Hiding From the Light (24 page)

Mike parked his car some distance away from the churchyard and from Emma’s cottage and walked up the lane, aware of a certain sense of furtiveness. On his shoulder he carried a black bag, a freebie from a book promotion he had attended once in Canterbury. In it were the items he needed in order to celebrate Holy Communion.

As he passed Liza’s he glanced up at the windows, visible in the early morning light just beyond the hedge. Was that one of her cats sitting on the window sill, looking down at him? He looked away hurriedly in case she was there with it and saw him staring.

The place where he could duck into the undergrowth and climb the wall into the churchyard was invisible from her windows. With a quick glance over his shoulder at the road he pushed between the elder and the hawthorn and scrambled over the old bricks. Once inside and out of sight of any passer-by, he paused and looked around. His heart had begun to thud uncertainly under his ribs and he felt his breathing grow shallow and fast. He stared round again, trying to steady himself. He must not show fear. He must not feel fear. If he did he was done for. Useless. Ineffectual. The early morning light was pale and cold, throwing a dull monochrome across the grass. He found himself wishing fervently that the sun would come up.

Putting down his bag he shivered again, pulling up the collar of his waterproof jacket. Then he rammed his hands into his pockets. The area of ground he was interested in was some twenty-five yards away, half hidden from where he was standing. Perhaps before he went any closer, he would pray.

‘Our Father who art in heaven …’ He whispered the words out loud and stopped. It was as though the world was holding its breath. The rustle of drying autumn leaves ceased as the brisk wind dropped. The gentle confidential murmuring of a small bird in the ivy near him ceased. He could almost feel the beady little eyes on him, watching him closely. ‘Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come.’ He glanced round again. ‘Thy will be done …’ He stopped. He was sure the temperature had dropped several degrees and he could feel the odd spot of rain on his head. ‘As it is in heaven. Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive …’ He stopped again. Somewhere near him an owl had hooted, the long quavering call of the night. He caught sight of the shadow on silent wings whisk across the far wall out of sight. What was it Shakespeare said: the bird of night did sit, even at noon-day, hooting and shrieking. Something like that. All right, so it was bad luck to see an owl by day. But night was still very close, lurking in the wooded valleys and under the trees nearby. ‘Deliver us from evil. Christ be with me. Christ within me. Christ behind me. Christ before me …’ Taking a deep breath, he picked up his bag and strode forward to the spot where he imagined Lyndsey to have been standing.

He found a stone, half buried in the mud. It probably came from the fabric of the old church itself. It would do for an altar. Crouching down, he unpacked the bag. Inside was a small Communion set and stole. He put the stole round his neck and opened the little case, taking out the cross and setting it on the stone. Kneeling in front of it on the wet grass, he had to force himself to concentrate. The urge to look over his shoulder was almost unbearable.

Pray. Keep focused.

Quickly, he opened the containers of bread and wine. His hands were shaking. ‘I am the resurrection and the life; he who believe in me, though he die yet shall he live …’ His pulse rate was slowing. The familiar words were giving him strength. Whatever she had done here, this witch with her magic circles and her spells, it was not strong enough to withstand the love and protection of Christ.

When he had finished he stayed where he was, kneeling quietly in the grass for several minutes, then he opened his eyes. The churchyard was still, the shadows gone, the unquiet echoes had died. He looked round, then calmly reassured he set about packing up. When he stood up the knees of his trousers were soaked and muddy, and he had left two small dents in the grass, but the place felt clean, energised. The rite had worked.

Turning away, he slung his bag onto his shoulder and strode towards the wall.

Kill the witch!

The words were so loud he spun round, unsure whether they had been said out loud or whether they were in his own head.

You are a man of God. It is your duty to fight Satan!

Taking a deep breath, he gripped the strap of his bag.

Kill the witch!

‘I have blessed this ground in the name of Jesus Christ!’ Mike turned round slowly. Lifting his right hand, he made the sign of the cross. ‘Let all who lie buried here rest in peace.’ He paused, listening. ‘From all evil and mischief; from sin, from the crafts and assaults of the Devil; from thy wrath and from everlasting damnation, Good Lord, deliver us.’ His voice echoed in the silence with words from the Litany he wasn’t even aware he knew by heart. There was no response, and he exhaled loudly, trying to collect himself again.

Forcing himself to walk slowly he crossed the churchyard, climbed the wall and returned to his car where he sat for a moment, his head back against the headrest, his eyes closed. His bag lay on the seat beside him.

The rap on the window nearly made him jump out of his skin. A face was peering at him only a few inches away through the glass.

‘You all right, Vicar?’

It was Bill Standing. Mike took a deep breath and wound down the window. ‘Hello, Bill. Yes, I’m fine, thanks. Just a bit tired.’

‘You look peaky, Vicar, if you don’t mind my saying so.’ The old man shook his head. ‘I thought that the other day when I was tidying round the graves and I saw you and Miss Sadler going into the church together. And I thought it again just now.’ Mike was aware of a pair of shrewd eyes fixed on his face. ‘You bin up to the old churchyard?’

Mike shrugged. No point in denying it. ‘I have, yes.’

‘Best not to meddle there unless you know what you’re doing.’ Bill shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘They pulled that old place down for a reason, see. People don’t hold with churches round here.’

Mike closed his eyes. When he opened them he didn’t look at Bill. ‘It’s my job to meddle in some things.’ He was watching a file of gulls flying in up river against the wind.

‘And then again it’s not. You mind the living, Vicar. Leave the dead to theyselves.’

‘And to you, eh, Bill? Keeping their graves nice and smart.’

Bill shook his head. ‘Down at St Michael’s maybe, but not up here. Never.’

‘Does anyone look after it now?’

Bill shook his head. ‘There are sheep in there. They keep the grass down.’

‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. I’m talking about something else, Bill.’

Bill chewed his lip thoughtfully. ‘I know. If there’s things need doing, they’ll be done,’ he said at last. ‘Maybe with your help. Maybe not.’

There was a long silence.

Mike sighed. ‘Do you know Lyndsey Clark?’ he asked at last, cautiously.

‘Yes, I knows Lyndsey.’ Bill chuckled. ‘Silly girl. Playing around with things she don’t understand.’

‘Then warn her off, will you? Please, warn her off.’ Mike reached for the ignition. ‘I’ve got to be going. Do you want a lift?’

The old man shook his head. He stood back and raised his hand. As Mike drove off he peered in the rear-view mirror. The old man was still standing in the road watching him.

Emma had pulled off her gardening gloves as she came in to answer the phone, hoping it would be the builder announcing that he was going to come back and finish off replacing some of the floorboards in the room which was supposed to be her study – the room where the computer was swiftly gathering dust as time and again she put off the idea of trying to put some reports together for David. In the background the radio was playing quietly. The kitchen was warm and very peaceful. She threw the gloves down on the table and picked up the receiver.

‘Em? It’s me!’ Peggy’s regular phone calls usually began with enquiries about Emma’s health and well-being, whether she was eating properly and how the cats were settling in. Today she plunged straight into her conversation; she sounded excited. ‘The most extraordinary thing has happened. Are you sitting comfortably?’

‘What is it, Ma?’ Emma pushed her wind-tangled hair back from her face with the back of her hand. She had been in the shed at the side of the terrace, sorting through the mountains of old clay pots and ancient gardening equipment she had found there. Some of it, she was sure, was old enough to donate to the local museum.

‘Ever since you moved in I’ve been wondering about those holidays we spent at Manningtree with your Dad’s grandparents when you were a child. They were such happy times.’ There was a fractional silence as her mother gave a small sigh.

‘Ma – ’

‘No, dear. Listen, your Dad never talked much about his own childhood, except that he loved going there too, of course, but I thought I’d sort through some boxes of papers and stuff of his in the attic to see if there was anything from those days, and I found a couple of old albums. They must have belonged to his mother. Wonderful pictures of her Bennett parents and grandparents. It appears that they lived for generations at a place called Overly Hall, near the farmhouse where they lived when we went up there. It’s about a mile from where you are now. Isn’t that strange? That he never mentioned it? I’m sure I would have remembered if he had!’

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.

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.