For a second it looked like he was holding his breath.

‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘But remember – I haven’t been for a long time. I won’t be a very good guide I’m afraid.’

Felix wagged his hand playfully. ‘Then we shall be on an equal footing. And you can bring me a progress report on the book. Are you happy with your timescale?’

He wanted the first draft submitted within five months. A little bit of a push, but as I had the research and structural outline already, I thought I could make it. Plus the money would come in very handy indeed. ‘Yes. That’s fine.’

‘Excellent. Then shall we drink to the deadline?’

‘We shall,’ I said and raised my glass.

It’s a funny old phrase – the deadline. Comes from the American Civil War. Refers to a line drawn around prisoners. If they crossed it, they’d be shot.

Obviously it never struck me then, but on first meetings, why drink to a finishing point? Why not to a profitable association or ongoing success?

But Felix had elected to drink to the deadline. The line of the dead.

His choice was to be uncannily prophetic.

On the train home I realised I was a little tipsier than expected. Felix was such a genial host, and never let my glass go empty, so I had no idea how much I’d drunk. Now I was feeling rather drowsy and there was nothing for it but a little nap. I woke up to the sound of my mobile bleeping. A text from Maggie: it was the birthday of Mercurial ’s art director, Felicity, and they were celebrating in Leigh Old Town. I was welcome to join them. Her mis-spellings suggested they’d been there a while, which suited me quite nicely. I made a mental note to get off the train a stop earlier.

The next call set my heart racing. It was from Sally. When I looked at the screen and saw the name of the hospice flash up I went into a reflexive panic. Then I remembered that the worst had happened and instantly my spirits, that had been so giddily high after lunch, plummeted back to the abyss of reality.

‘Hi Sadie. How are you going?’ Sally’s voice still conjured up sympathy and cups of tea.

I told her I was getting on.

She murmured heartening phrases about Mum wanting me to do exactly that, and not to dwell on things, then she asked me straight out. ‘Have you seen Dan yet?’

I told her that there was still no word on his whereabouts.

‘Oh dear,’ she said.

I asked what the matter was.

She seemed reluctant to tell me, but then I heard the sound of an inner door shutting and her voice reduced to a whisper. ‘Don’t repeat this. Promise?’

I swore I wouldn’t.

‘Doctor Jarvis looked at Dan’s medication yesterday. He’s rather concerned. It seemed that although the prescriptive label on the bottle was accurate the tablets inside were like nothing he’d seen for that drug before. He’s sent a couple off to the lab for analysis. But,’ said Sally, ‘if there’s been some kind of a mix-up, then it means that Dan may have unwittingly stopped taking his medication.’