The Magdalena Curse (21 page)
Read The Magdalena Curse Online
Authors: F.G. Cottam
He triggered a sweeping, lateral burst that caught the three of them head on. The heavy calibre bullets ripped into them. They shuddered and paused and one of them let out a sort of mewling sound. The big room had filled already with the potent stink of them. They bled from ragged wounds on to the floor in viscous, purplish blotches. The smell of this excretion was unbearable. But they did not die. They barely paused. They growled and gathered themselves for another assault. He had to get past them. He had no chance otherwise. He let them approach him, separating, leaving wider gaps between them as they stalked him across the floor. This was a very risky thing to do, depending only on the beam from his head torch for his light, the dogs to right and left seeking the shadows of the room as they measured their approach. But he did not have a choice if he wanted to live. He slotted home another mag. On the table to his right, where the projector was mounted, he saw an object that had not been there earlier. It was at once strange and strangely familiar. It was a human head, cleanly severed. The dead eyes of the Comte de Flurey stared dully from it. It was a small and symbolic act of spite on Mrs Mallory’s part. It was proof of her vaunting power. And it was proof to Hunter that Miss Hall was dead.
She had broken her promise only because she was no longer alive to keep it.
She had broken her promise only because she was no longer alive to keep it.
He emptied his machine pistol into the dog directly in front of him, then dropped the weapon and ran past it through the door. The burst took away most of the dog’s head. But it still managed to snap with the exposed remains of its lower jaw as he skirted by, snagging a long fang on his jacket pocket. The ruined head of the beast seemed to ripple, reconstituting itself, the sockets above the snout deepening and then the eyes blinking open with a glimmer of crimson loathing. He tore himself free and shut the door behind him, feeling the impact of the other two dogs as they turned and hurled their weight against the bronze. Her magic was more potent here than it had been in the environs of the canvas cathedral at Magdalena. The beasts among her retinue were stronger. Of course they were. There, she had been tricked and curtailed by the craft of a clever adversary. Here, she was free.
But she was not here. Not in person, she wasn’t. She would have confronted him by now if she was. He thought that she was probably in Geneva, in the house of her dead protagonist, gloating over the corpse of Miss Hall and all the time gaining in strength. He looked around. He could not kill the dogs. He could only elude them. If he tried to go back the way he had come they would pursue and catch and overcome him. He would make it as far as the ice field and be swallowed for ever by the abysmal depths of a crevasse. He had no protection now, no fat and querulous guardian angel to keep death at bay for him. Behind him, the bronze juddered. He bit down on his fear with a resolution that brought blood welling from the roots of his teeth. He spat it on to the floor. It was the only blood of his the owner of this place would have today. He owed Adam the life he had not yet lived. He would not die, not easily. He would not forsake his boy.
He would find a way to live through this. He would live to confront and defeat the bitch and he would save his son.
He would find a way to live through this. He would live to confront and defeat the bitch and he would save his son.
There were stairs. He took them four at a time until they ran out three floors up against the hoar-frosted obstacle of an iron door he thought must lead to the roof. The door was locked. He could hear the dogs panting as they climbed the steps below. He could hear the soft urging of their handler now, could smell his rising odour, the gagging richness of decomposition remembered from Magdalena. And, more recently, from his hotel room at Lake Geneva. He took the keys he had been given by Miss Hall to enter the place. There was no logic to suggest they would work on the exit too. But they did. He was through the door. He locked it behind him and threw the keys away into the darkness. He would not need them again. There was no going back.
Iron ladder rungs ascended above him through hoops screwed to the sheer rock. He thought that perhaps they led to an observation platform at the summit. The Nazis had been fond of eyries. A dog would not be able to climb them. At least, a normal dog would not. The snow was falling heavily. The cold was almost palpable, a thick encroachment that pressed sharp barbs against the exposed skin of his face and filled his lungs with frozen weight. It was hard to breathe. It was almost impossible in the blizzard to see. And he could hear nothing other than the roar of the wind from the north as it shrilled over the razor edge of the ridge a hundred feet above him. He had to consume precious seconds putting on his gloves. The cold would weld the flesh of his hands to the rungs of the ladder if he did not. He pulled them on with his teeth and started to climb as he prayed a dog could not.
Sections of the cage he climbed through were entirely clogged by snow. But it was light and fairly insubstantial, uncompressed in the lee of the wind in the high cold, and
he found that he could bull a path through it. He had always been fit and strong. Sometimes fear denuded a man. Sometimes it drained his strength. But he thought if anything the plight of his son made him even stronger than he would have been ordinarily. He looked down, risking the beam of his torch. But he could see nothing through the swirling void beneath him. He raised his head. The journey was upward. There was only the one escape route and he knew he had no option but to take its terrible risk. So he clambered through the cage of iron hoops up the ladder. This old and sturdy construction framed his calm ascent. And then it ended. And it ended in the screaming howl of the ridge a few feet above the snowy concrete platform put there over seventy years ago for preening from on high, above the world created by the Reich.
he found that he could bull a path through it. He had always been fit and strong. Sometimes fear denuded a man. Sometimes it drained his strength. But he thought if anything the plight of his son made him even stronger than he would have been ordinarily. He looked down, risking the beam of his torch. But he could see nothing through the swirling void beneath him. He raised his head. The journey was upward. There was only the one escape route and he knew he had no option but to take its terrible risk. So he clambered through the cage of iron hoops up the ladder. This old and sturdy construction framed his calm ascent. And then it ended. And it ended in the screaming howl of the ridge a few feet above the snowy concrete platform put there over seventy years ago for preening from on high, above the world created by the Reich.
It had been described to him as a wall. It was covered in ice and whatever snow clung to its steepling gradient. It dropped for a near vertical mile. Shackleton had skidded down a glacier in South Georgia on his escape from shipwreck and the Pole, and had survived along with his entire party. It could be done. Men had done it. The wind might buffet and slow him. The snow that clung to the face might impede his speed in forgiving, clogging drifts if he did not trigger its precarious weight into avalanche. He wore gloves and heavy boots and had the protection of the performance clothing he had kitted himself out with at Innsbruck. Hunter was not a betting man. But asked, he would have put his chances of living through his descent of the north face of the mountain at no better than 10 per cent. If he had any final doubts about trying to survive it, they were dispelled by the thrum through his fingers of vibration on the final ladder rung. They had breached the door. They were coming after him. With a gasp he went up the final few feet, over the ridge and into the void.
Elizabeth opened and printed off the document attached to the email sent by the British Library. With Adam now asleep and apparently restful, she felt like nothing more than succumbing to the refuge of sleep herself. It was a symptom, she knew, of shock. Her conversation with the malevolent character occupying the child had inflicted that on her. It was not so deep as to debilitate her completely but it was genuine enough. She corked the bottle and flushed her untouched glass of wine down the sink. Then she helped herself to a large measure of Mark Hunter’s single malt and drank it down in a gulp. It was not the medically accepted remedy for shock but she felt it working almost straight away. She poked at the sitting-room fire and stacked it with a couple of logs. The warmth would be a comfort and the resinous smell of the wood burning a reminder of what was real and demonstrable.
She suspected that Adam Hunter was lying about the dreams he endured. She thought that it was likely he remembered them very vividly. He was reluctant to recall them because in a way that meant they were inflicted upon him a second time. And perhaps he was noble like his father was and wanted to spare them the worry the images and portents of the dreams would provoke in them. She had no proof that he was lying of course. But he was an unusually bright child. Curiosity was a principal characteristic among bright children. They were curious about everything. It was what fuelled their precocious gathering of knowledge. Yet Adam showed no curiosity at all about the dreams that afflicted him. They were not a mystery to the boy. Elizabeth suspected they were anything but.
The logs in the grate caught and flared with brightness and warmth and she adjusted the angle of the lamp on the little table next to her and tried to concentrate on the pages she held in her hand. They had printed in reverse order. She
began to sort them sequentially. She blinked and focused on the first words on the title page. Something landed with a wet thump against the front door, startling her. The half-sorted pages slipped from her fingers to the floor. She looked in that direction, but decided against investigating the source of the sound. The door was extremely solid, the house virtually fortified against intrusion. The hazards of his career had apparently made a cautious man of Mark Hunter where his home was concerned. It was approaching midnight now and her curiosity about the source of the noise would wait until the morning and the coming of light to be satisfied. She lifted the telephone receiver from its cradle just to check as a precaution that the line was not dead. Mobile coverage was patchy up here and the phone was a lifeline. She heard the soft burr of the dialling tone and felt grateful for it.
began to sort them sequentially. She blinked and focused on the first words on the title page. Something landed with a wet thump against the front door, startling her. The half-sorted pages slipped from her fingers to the floor. She looked in that direction, but decided against investigating the source of the sound. The door was extremely solid, the house virtually fortified against intrusion. The hazards of his career had apparently made a cautious man of Mark Hunter where his home was concerned. It was approaching midnight now and her curiosity about the source of the noise would wait until the morning and the coming of light to be satisfied. She lifted the telephone receiver from its cradle just to check as a precaution that the line was not dead. Mobile coverage was patchy up here and the phone was a lifeline. She heard the soft burr of the dialling tone and felt grateful for it.
She replaced the receiver and knelt on the floor to retrieve the scattered pages there. Words on the first sheet she recovered caught her eye immediately. On her knees, by the firelight, she read what was written there:
The wench was uncommon comely for a woman accused of such vile and pernicious crimes against God. She was less than buxom and had not the fecund quality creatures of lust find irresistible in a maiden. Her figure was slight, but fine rather than frail or wretched thin. There was nothing openly wanton or ripely lustful about her aspect. Instead, about her head, there was a clean firmness of jaw suggestive of strong character. Her nose was short and straight. Her eyes were of an arresting shade of green under finely arched brows and somewhat cat-like in shape. They compelled attention without implying insolence. Her gaze was steady and true seeming and not suggestive in the slightest degree of boldness or insolence or other womanly vices. Her mouth was well made. Her lips were full and her teeth even. She was pale of complexion and her skin unsullied by pox or general blemish. Her hair was wheat coloured and clean
and straight. She appeared taller than her height. But this was less a trick of sorcery than the impression given forth by her calmness and what seemed the fortitude of her character. Hers was a winning personage to look upon. At least in the first instance, there was no doubt of it.
and straight. She appeared taller than her height. But this was less a trick of sorcery than the impression given forth by her calmness and what seemed the fortitude of her character. Hers was a winning personage to look upon. At least in the first instance, there was no doubt of it.
‘Oh, Christ. She looked like me,’ Elizabeth said. ‘She looked like Lillian Hunter did.’ She shook her head. She gathered the spilled pages. She could not comprehend what any of it meant. Threads drew together in her mind and formed only a tangled and impenetrable web. The fire warmed the side of her face. And then her skin chilled with the overpowering instinct that she was being watched. She looked up sharply. She rose to her feet.
Adam was sitting on the floor by the door that led to the stairs. He must have awoken and descended them without her hearing him. He was very pale and thin-looking in the baggy folds of his cotton fleece pyjamas. He looked as though he had shed ten pounds in the period between breakfast and now – between that morning, his classroom recitation in the afternoon and the possession earlier in the evening. His eyes were wide with fatigue and sorrow. His blond curls were plastered against his forehead with perspiration.
‘I remember the dreams,’ he said.
‘I know you do.’
He began to cry.
‘Come here,’ she said.
But she went to him. He stood and she picked him up and hugged him tightly to her. He felt frail and the sobs shook him. She felt the salt tears and snot and saliva of his sorrow on the flesh of her neck and shoulder. And she thought him very brave.
‘Oh, Adam. Adam,’ she said.
He sniffed. ‘I know what she wants, Elizabeth. I know
what it is Mrs Mallory wants. She doesn’t know I’ve heard her. She only whispers, on the edge of things. But I’ve heard her all right. And I know.’
what it is Mrs Mallory wants. She doesn’t know I’ve heard her. She only whispers, on the edge of things. But I’ve heard her all right. And I know.’
Elizabeth heard logs collapse in the grate on the other side of the room. She heard the wet thump of something again against the stout oak of the front door. This time the impact was heavier, the door actually rattling in its reinforced frame. The boy felt light and insubstantial in the grip of her arms.
‘What is it Mrs Mallory wants?’
‘She nearly did it before. She wants to try to do it again. This time she is confident she will succeed. Mrs Mallory wants to put a tilt upon the world.’
At just after 10 a.m. the following morning the blood wagon from a ski run a few kilometres away recovered the unconscious body of Mark Hunter near the foot of the northern slope he had tumbled and skidded down. He had been very lucky. A rescue helicopter flying a routine training patrol had spotted his jacket and the vivid frozen bloodstain that leaked from his friction-burned shoulder half an hour before he was located and stretchered down by a rescue team. He was suffering from hypothermia and concussion. He awoke in the one-bed casualty unit of a clinic in Stubai to be told that he had dislocated his left knee and smashed his right elbow.
‘Recuperation will take several weeks,’ his doctor said, sitting on the bed. To the concussed Mark Hunter, he looked a kindly, middle-aged man of some professional competence. He had reassuring white hair and wire-framed spectacles. ‘Your back is another matter. That will require skin grafts. I hope your holiday insurance is of the more comprehensive sort.’ The doctor smiled and patted Hunter on his good knee. ‘You probably owe your life to the blow to the head that knocked you unconscious. It enabled a relaxed descent. I am assuming your rope snapped. But you should not have been climbing on that face, in those conditions, alone. In fact, you should not have been there at all. It is suicidal, with the avalanche risk.’ He pushed his slipped glasses back up his nose and left the room.
Hunter checked himself out the same afternoon, as soon as he had thawed sufficiently and his concussion had receded
to the point where he could stand without vomiting. There was no time to languish, with the accelerating speed of events. He stilled the clinic’s protests with credit card details and bought a crutch from reception on the spot. Skiing mishaps made them indispensable in such surroundings. And he could not walk without the aid of one. He took a taxi to where he had left his hire car and for a fat tip had the taxi driver help him clear the car of the snow its body had accumulated since he had parked it there. All his stuff, his passport and regular clothes, were in the boot. He looked up at the trail he had taken the previous evening with some regret. He wished ardently that he had torched the evil place on the mountain above before his departure from it. He wished he had burned it to smouldering ruins but had possessed neither the wit nor, in the end, the time to achieve that satisfaction.
to the point where he could stand without vomiting. There was no time to languish, with the accelerating speed of events. He stilled the clinic’s protests with credit card details and bought a crutch from reception on the spot. Skiing mishaps made them indispensable in such surroundings. And he could not walk without the aid of one. He took a taxi to where he had left his hire car and for a fat tip had the taxi driver help him clear the car of the snow its body had accumulated since he had parked it there. All his stuff, his passport and regular clothes, were in the boot. He looked up at the trail he had taken the previous evening with some regret. He wished ardently that he had torched the evil place on the mountain above before his departure from it. He wished he had burned it to smouldering ruins but had possessed neither the wit nor, in the end, the time to achieve that satisfaction.
Somehow, he drove to the airport at Innsbruck. He bought a single ticket to Edinburgh. The tiny pharmacy at the clinic had provided him with prescription painkillers but he thought the nausea from the concussion would make him throw up if he took them. Anyway, he needed to be alert. There had been clues at Mrs Mallory’s keep but he had not yet pondered on them enough to provide himself with the answers Miss Hall had insisted he would find. Maybe she had been right and he was stupid. The hour he endured waiting for his flight he thought perhaps the most uncomfortable of his entire life. He kept an eye out for the bald man with the dark glasses but did not see him. He was no physical match for anyone in the damaged state he was in. The raw agony of his burned shoulder throbbed through him and he could feel the wound weeping tackily through the bandage that covered it. But mostly he just worried, as he waited for his flight, on Adam’s behalf. The protection his son had been given had gone. His respite had been very brief. Elizabeth Bancroft was a resourceful and compassionate woman. Healing was her
profession and he did not think she wanted for courage. But Mrs Mallory was formidable and she was merciless. He thought he might have a chance against her if he knew what it was she wanted. If he knew that, he might be able to locate her and predict her movements.
profession and he did not think she wanted for courage. But Mrs Mallory was formidable and she was merciless. He thought he might have a chance against her if he knew what it was she wanted. If he knew that, he might be able to locate her and predict her movements.
‘Have you spent a decade thinking your presence at Magdalena an occurrence of mere chance?’ Miss Hall had asked him over their dinner at her house above the lake.
‘It was a blunder,’ he had said.
‘Your arrival there was more than a simple mistake.’
‘It was duty,’ he said. ‘I was there on a mission. I was there because I was ordered to go. I tried to get out of it. The irony is that I went there at all only with the greatest reluctance.’
‘Life is full of ironies,’ said Miss Hall.
He did not know what she had meant then and he did not know now. And he thought his visit to her keep had provided him with more questions about Mrs Mallory than answers. He sat in a modular plastic chair and sipped Evian water from a plastic bottle and watched the bustle of normality around him and heard the indifferent world through the public address and it all seemed an elaborate statement of sardonic mockery. He had seen the grinning thing awaiting Mrs Mallory seated on the plush of her Mercedes under the false twilight of the trees. And he had known it was not human. Magic was real. Evil was manifest. He was twenty yards from the metal detector before reluctantly abandoning the protection of his sheath knife to the depths of an airport litter bin. If he was being watched, he thought he probably looked a sorry sight as he hobbled on his crutch towards the departure gate.
It was not until the early hours of Wednesday morning that Elizabeth was able to coax and reassure Adam Hunter into
restful sleep. And she did not wake him in time to get ready for school. She considered her patient was in no state, physically or mentally, to go anywhere. She got a sedative from her medical bag and injected a measured dose of it into him shortly after she awoke herself. He did not flinch at the prick of the needle. He did not feel it. He was exhausted. She calculated that it would be the late afternoon before he stirred, by which time she would be back. She would have to abbreviate her workload for the day. She would have to see about finding a locum too. Adam’s care was the priority. She would find someone to fill in for her at least until his father returned.
restful sleep. And she did not wake him in time to get ready for school. She considered her patient was in no state, physically or mentally, to go anywhere. She got a sedative from her medical bag and injected a measured dose of it into him shortly after she awoke herself. He did not flinch at the prick of the needle. He did not feel it. He was exhausted. She calculated that it would be the late afternoon before he stirred, by which time she would be back. She would have to abbreviate her workload for the day. She would have to see about finding a locum too. Adam’s care was the priority. She would find someone to fill in for her at least until his father returned.
When Mrs Anderson arrived, she briefed her on what she termed Adam’s relapse. The carer reacted with concern more than alarm. Elizabeth told her only what she considered she needed to know. There was every likelihood the boy would not rouse himself until her return. But he did not need to rouse himself, if provoked into wakefulness by the intrusion of something malevolent. She told Mrs Anderson only that Adam suffered waking dreams sometimes of being other people. They were a kind of hallucination. They posed no physical danger either to himself or to anyone else.
‘The poor bairn,’ Mrs Anderson said, when she had been up to his room to see him. ‘I’ll make some broth. If he does wake, he needs to eat. He looks half starved.’
Outside the front door there was snow on the gravel. But there was no sign of whatever had thumped against the wood late the previous evening. And there were no tracks except those that Elizabeth left herself on the walk across the carpet of snow to her car. She took with her the Jerusalem Smith document, intending to read it over the break she planned to take for lunch. But her mobile rang on the way to her surgery and when she picked it off the passenger seat to see who the caller was, it was Sergeant Kilbride. She called him back as soon as she had parked outside her building.
‘There has been a development,’ he said. ‘Your postman called us first thing. He found the door to your cottage ajar and did not think it a morning suited to that quantity of ventilation. After ringing the bell and getting no response, he entered and had a look around. Pig entrails have been left on your kitchen table.’
‘Charming. Did Robert touch anything?’
‘Robert?’
‘My postman.’
‘No. The lad possesses instincts wasted delivering letters. He left the scene intact and called us straight away. There’s a message too, written in pig gore on your kitchen wall.’
‘Are you there now?’
‘Yes.’
‘What does it say?’
‘It says: “Witch. Leave the boy be or you’ll burn.” I’d construe that as a death threat. Mr Galloway will have to be told, Elizabeth. This is a significant escalation.’
Elizabeth laughed. ‘Is there any good news?’
‘Actually, there might be,’ Kilbride said. ‘Our SOCOs have just arrived. We think there were two intruders and we think we have traces from the DNA of one of them. They got careless.’
‘Or they were drunk,’ Elizabeth said.
Kilbride was silent on the line. Then he said, ‘Care to put anyone in the frame, Lizzie?’
But she could not think of any likely suspects. ‘Do I need to come over?’
‘I can spare you that. We’ll clean the place up once the photographer has finished and I’ll arrange for a locksmith.’
‘Be sure to send me the bill, Tony.’
‘Och, buy me a beer. I’ll have the keys dropped round to you there this afternoon. I’ll be in touch. And take care.’
The keys were delivered to the surgery by a patrol car at
noon. Elizabeth spent her lunch break on a brief visit to her cottage. She did not feel as brave about the break-in as she knew she had sounded to Tony Kilbride. She would have felt better if she had been able to name a suspect. The fact that she could not freed her imagination to make the culprits more formidable than they probably were. She did not think it was Tom Lincoln, despite her mother’s story concerning the fate of poor Max Hector. Tom could be malicious, especially when he’d had a drink. But he did not possess the wit or wherewithal for a concerted campaign like this. He would break a window at most and probably trip over his bootlaces trying to scarper from the scene. The idea that she had enemies was horrible. The thought that they intended her harm was frightening.
noon. Elizabeth spent her lunch break on a brief visit to her cottage. She did not feel as brave about the break-in as she knew she had sounded to Tony Kilbride. She would have felt better if she had been able to name a suspect. The fact that she could not freed her imagination to make the culprits more formidable than they probably were. She did not think it was Tom Lincoln, despite her mother’s story concerning the fate of poor Max Hector. Tom could be malicious, especially when he’d had a drink. But he did not possess the wit or wherewithal for a concerted campaign like this. He would break a window at most and probably trip over his bootlaces trying to scarper from the scene. The idea that she had enemies was horrible. The thought that they intended her harm was frightening.
The big new mortise lock was incongruous on her old front door but she could live with it, and with the shiny brass Yale lock fitted above it. Inside, her home was immaculate. The only sign that anything had been amiss was the strong smell of disinfectant from the scrubbing of the table and the wall. And when she opened her curtains fully a patch of kitchen wall was subtly paler than the rest of it. It signalled the dimensions of what they had written there. It had been a bold scrawl. They had been lavish with their gore. She put a couple of changes of clothing into a bag. Outside, it was snowing again. The snow earlier had covered the intruders’ tracks by the time the break-in had been discovered. But Tony Kilbride already knew what their footwear looked like. And maybe now he had DNA from one of them as well.
She got back to the Hunter house at just after 5 p.m. Adam awoke at six and she coaxed him into eating a bowl of Mrs Anderson’s excellent broth. His usual jokes about Red Bull and cola were nowhere to be heard. He was very subdued, almost monosyllabic. He had come down in his pyjamas and dressing gown and showed no inclination to
get dressed. She propped him on cushions in front of one of Clarkson’s puerile efforts and hoped it would have the desired effect of lifting his spirits and distracting him while she was in the kitchen. He ate most of the bowl of popcorn she made there for him. He smiled at the schoolboy antics on the screen but laughter was absent.
get dressed. She propped him on cushions in front of one of Clarkson’s puerile efforts and hoped it would have the desired effect of lifting his spirits and distracting him while she was in the kitchen. He ate most of the bowl of popcorn she made there for him. He smiled at the schoolboy antics on the screen but laughter was absent.
‘Did you dream last night?’
‘Yes. I was aboard a naval vessel in the Aegean Sea. I was in the sick bay and I had blood poisoning and knew I was dying.’
‘You were Rupert Brooke.’
‘Yes. I was. Do you know when my dad is coming home, Elizabeth?’
‘Soon,’ she said. It sounded inadequate and evasive. But she could not be precise and did not wish to raise his hopes in vain.
‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘I hope it’s soon.’
At a quarter to ten he started to doze and she took him up to his bedroom. He could not hide the look of fear on his face. She gave him something to guarantee his sleep. She was generally against drugging children, reluctant normally to prescribe antibiotics, let alone opiates. But there was nothing normal about this case and, whether he dreamed or he didn’t, he needed the healing balm of deep and uninterrupted sleep.
Fifteen minutes after she had put Adam to bed, the landline on the little table in the sitting room rang. She felt that she had to answer it. She did not think the sound of the ringing would awaken her charge, but the caller might be his father and the call important. She picked up the receiver.
‘This is the Comte de Flurey,’ a male voice said. ‘I wish to speak with Colonel Hunter.’
‘He isn’t here.’
‘To whom am I speaking?’
‘My name is Elizabeth Bancroft.’
‘Bancroft,’ the voice said. ‘Such a fine Scottish name.’
‘Is there a message?’ The Comte’s background was not entirely silent. She could hear music playing softly through the receiver. It was one of her own favourites. It was Mahler and it was the Ninth.
‘Please be so good as to tell the colonel I called.’
‘I will,’ Elizabeth said.
She settled down to read what Josiah Jerusalem Smith had penned in the autumn of 1656. He had dated the document October 17.
There is no Kingdom recognised on earth but the Kingdom of Almighty God
, he began. Thus were his Cromwellian credentials established right at the outset. Elizabeth sighed and sipped wine from the glass she had poured herself. She would restrict herself to one because there was a patient lying upstairs and he was in her sole care. But she felt that the one glass would be welcome. She did not expect Judge Smith to provide her with prose to raise her spirits or put very much of a smile on her face this evening.
There is no Kingdom recognised on earth but the Kingdom of Almighty God
, he began. Thus were his Cromwellian credentials established right at the outset. Elizabeth sighed and sipped wine from the glass she had poured herself. She would restrict herself to one because there was a patient lying upstairs and he was in her sole care. But she felt that the one glass would be welcome. She did not expect Judge Smith to provide her with prose to raise her spirits or put very much of a smile on her face this evening.
I am compelled to commit a formal account of this case to the written word as warning to any of my honest fellows called upon to fight the vile evil of witchcraft. Such is done in the conviction that even the most expert and complete of witch finders will judge the particulars set down here more than passing strange. But every word written has been weighed in my mind at length and found to be true. Shocking as the particulars no doubt are, they occurred and were witnessed by sober and Godly men. Like all stories worthy of the telling, this one teaches a lesson. We must be brave and vigilant facing the forces of darkness. We must employ the same great cunning used against us by our adversary.
Mere gossip did not inspire my trip last month to Scotland. Nor was prejudice against the Scots generally a spur. The Lord
Protector admires the industry of the Scottish. He knows their cities are fair and their commercial instincts honourable and sound. Their country might be the best mapped in the whole of Europe and their engineers are the envy of advanced nations. But the reports reaching Whitehall from an area of the Highlands to the north-east of Perth could not in all good conscience be ignored.
Protector admires the industry of the Scottish. He knows their cities are fair and their commercial instincts honourable and sound. Their country might be the best mapped in the whole of Europe and their engineers are the envy of advanced nations. But the reports reaching Whitehall from an area of the Highlands to the north-east of Perth could not in all good conscience be ignored.
Their source was a Church elder residing near the village of Balloch. He was a man of high literacy and sound learning unlikely to be tempted into exaggeration and lies by the wild rumours of farmers’ wives and village shrews. In the main his reports were bald and unembroidered. But their claims were astonishing and, if they were true, an affront to nature and therefore to God. Life and death is the province of the creator. Man accepts the fate of himself and the creatures of the earth humbly and without complaint. We live, we die and we grieve. We bear the mortal loss of that which we own with equanimity. To do otherwise is arrogant, mischievous and sinful.
It was said that the woman Ruth Campbell brought sick beasts back to health and even dead beasts back to life. It was claimed she did this for the profit of her husband’s farm and the wealth therein accrued her family. Jealousy might have provoked a neighbour into making such a claim. The land about had been sorely afflicted in recent years with the ailments and diseases that claim livestock. But the observation came from a man of the Church with no tie or connection to the land or the profit or loss to be made from its exploitation. The beasts came back but the stink of death lay about them, he said. The milk was sour and the meat spoiled to the taste. But the animals could still breed. And their offspring were healthy and well. And brought back sheep still grew wool and the resurrected horses and oxen could still strongly pull a plough despite their stench of corruption. Something was lost but something was salvaged in this reversal of nature. And if the story was true it was witchcraft of the worst sort.
The Church man was named Daniel Cawdor. I made appointment with him during correspondence. I undertook the arduous journey to
the far north of the Commonwealth with my retinue. When I arrived at Cawdor’s house, he would not entertain me. His grown-up son appeared at the door and said his father was indisposed.
the far north of the Commonwealth with my retinue. When I arrived at Cawdor’s house, he would not entertain me. His grown-up son appeared at the door and said his father was indisposed.
My first instinct upon hearing this was that Cawdor was indeed a crank or gossip, a mischief maker nervous of the consequences now his tale had outgrown its foolish intentions. I had my sergeant draw his sword. My men were formidable, veterans of the recent victorious war. But the boy did not budge.
My father is blinded, he said. He confronted the witch Campbell overcome by indignation at her blasphemous crimes and she obliged him to blind himself by the gouging of his own eyes with his own thumbs. He lies in misery and shame, a tormented encumbrance now to his family.
I dismounted from my horse. The boy was about sixteen. I had my sergeant sheath his steel and spoke to the lad as kindly as my temper would allow.
What nonsense is this? I said.
It’s true, Sir, he said.
The Campbell woman blinded him?
He blinded himself, the boy asserted. But the witch compelled him to inflict this awful mutilation on his person.
I strode past the boy and on into the house. Daniel Cawdor, my correspondent, lay on an upstairs couch with his eye sockets bloodily bandaged and an expression of such abject misery about his remaining features as I will never forget. Practically, I had lost my witness to the Campbell woman’s occult mischief. But of the two of us, there was no question of who had lost more. The will to live is sometimes spoken of. That afternoon I looked upon the visage of a man in whom that will was entirely and completely expunged.
Low in spirits with fatigue and the grotesque proof of this setback, I had the best forager in my party seek out a place for us to quarter. He returned to the lonely road where we waited within half an hour and we repaired to a tavern called the Black Boar
which possessed both passable rooms and palatable food. I confess we were almost cheery after a meal of meat stew and fresh baked bread and the landlord’s good brew of small beer. Then something curious and unexpected occurred. The brave Cawdor boy, the very lad who had defied my fearsome sergeant, appeared and sought an audience with me I felt I could do no other than grant him.
which possessed both passable rooms and palatable food. I confess we were almost cheery after a meal of meat stew and fresh baked bread and the landlord’s good brew of small beer. Then something curious and unexpected occurred. The brave Cawdor boy, the very lad who had defied my fearsome sergeant, appeared and sought an audience with me I felt I could do no other than grant him.
The story he told was most strange. But first he brought forth a warning I would have considered outlandish insolent were it not for the plain sincerity worn on the boy’s young and sorrowful face.
You have no chance against her, Sir, he said. You travel too lightly. You have but the six horsemen.
All proven veterans of the war, I said. I felt sorry for the lad. But I was not disposed at all well to disrespect of my valiant outriders delivered in a Scots brogue by an insolent pup.
You do not travel in sufficient strength, the lad insisted.
God Almighty himself requires only four horsemen for His Apocalypse, I said. I have six. The joke was poor and even blasphemous and I was sorry for it even as the last phrase left my lips. I was tired and the small beer at the Boar surpassing potent compared to that brewed in my own locality.
She has a familiar, the lad said. I followed her. I am skilled at stalking and I followed the witch out of concern only for my father’s predicament in damning her publicly. She met with this creature in the forest where its deepest thickets lie.
Was it a cat? I inquired of the lad. Am I to be wary of some exotic reptile or venomous serpent? Does the Campbell woman keep a toad, the warts of which to kiss before casting spells?
My levity was an abuse of the boy of which I have been ever since ashamed and for which I have paid much penance.
A wolf, he said. A wolf clothed as a man and standing upright in the abject mockery of a man, he said. She converses with it. It offers her counsel. Kill that creature and I believe you have her, Sir. Do not and I believe your enterprise entirely damned.
What is your name?
Matthew Cawdor, he said.
And do you know, Matthew Cawdor, where we will find this abomination?
I do, Sir, he said.
Guide my men to it, I said. Do this without delay. Tomorrow I confront the accused. Have my men bring back the head of the abomination you describe. Accomplish this with all necessary urgency. Go now.
They saddled up their tired horses and off my men went. I have pondered often since on the bloodlust that made me dispatch the party with such haste. Perhaps it was the excitement of the drink. Since, as a consequence, I have forsworn all drink entirely other than for plain water. But I do not in true conscience know what made me bid them go so unprepared for what they were to face. Perhaps it was simply that I believed the boy. I thought to deprive the witch of the power that had blinded his father.
I never saw Matthew Cawdor again. He perished in the encounter with the fiend he led them to. Only two of my men returned, one mortally wounded, the other bearing their gruesome proof in his bloodstained saddlebag. The thing was fast decomposing by the time it was revealed to me, brought from the bag and placed on a plain deal table at the Boar in lantern light. Carrick, the only one of my men left whole, put it there with grim distaste etched on his honest features. A veteran of Edge Hill and Marston Moor and Naseby, I knew he had killed a score or more of men in battle in the recent war. But he looked at me with trepidation as he asked me did I intend soon to confront the woman served by the abomination whose remains lay rotting on the tabletop.
I confess I looked with appalled fascination at this grim relic. The head was neither wolf nor man but both in some horrid collusion of breed. It looked savage, with its great jaw of coarse hair and bristling fangs. But with its sly grin and the cunning slant of its eyes it also looked intelligent. The remains of a linen shirt were bloodily present in a collar still about its neck. And a
jewelled chain hung from a ring piercing the lobe of one of its human ears.
jewelled chain hung from a ring piercing the lobe of one of its human ears.
Did it speak? I asked Carrick.
Aye, he said. It damned us.
How did it sound?
Carrick thought about this. He drank from the mug of ale I had ordered him brought. There was a tremor, I noticed, in his hand as he raised the mug. Refined, he said, like a gentleman, but fierce unpleasant in tone. Hollow voiced, he said. Not a sound I would wish to hear in my life again.
How did it kill the men who perished?
It tore out their throats, Carrick said. It fought with unearthly quickness.
How tall did it stand?
It stood an inch or so above six foot, Carrick said.
Fleas were leaving the horrible trophy on the table with hops and jumps, red and larger than any species I’d seen before and brazen in the lantern light. Burn it, I said to Carrick. Burn it without delay. Break the skull and bury the shards and the teeth in lime. Bury them deep, Carrick.
Gladly, Sir, he said to me. And tomorrow it’s the witch we should burn.
I countenanced the insolence of this remark without comment. Men should not speak to their officers so freely. But Carrick was a brave man who had endured a dreadful ordeal. And there might be more and worse to follow before we could return south to goodness and piety, away from the corruption and perversity amid which we had found ourselves cast.
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