Hiding From the Light (56 page)

Guardian

‘Containing a range of comments from the locals, from the inane to the thoroughly objective summary from the local rector and his wife, this was a well balanced and exciting attempt to convince that the supernatural exists. But I can’t help believing that the full story has not been told even now …’

As so often when I finish writing a novel my first instinct is to supply a long bibliography at the end! I shall as usual resist the temptation, and content myself with saying that there are huge numbers of books on the Civil War and even more on the subject of witchcraft, both in history and as a spiritual practice, so that if you want to know more you can read on for ever …

Liza and Sarah are fictional characters like all those in the part of the story set in the present day. One of Matthew Hopkins’s first victims was an Elizabeth Clark; this is not her – but my Liza is a representative of the many old women upon whom he concentrated the brunt of his attentions.

Hopkins’s motivation is endlessly fascinating; he is so universally disliked it is hard to get beyond the initial horror of what he did. But there must have been a reason for his actions. The nightmares and sexual fantasies of a TB sufferer combined with a general growing suspicion of witches and the Puritan ethics of the time seemed as good a place to start looking as any.

Hopkins himself is famous, infamous is perhaps the better word, throughout the eastern counties of England and his name is linked to many a house and pub where stories of his evil deeds linger, but nowhere as much as in the two small towns on the River Stour where he was based.

Legends of the women he burned are legion – although in England witches were hanged. Burning as a punishment in England was reserved for treason and the interestingly named crime of petty treason which was the murder of a husband, so the witches who were burned in East Anglia must have resorted to using their magic arts against their spouses. It was in Scotland and in Europe that the burning times truly earned their name.

As usual I have so many people to thank for their help and advice while I was writing this book.

For my first inspiration I want to thank the group of women in Manningtree who over an excellent lunch at the Stour Bay Café suggested that Hopkins would make a good subject for a novel. And our former rector, the Reverend Chris Harvey who once very gently complained that clergymen always seemed to come to grief in my novels. So, Chris, here is a clergyman who lives to tell the tale, and he’s the handsome hero, to boot!

I should like to thank the many people in Manningtree and Mistley who have so patiently answered my questions about their predecessors and their ancestors and their ghosts – and who have begged to remain anonymous! And the charming and without exception kindly witches and Wiccans who have talked about their craft.

Thanks too, to Pat Taylor for her insight and inspiration. To Dr Brian Taylor for keeping medical details roughly within the bounds of possibility. To Phil Rickman for his always wise advice, particularly on the making of TV documentaries. To Peter Edwards for further information on the making of TV documentaries and for knowing what an insurance company actually does when a ghost trashes your cameras!

Over the years I have been lucky enough to know many clergymen who have been inspirational and helpful in the writing of my books, but in particular I would like to thank the Reverend David King for so patiently answering my questions and filling in important background.

Thanks to Nigel Pennick for his last minute masterclass on the Ward. I should make it clear that the rescue and redemption coaxed out of the Ward by Bill Standing in a single short ceremony would, according to Nigel, take at least a hundred years!

Thank you to my son, A. J., who helped enormously with my research and with psychological background information and to my son Jonathan for the title and for his painstaking help with photographing the River Stour and taking as many digital liberties with the scenery as I have in my text.

I should emphasise that any inaccuracies in the research for this book are mine alone.

As always I owe so much to my editorial team – Rachel Hore and Lucy Ferguson – and to my agent Carole Blake.

And one last word: Mistley and Manningtree are lovely places. The mist, if ever it was there, is long gone!

They had finished their meal and were strolling on the back lawn later, carrying their mugs of coffee when Jess heard the sound of a car engine from the courtyard. ‘Who on earth is that?’ She turned back towards the house.

Getting no reply when he knocked at the open front door, Rhodri had wandered straight in and seeing them from the window came out. He seemed taken aback to see her with Dan.

‘I’m sorry to intrude. My mother hasn’t given me a moment’s peace since she heard you were here on your own. She told me to bring you some food from the freezer.’ He was carrying a basket. ‘If I’d known you were with someone I wouldn’t have bothered you.’ There was irritation in his voice.

Jess made the introductions reluctantly. His arrival had spoiled the mood of the evening. ‘It’s very kind of your mother, Rhodri. Will you thank her.’ She took the basket from him firmly. ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’

Somewhat to her surprise he nodded. As Dan went to fetch a glass she smiled at him coldly. ‘Are these homemade things from Megan?’ she said politely. ‘That is so nice of her –’ She broke off as a crash sounded from the kitchen.

Dan appeared in the doorway, his hand wrapped in a tea towel. ‘Sorry, folks. The glass slipped. We seem to be having a bad time, don’t we!’ He handed Rhodri his drink and strolled over towards the hedge, his hand still wrapped in the towel. The others followed him. ‘Look at that view,’ he said at last. ‘It’s sensational, isn’t it.’ Beyond the hedge the ground dropped away towards the valley bottom. The sun was beginning to set now in a pearly haze which rimmed the northern hills with gold.

‘It’ll rain tomorrow.’ Rhodri was staring across the hedge. ‘You’re a painter, Mum tells me.’ He glanced down at Jess.

‘Only an amateur.’ She couldn’t keep the frostiness out of her voice. He sounded patronising and bored and even the fact that he was a head taller than her and therefore was looking down on her irritated her hugely.

‘But a damn good one,’ Dan put in amiably. ‘This place is inspirational, isn’t it. I reckon if I lived here I would finally write my novel.’

‘What novel?’ Jess said, amused. ‘Is that before or after you get your headship?’

He grinned. ‘After, probably. But before I get to be Minister of Education!’

Rhodri gave a snort of laughter. ‘Well, my friend, while you plan out your future I regret I shall have to leave you. Thank you for the drink, Jess.’

He turned and headed back towards the house. In the doorway he paused. ‘Are you sure it was only a wine glass you broke?’ he called back over his shoulder.

The floor of the dining room was covered in glass. The three of them stood gazing down at it. Dan shook his head. ‘I don’t understand. I picked it all up. That’s how I cut myself. It was in the kitchen. Oh God!’ He broke off as he caught sight of the table. ‘Oh Jess – ’

Her book of drawings was covered in red liquid. The pages were crumpled and one of the pictures had been scribbled all over. Jess reached for the light switch. ‘Who would do that?’ she whispered. ‘Dan –?’

‘No! Not me. I swear it! How could you even think it?’

‘Is it wine?’ Rhodri leaned over the table and touched the picture with a fingertip. ‘It’s sticky. Oh my God, it’s blood!’ Shocked, he stood back. ‘It was you!’ he accused Dan. ‘You’re the one bleeding all over the place!’

‘I told you it wasn’t!’ Dan replied angrily. ‘I would say if it was me, for goodness’ sake! I never went near the pictures.’ He strode over to the door. ‘Someone else has been in here. Look, the front door is open.’

‘That was me,’ Rhodri said. ‘Steph always leaves it open. I’m afraid I didn’t think.’ He took several steps out into the hall, looking round. ‘But who would do such a thing?’ There was real anger in his voice. ‘And why?’ He strode out into the courtyard. ‘There’s no one out here!’

Jess shook her head miserably. ‘Well, the drawings weren’t that special, I suppose. Nothing I can’t do again.’

‘That’s hardly the point!’ Dan said sternly. ‘Should we call the police?’

‘No.’ Jess shook her head. ‘They have long gone, whoever they were. Or at least –’ She broke off, glancing back towards the staircase.

‘I’ll go.’ Rhodri strode back inside and stood with his hand on the newel post, looking up. They all listened. Taking the steps two at a time he vanished across the landing. They heard doors opening and closing and his heavy tread across the floorboards. ‘There’s no one up here.’ His voice floated down to them. Reappearing he ran down. ‘I don’t think anything’s been touched up there. You’ve left some gold bangles on your dressing table, Jess. They wouldn’t still be there if anyone had gone upstairs. I suppose it must have been some deranged kid who popped in for some quick vandalism. It sounds unlikely but can you think of anything better?’ He shrugged. ‘You sometimes get strangers walking or biking on the tracks up through the woods.’

Jess glanced at Rhodri thoughtfully. It felt oddly unsettling suddenly to think of him peering round her bedroom. She pushed the thought aside. ‘But why? Why do that? Why spoil my pictures?’ She realised she had started to shake. She turned back into the dining room and stood looking down at the table. The sky outside had blushed deep red with the sunset and filled the room with a warm glow. Only the pool of electric light on the table was harsh. Reaching out to the blood stains she dabbed them gently. The blood was already dry.

‘I really do have to go,’ Rhodri called from the hall. ‘I’m so sorry this has happened. If there is anything I can do …’

‘You’ve done enough by leaving the door open,’ Dan retorted curtly.

‘Dan!’ Jess was indignant.

‘No, he’s right. And I am sorry.’ Rhodri moved towards the front door. ‘Look, I’ll leave you now, but if you need anything from the farm you know where I am.’

Dan grimaced as the door slammed behind him. ‘Tosser!’

‘It wasn’t his fault,’ Jess retorted sternly.

Dan sighed. ‘No, it wasn’t.’ He gestured at the sketchbook. ‘What do you want to do with this, shall I chuck it out?’

‘No!’ She spread her hands over it protectively. ‘No, leave it!’

‘At least let me clear up the glass.’ He glanced up at her. ‘No? OK, I’ll tell you what. Let’s have another drink before we go to bed.’

Jess froze. She stood for a moment unable to move then at last she looked up. ‘Dan – ’

He glanced up enquiringly, eyebrow raised and she looked away, embarrassed. He hadn’t meant it like that. Of course he hadn’t. She smiled uncomfortably. ‘No more for me, thanks. I think I’ll go up now. I’m a bit tired …’ Refusing to catch his eye as he moved towards her, obviously intending to give her a goodnight kiss, she stepped back sharply. ‘Goodnight, Dan. Can you turn all the lights off for me.’ In seconds she had dodged round the table towards the stairs, leaving him looking after her with a puzzled frown.

Hours later she woke with a start. The latch on the door had clicked up. She stared across the room in the dark, her heart hammering. The house was totally silent.

‘Dan?’ She whispered the name soundlessly. But there was no further noise. Quietly she slipped out of bed and tiptoed across to the door, pressing her ear against the oak panels. There was no movement from the other side as she ran her fingers gently over the small brass bolt she had found there. Without wasting time to wonder why Steph had thought fit to put bolts on her bedroom doors she had been almost ashamed to find herself drawing it closed against Dan. She did not have to ask herself why she had been overwhelmed by this sudden feeling of revulsion at the thought of anyone coming to her bedroom, or why she had even for a second suspected Dan would suddenly be interested in her that way. He was, after all, a married man she had known for years as a friend. There had never been anything between them. It was an instinct; self-preservation. An automatic response to violation and fear.