Hiding From the Light (22 page)
The woman, Sarah, had been to see him again. She had walked into his house in South Street demanding that his servants show her into his presence and she stood there haranguing him about the witch, Liza Clark. He watched her, listening with only half a mind on what she was saying. The other half was occupied with her. Sarah. Last time she had come to Mistley Thorn she had been decently dressed in black with white collar and cuffs and apron with a hood over her white linen cap. This time she was dressed like the royalist harlot she was; dressed as she so frequently appeared in his dreams. She wore an underskirt of pink poplin, trimmed in velvet ribbon and over it a dress of pale blue wool. There were pearls at her throat and in her ears, and her shoes were high heeled. Over her shoulders she wore a black cloak lined with blue silk.
‘You have done nothing to free her, Master Hopkins!’ She stepped nearer to him and he smelled lavender and rosewater on her skin. ‘Nothing! And after all I asked you! Liza is not a witch.’ The chatelaine at her waist chinked softly as she moved. Her hair, beneath the goffered cap, was fair and soft. A stray curl stuck to her forehead. ‘You have to let her go. You cannot accuse her!’
‘She is already accused, mistress.’ He managed to keep his voice steady. He was intensely aware that in her high-heeled shoes she was taller than him. He stepped back, straightening his shoulders, pleased that he had not removed his hat when he came in. The high crown gave him height and presence.
‘Have you tortured her? You and Mary Phillips? I have heard what you do to these women!’
‘We do the Lord’s work, mistress.’ He kept his voice steady with difficulty. ‘It is our duty before Him to weed out the servants of the Devil.’
‘She does not serve the Devil!’ Sarah took a step closer, her eyes flashing with anger, and he shrank back. ‘She is a God-fearing woman.’
He smiled sourly. ‘I hardly think so.’ He could feel himself about to cough. He tried to suppress it, failed and turned away, his body racked by spasms of choking. There were flecks of blood on the linen kerchief he pressed to his mouth. ‘Please, go, mistress!’ There were tears of pain in his eyes he did not intend to let her see. ‘Go!’
‘I am not going until I have your promise, Master Hopkins!’ Her voice was immediately behind him. He could smell the salt-woman scent of her, almost feel the silken rustle of her clothes.
He spun round. ‘I said, go! Or do you wish to face arrest yourself, as a conspirator with her in the Devil’s work!’
‘You wouldn’t dare arrest me.’ She was so close she had to look down to see into his eyes. ‘Your victims, Master Hopkins, are all poor defenceless women with no one to speak for them. Women who are a drain on the parish. Women who have no family or friends. I have family and friends, Master Hopkins. I have money and property, from my late husband’s estate. You would not dare to touch one hair of my head!’ Her eyes were fixed on his, unblinking. He could see the soft bloom on her cheeks, the velvet shadows on her skin where her breasts disappeared into her bodice. Her pupils were pinpoints in the hazel irises. ‘Let her go, Master Hopkins, let her go.’
Her eyes were changing shape before his gaze. As he watched, fascinated, he realised that the strange smoky colour he found so intriguing was becoming greener. Her hair was darkening, growing straight beneath the cap. But the anger was growing, growing … and suddenly he was very afraid.
With a shout of fear, Mike sat up in the darkness, his heart hammering under his ribs. ‘“Christ be with me, Christ within me” –’ It was the same dream. The dream in which he, Mike Sinclair, had somehow slipped into the skin of Matthew Hopkins. Hauling himself out of bed, he staggered over to the window and heaving it up he leant out, taking deep breaths of the ice-cold air. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven…’
The woman in his dream had been so vivid. So close he could smell her, touch her, hear every rustle of her skirts, and in those last few seconds he realised he had recognised her. She was no longer just a shadow, a ghost from the past.
She was Emma Dickson.
Emma woke with a start. For a moment she lay disorientated, staring into the darkness. Cautiously she put out a hand and felt the solid warm pressure of Piers next to her. She sighed with relief. She had been afraid after their quarrel that he would somehow disappear in the night. Carefully she wriggled closer, snuggling up against his back, aware of a sudden purr coming from the bedclothes at the foot of the bed. Max or Min was in bed with them. With a happy smile she closed her eyes and in minutes she was asleep again. The dream returned at once.
Sarah had ridden straight back to Liza’s cottage. No one had been near it since the old woman had been arrested. She had crept back late in the evening the day after Liza had been taken and laid the two dead cats side by side in the flower bed, covering their bodies with earth and flowers. She gazed down at the tell-tale mound, then sadly she turned aside to pull a few branches from the rosemary bush by the path. She laid them gently over it, then went on into the house. The old lady’s possessions had not been touched; no one in the village had dared come in. The pestle and mortar, the jugs, all lay where they had fallen. The herbs had wilted and died, the fire had long been cold ashes; the water in the cauldron had a skim of dust. Sarah’s eyes filled with tears as she moved towards the table and trailed her fingers through the crumpled leaves and petals.
‘No!’ She banged her fists on the table. ‘No, I won’t let him do it.’ She groaned out loud, shaking her fists at the ceiling. ‘This cannot be happening. This cannot be allowed to happen!’ As she walked round the table her angrily swishing skirts raised a dusty smell of meadowsweet and lavender from the dried strewn herbs on the floor.
‘Help me, Liza!’ she demanded angrily of the dark corner near the hearth. ‘Where are you? Help me!’
There was no answer.
‘Liza! Tell me what to do!’ She walked over and stared down at the scattering of cold ash. Liza always kept the hearth immaculately swept but now the broom lay on the floor. Near it was Liza’s old woven bag. It looked as though it had been trampled deliberately into the dust. She stopped and picked it up, hugging it for a moment to her, careless of the dirt on her gown.
‘Mistress, I’ve been looking for you.’
She jumped as a shadow darkened the door. ‘Is that you, John Pepper?’
‘Your father bids you return to the house, mistress. He does not think it safe for you to come here.’ The man’s eyes were everywhere, darting, inquisitive, fearful.
Sarah felt a wave of irritation. ‘I have no need of an escort, John.’
‘No, Mistress Sarah, but your father thinks it best. There are soldiers abroad everywhere and all sorts with them. Nowhere is safe while this war rages round the land and no one knows who is friend and who is foe.’ He scowled as he gave the cottage one further distasteful glance. ‘I shall wait outside, mistress, if you must spend further time in here.’ She felt a moment of guilt. Since her brother’s death she was her father’s only child. His anguish when he had heard that news had been so painful she had found it hard to watch, her own terrible grief somehow subordinated to his.
As John Pepper moved away from the door and disappeared from view the sunlight flooded back into the house. She frowned. His loyalty to her and to her father was beyond question but there had been an undertone in his voice she did not care for. Thoughtfully she moved back to the table, staring down at the tools of Liza’s trade as herb wife and she shook her head. She had forgotten the war and was thinking back to the days of her childhood when Liza, in a clean neat cap and gown and white apron had helped in the nursery of the Bennett home. ‘Listen carefully, my duck.’ She could hear Liza’s voice now, in her head. ‘You’re the eldest girl,’ the only girl as it turned out, ‘and so there are things you should know. Secret things.’
Things she had forgotten. Or had she? When she had set her heart on handsome young Robert Paxman as a husband, she had remembered them then. Liza’s husky, seductive whisper in her ear: ‘If you want something, my duck, you can have it. Remember that; you can have anything in the whole world if you want it enough and you know the way.’ Secretly, half afraid, half excited at the sense of power it gave her, she had risen from her bed as the light of the full moon flooded in at the window and making sure Agnes was still asleep, she had crept out into the garden.
‘Mistress, your father will be waiting. He will be worried.’ John Pepper’s voice interrupted her thoughts and she jumped guiltily. ‘In my view this place should be burned to the ground.’ He was just outside, on the path. ‘It’s imbued with her evil, so it is.’
‘That’s not true, John!’ she rebuked him sharply. ‘Liza’s not evil. She’s just an old woman who has done much good with her medicines. And you were fond of her yourself, not long ago if I remember rightly!’ Turning towards the door, she glanced once more round the low-ceilinged cottage room before walking out into the sunshine. It was only after he had pulled the door closed behind her that she realised she was still clutching Liza’s old bag.
The crash against the window pane woke Emma with a start in time to see Min jump off the bed and up onto the sill where she sat, chattering angrily into the darkness. Presumably a bird had flown into the glass in the dark. Emma sat up uneasily, aware of the solid sleeping body still warmly beside her in the bed. It was comforting.
She had been dreaming. She frowned. She had been dreaming about the house as it had been long ago. Even as she struggled to remember she could feel the bright sunshine, the smell of dry herbs hanging from the hooks in the kitchen ceiling, the darkness of the shadows, slipping away. She tried desperately to clutch at them, to fix them in her memory, but they had gone, leaving her full of unease. What was it that she could not recall? What was it that was so unpleasant it swam in her subconscious, leaving nothing but terror?
Piers stirred beside her. ‘What is it, Em? Go back to sleep! We’ve got an extra hour in bed in the morning, remember.’
She lay back against the pillows and stared towards the windows, watching the cat’s silhouette against the stars. The mist must have cleared. As she closed her eyes she found herself hoping she would go back to the same dream.
It was light when Emma next awoke, and she was screaming.
‘Emma! Em, for God’s sake, wake up!’ Piers was shaking her by the arm. ‘Em, what is it? What’s wrong? Have you got a pain?’
She stared at him wildly and for a moment she didn’t recognise him.
‘Emma! Wake up! Em, are you all right?’
‘Piers?’ She clutched at one of the pillows and held it tightly to her chest. ‘Oh, Piers, I had such an awful dream.’
He had climbed out of bed. ‘Poor old you.’ Coming round to her side he sat down beside her and put his arm round her. ‘Hey, you’re shaking. Come on, you’re all right.’ He frowned. ‘Em, you’re not still having nightmares about this place, are you?’
She shrugged, sniffing. ‘It wasn’t about this house. Not really.’
‘Go on, then.’ He stood up and walked over to the window. ‘Tell me what it was about.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s all a jumble. People riding. The chink of harness. The sound of horses’ hooves. Men, dressed in black, their faces so angry. So unforgiving. The terrible fear. And powerlessness.’ She was sitting up now, still hugging the pillow, and as he watched she began to rock back and forth, tears trickling down her cheeks.
He sighed. ‘It is this damned house, isn’t it! Even now you’re here, it’s getting to you.’ He paused, expecting her to deny it. She said nothing.
‘Come on, Em. We’re awake now. Why not get up, have a shower, then we’ll have some breakfast. You’ll feel better once you’re up and about. I’ll go and put some coffee on.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s still room for you at home, you know. I’d love you to come back.’
She threw back the bedclothes. ‘Piers – ’
‘I know.’ He turned towards the door, heading for the bathroom. ‘Thanks, but no thanks, eh?’
‘Piers, that’s not what I said. It’s just that this is my life now – ’ she called after him, but he had gone.
When she ran downstairs he had been busy. ‘Coffee, toast, eggs, sunny side up.’ He grinned at her. ‘My God, you look awful.’
‘Thanks!’ She sat down at the table and glared at the plate he put in front of her. ‘Did you give the cats their breakfast?’
‘Of course.’ He sat down and leaning across he put his hand on hers. ‘I’ve been thinking about things while I practised my newfound culinary arts. I can see I’ll never winkle you out of here and, you’re right we should have a country cottage. And this one would be perfect. Come back to town, Em, and we’ll come down here at weekends. David Spencer rang me last week to ask after you. He said your job is still there for you. And you know you’re missing it, really.’
‘No, Piers. I’m not.’
‘Oh, come on. When we talked about it last night at the Wests – ’
‘We both saw the strain that woman was under. The exhaustion, the stress, the battle to be endlessly on top of everything. You know, Piers, when I first saw this house, I never thought about the job at all. It was irrelevant. It didn’t matter to me. Oh, yes, later, of course I thought about it. But not at first. Then, when I did spend those endless hours tearing myself apart about whether to do this or not, it was only because of the money. I could afford to buy the cottage, but could I afford to live here without a job? I’m not a fool. I know it’s unlikely that I’ll make a living out of herbs. But, do you know, it didn’t worry me. And it still doesn’t, and you know why? Not because David has given me some work, but because living in London – the lifestyle, the holidays, the restaurants, everything – is so expensive. Stop doing it all and there is no expense. Oh, I’ll have electricity, oil, council tax, all that, but it is minuscule compared to what you shell out on your flat and I can grow most of my own food. I still have some of my savings left and part of Daddy’s fund. If I’m careful I won’t need any more money. And no, I’m not bored. Or lonely.’
Piers stared at her in silence. ‘You mean that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘What about Whiskas? You have two hungry cats to support.’
‘I’ll cope.’
‘And a pension? What about your old age?’
‘I’ll think of something. Listen, Piers. There is another way. You could come here. Join me?’
‘No way. I’m sorry. Oh, Em, I think you’re an idiot.’ He pushed away his plate, untouched. ‘There’s not much point in me being here even now, is there? It really is over. Your life is here now and you’re not going to compromise.’ He stood up.
‘Piers? Where are you going?’
‘Back to dreadful, expensive London.’
Ten minutes later he was packed and climbing into his car.
‘Piers.’ She was trying to hold back the tears. ‘You can’t just go like this. Please. I want us to stay friends at least.’
He paused and came back to stand in front of her. Catching her hands, he stared at her for a moment. ‘I hate to see you so unhappy, Em, but I can’t do anything about it, can I? You won’t let me. Liza’s has won. I’ll be there for you if you need me, but I’ll be in London, and …’ He hesitated. ‘Em, the offer is there now, but it might not always be that way.’ He shrugged. ‘A man can’t wait forever. Kiss the cats for me, sweetheart. And take care.’
Whoever or whatever lived in the house with Emma had not bothered to try and scare Piers away. There had been no point. He was no threat.
The house was unbearably empty after he had gone and there was no sign of the cats, so pulling on her jacket Emma walked down the lane towards the village. The air was cold and blustery and she walked fast, trying to blot out the loneliness and misery which had enveloped her. She wasn’t sure what she had expected of Piers, but not the terrible sudden finality of that goodbye.
Walking down past the Maltings towards the Thorn Inn, she stopped to watch the water spouting from the beak of the swan fountain in the middle of its stone basin. Then she wandered down towards the quay.
The mud glistened in the morning light and she watched the choppy waves running up the channel. A few boats still swung to anchor on the tide, but most had been taken out of the water for the winter. She stood, her hands deep in her pockets.
‘What are you doing here?’ The voice behind her made her jump and she turned to see Lyndsey standing a few feet away with her bicycle.
Emma responded to the hostility in her voice with a wave of antagonism. ‘So, this is your private patch as well, is it? I thought anyone could walk on the quay.’
‘They can.’ Lyndsey’s face was wary. ‘I thought you’d come to look for me.’
‘No. Why should I?’
Lyndsey shrugged. ‘No reason.’
‘You mean because you were so damn rude the other night when I thought you needed rescuing and was willing to risk life and limb to do it?’ Emma held her gaze.
Lyndsey flushed. Then she grinned with a small shrug. ‘Something like that, I suppose. I’m sorry. I guess we frightened each other.’
‘Look, Lyndsey.’ Emma sighed. ‘I had forgotten that you lived here. Let’s start again. Do you want to come and have some tea or something in the café? I’m getting cold and there’s no need for us to be enemies, is there?’
Lyndsey shrugged again. It seemed an all-purpose gesture with her, which could mean yes, no or maybe. She leaned the bicycle against the wall and they walked up the narrow street towards the old sail sheds which had been turned into workshops and galleries and boasted a small tea shop.
Sitting by the window looking out across the full expanse of the river, Emma waited for Lyndsey to speak. When she said nothing, she sighed. ‘Alex was worried about you.’ Far out in the grey, white-topped waves the ribs of an old shipwreck stuck out of the water.
‘Alex is always worried about something.’
‘He seems to be a very kind man.’
‘He is.’ Lyndsey looked up at last. ‘He’s a good friend.’
‘He thought you’d disappeared after you ran out in the rain. He thought something might have happened to you. We both did.’
‘I went away for a bit, that’s all. I needed to think about what had happened.’
Emma studied the other woman’s face. She was looking down at the table, idly drawing the teaspoon through the sugar in the earthenware bowl between them.
‘Why don’t you like me living at Liza’s?’ she asked gently.
Lyndsey glanced up. ‘I have my reasons.’
‘I’ve known the house since I was a child, you know.’ Emma went on quietly. ‘I wanted it so much I left the man I love to come and live here.’
‘That was a stupid thing to do.’ Lyndsey’s face hardened.
‘Yes,’ Emma said bleakly. ‘Yes, it was.’
‘So, why don’t you go back to him?’
‘I don’t know.’
They eyed each other warily. ‘I’ve been having nightmares,’ Emma went on, almost to herself. ‘About the cottage. In the old days.’
The spoon dropped from Lyndsey’s fingers, scattering sugar across the table. ‘Sorry, messy!’ She brushed the sugar onto the floor.
‘I will take care of the house. I do know how special it is,’ Emma went on. ‘And to be honest I’m not likely to venture into the churchyard. Especially not at night. Especially as it belongs to someone else.’ She shivered. ‘I really wasn’t spying.’
‘Good.’ Lyndsey narrowed her eyes, staring out of the window across the river towards the wreck. Above it a streak of blue sky had appeared between the torn rags of cloud. ‘I have good reasons to be there, and permission.’
‘I’m sure you have.’ Reasons like black magic. Spells. Emma found she couldn’t look Lyndsey in the eyes and ask what she believed and what she did. She looked so normal. Surreptitiously, she crossed her fingers under the table and suddenly she found herself wishing Piers was there too. How he would laugh if she confessed to taking tea with the local witch and how he would mock her if she told him she was scared.
