Gallows at Twilight (25 page)

‘Is that not so, Mr Lanyon?’

‘It … I … ’ Lanyon’s gaze flitted between Hopkins and Jake. ‘The Bible tells us that mercy—’

‘Mercy for witches, sir?’

Inside and out, the people roared their disapproval. Jake could almost feel the heat of their fury as it switched from him to Lanyon. The vicar wilted before his eyes.

‘Does not the Bible say that witches must be rooted out and destroyed?’

‘Leave him alone,’ Jake said.

‘Shut your mouth, witch!’ Hopkins snapped. ‘Mr Lanyon, I asked you a question, sir! If this wretch is found guilty should he not hang for his crime? More! Should not he be torn to pieces and his head mounted on a pike as an example to all other foul sorcerers?’

Jake looked to the bench. While the magistrate brothers shuffled uncomfortably in their chairs and twittered about procedure, the Earl merely raised his eyebrows and waited for Lanyon’s response. It was as if Hopkins had worked his own dark magic on the man. And he was not the only target of Hopkins’s spell. The people of the town were now baying at their vicar like a pack of rabid wolves.

‘YOU WILL SPEAK, SIR!’ Hopkins roared.

Jake felt the Khepra Beetle stir. Its pincers slipped smoothly out of his brain and it began to scuttle around to the front of his head. Jake remembered Dr Holmwood’s words:
As long as you’re alive, as long as it doesn’t sense that you’re in mortal danger, the beetle will remain inside your head. It’s your only way back …
The beetle had felt danger before and loosened its grip. Now it sensed that Jake’s time was up.

‘I believe that witches are evil,’ Lanyon muttered, head down.

‘We cannot hear you,’ Hopkins hollered. ‘Speak with conviction!’

‘I-I believe all … all magic is the work of devils.’

Jake grimaced. Little stabs of pain accompanied the beetle along his optic nerve and to the back of his eyes.

‘Witches are the enemies of God,’ Lanyon said, his face etched with misery.

‘And they must be wiped from the face of the Earth?’ Hopkins prompted.

‘Yes!’

The Witchfinder pointed a trembling finger at Jake.

‘And this creature you see before you. If the jurors find him guilty of witchcraft should he not be hanged?’

‘Yes,’ more quietly now. ‘Yes, he
must
be … ’

Jake screamed.

In his surprise, Hopkins staggered back and grabbed hold of Monks for support. The entire hall watched aghast as blood exploded from Jake’s nose. The red spray showered the floor and several people fainted. Those that remained conscious fell to praying and wailing.

Hopkins was the first to recover his nerve.

‘Have no fear! We are in the sight of God! The witch cannot harm us!’

Monks gibbered and clutched at Hopkins’s arm.

‘What is it, man?’

‘His nose!’ the sergeant bleated. ‘In God’s name, what is coming out of his
nose
?’

Jake’s left nostril bulged. It had been just over a week since Monks had broken his nose with the rifle butt and it had never been reset. Now the bone cracked again as the beetle worked itself free. Blades of pain rocketed through Jake’s face. He fell screaming to his knees.

The hall was in uproar. Someone had opened the doors into the square and, while half the chamber ran for the exit, the crowd outside pressed to get in. The shaken voice of Earl Richard called for order, but no one was paying any attention. People called out in pain and, over the commotion, Jake could hear the snap of arms and legs being trampled underfoot. Babies cried and children shrieked for their parents.

Two black feelers tickled inside Jake’s nose. A second later, they were tasting the air. Wet with blood, the head and body of the beetle followed. The insect clicked its pincers and dropped to the ground. It had begun to scuttle away when a heavy black boot descended.

‘NO!’ Jake cried.

He heard the crack of the beetle’s body and looked up into the face of Matthew Hopkins. The Witchfinder lifted his foot. All that remained of the Khepra Beetle was a few shards of dusty old soapstone. In death, it had reverted back to its talisman form.

Defeated, Jake rocked back on his knees. Now there was no hope of him returning to his own time. No hope of him seeing his father and his friends again …

‘Behold, it is dead!’ Hopkins shouted.

Like a magical command, his words brought the crowd to order. While a few stayed back to help the injured, the rest gathered around the Witchfinder.

‘What is it?’ Monks asked.

‘One of the witch’s demons,’ Hopkins said. He turned to the Earl who had joined the gathering. ‘It is my last piece of evidence.’

Earl Richard nodded. ‘What say you then, men of the jury? Guilty or not guilty?’

‘GUILTY!’ came the roar.

‘The verdict of this court is that Josiah Hobarron is guilty of witchcraft!’ the Earl cried. ‘The sentence: death by hanging. May God have mercy on your soul.’

Hopkins stared down at Jake in triumph.

‘Amen.’

Chapter 22

Revelation of the Claviger

Simon had been living at the cottage for several weeks when the letter came. Apart from the odd takeaway flier it was the only thing that had been shoved through the letterbox. He looked down at the stiff, black envelope. Printed in flowing script was Simon’s name and the address of the cottage. Who knew he was here? No one. He had not even told Adam Harker where he was going …

That final meeting with Dr Harker flashed into his mind. Adam had listened calmly as Simon described the irresistible urge which had led him to call the Demon Father. Simon had expected outrage, fury. Instead, Adam had told him that it wasn’t his fault; that, in fact,
he
was to blame for not having foreseen that the Demon Father would have implanted such instincts in Simon’s mind. Dr Harker had been trying to make him feel better, but the sick man’s softly spoken words had only added to Simon’s sense of guilt.

He tore open the envelope.

Charming? Simon sniffed the stale air. Unoccupied for years, the paint had peeled in long tongues from the cottage walls and mice had chewed holes in the carpet. All the familiar things that Simon remembered from his childhood were gone and everything was layered in thick dust. This had never been a happy house, but now it felt truly desolate.

Simon made up his mind. He left the cottage and strode down the road to the twenty-four-hour garage. Although it was warm outside, he shivered. Someone was coming. Someone who knew what had happened to his mother. He should be happy—finding out the secret of his mother’s death was why he had come here in the first place. He had hoped that, by returning to the cottage, old memories might stir. Relieved to find it empty, Simon had broken in and spent his first sleepless night on the cold basement floor, staring up at the door. He remembered his mother standing in the doorway, horrified as she looked down at him. The ghost of her scream echoed inside his head. And then …

Nothing.

He had gone door-to-door, asking people if they remembered Mrs Lydgate and her son who used to live in the old fisherman’s cottage at the outskirts of the village. Most said they did. Some frowned at Simon, clearly recognizing traces of the Lydgate boy in this troubled young man. One old lady, Mrs Grady, had blinked at him over her half-moon spectacles.

‘You’re him, aren’t you? Little Simon? Had a hard time of it these last few years by the look of you. Why’ve you come back?’

Simon swallowed hard. He was surprised she hadn’t shrieked in horror and run to telephone the police. The story of how Mrs Lydgate had been butchered, and how her son had then disappeared, must still be told in the village.

‘I need to find out what happened to my mum,’ Simon said. ‘There must have been an investigation, an inquest. Do you know anything, Mrs Grady?’

The old woman had looked puzzled.

‘Dear child, did something happen to your mother?’

‘Yes. She … she was killed.’

‘My God. She was a difficult woman, especially with you, but she didn’t deserve that. My condolences.’

‘You didn’t know?’

Mrs Grady shook her head. ‘After you left the village, I didn’t hear from your mother again. We were never close, Simon. I told her once that she ought to treat you better and, well, after that we didn’t really speak.’

‘What do you mean—after we left the village?’

‘Well, it did come as something of a surprise, both of you just up and going like that, not a word to anybody.’

‘B-but my mother,’ Simon stammered, ‘she was murdered
here
. In the cottage.’

Mrs Grady narrowed her eyes and took a step back.

‘Your mother didn’t die here. She just left one night and never came back. Both of you just left. If she’d been killed in the village don’t you think they would have found a body? Now, I don’t know what your game is, but you better stop it right now.’

With that, she slammed the door. It was the same story at every house he visited. Everyone believed that Simon and his mother had quit their rented cottage and never returned. At one house a middle-aged woman, Mrs Makepeace, had looked at him sympathetically and sighed.

‘I always felt sorry for you, Simon. She was such a hard woman. Very pretty and well-presented, though. And doesn’t she look like
her
? It really is uncanny—’

The trill of the telephone stopped Mrs Makepeace mid-flow. ‘Sorry, must get that. Nice to see you, Simon.’

All this time Simon had pictured his mother’s body being found in the cottage, torn to shreds. Since regaining his memory, he had avoided reading newspapers for fear of finding his nightmares confirmed. Now he had discovered that his mother had simply disappeared. Of course, that didn’t mean that he
hadn’t
murdered her. Maybe—Simon shuddered—maybe after killing her, he had
eaten
the remains.

The old red telephone box stood just outside the garage forecourt. Simon rummaged in his pocket and drew out the last of the money Dr Harker had lent him. He dropped a fifty pence piece into the slot and dialled. He heard clicks and fizzes on the line—the sound of the call connecting to a phone that existed beyond the borders of reality. It rang twice before it was picked up.

Simon was ready to slam down the receiver. It all depended who answered.

‘Monster Central, Pandora speaking.’

Simon let out a long breath.

‘Pandora, it’s me. I need your help.’

Simon sat in the gathering gloom and thought over what Pandora had told him. He had hoped that, by leaving, he would take all the danger and misery out of Rachel’s life. Instead, his absence had broken her. The picture Pandora had painted of a girl, lost and abandoned, cut deep, but he was still determined never to see her again. In time, she would forget him, find someone else and build a new life. A safe life.

Rachel’s torment was not the only distressing news from the Grimoire Club. Adam was now very near to death. Pandora described him as a determined corpse, propped up in bed and agonizing over each twist and turn of the
Codex Tempus
. The phantom quill had continued Jake’s story, through arrest, torture, and trial. It had reached the verdict of the court and had come to a stop. In some distant time and place, Jake was waiting to mount the scaff old. Another wave of guilt crashed down on Simon and he held his head in his hands.

It was a little after eleven o’clock when he heard the crunch of feet on the gravel outside. A shadow loomed against the sitting room window. Simon sprang to his feet and went to the hall.

‘Pandora? Brag, is that you?’

No answer.

Simon crept down the corridor.

He was within an arm’s length of the door when it exploded inwards, striking him with the force of a steam train. He flew the length of the corridor and landed hard on his tailbone. Shaking his head against the pain, Simon saw a figure silhouetted in the doorway.

‘Wh-who are you?’ he groaned, pushing the broken door aside.

‘My name is the Claviger,’ the woman said. ‘I believe you received my note.’

Simon staggered to his feet. ‘You’re early.’

‘A lady’s prerogative. And after we intercepted your friends on their way here, I thought I’d better hurry things along.’

‘Pandora. Brag.’

‘That would be the troll and the octopus lady? Yes, we have them.’

‘If you’ve hurt them, I’ll—’

‘Calm down, Mr Lydgate. They’ve been knocked about a bit, but there’s no real harm done. Once our business is complete my boys will release your monstrous friends back into the wild.’

Simon caught movement behind the Claviger’s shoulder. Shadows in the gloom of the garden: the huge bulk of Brag Badderson slumped on the ground, Pandora beside him, her eight arms lashed to her sides. Standing over them were seven or eight men in long coats. They caught sight of Simon and smiled, their jagged teeth flashing in the darkness.

‘As you see, I prepared for the eventuality that you would see through my letter,’ the Claviger said. ‘What gave me away?’

‘It wasn’t the letter. I was warned about you.’

Simon thought back to what the Oracle of the Pit had told him—
to find the truth about yourself, you must walk into a trap with your eyes wide open. Violence will be necessary, I’m afraid—you will find the keyholder a formidable foe—but after some unpleasantnessss you will know all
. After he had told Pandora about the letter, she had informed him that ‘Claviger’ meant ‘the keeper of the keys’. She had then consulted Adam. Dr Harker had worked for many years among the dark creatures; he had heard tell of the powerful being known only as the Claviger.