by T J Podger
“Where have those footprints come from then?” Agnes placed her hands on her hips before stomping off for a mop.
Adrian stared at the water. For sure there were small puddles and they seemed to resemble footprints, but he had no idea where they’d come from and they couldn’t have been there long for Agnes to only just notice. It puzzled him enough to open the back door and see if they continued down the stone steps outside. They didn’t. At the same time he felt something brush against his leg, like a cat would do for attention. Adrian quickly glanced down, of course there was no cat, it was a figment of his imagination according to Agnes, but it felt real. He shook his leg, hoping it was static that had his polyester trousers sticking to his skin. He wanted to cover his ears the minute the first faint meow reached them. There was no point in telling Agnes; she was angrily sloshing the water around the floor.
“Agnes, there is no water outside the back door, it’s not raining, and there are no puddles,” he stated, wanting her to understand how strange it was.
“Then how did this get here?” She pointed to the floor.
“I have no idea and I think it’s extremely strange…”
“Oh, Adrian, please don’t start with your ghost stories,” she cut him off.
“What ghost stories?” Adrian felt bemused. He had only once mentioned the cat and it had been so vehemently dismissed he hadn’t bothered again.
“In your delirium, all you spoke about was this haunted house.”
Adrian had no recollection of what he’d said or, even, how bad he had been. As far as he was concerned, he’d caught a virus of some kind and slept most of the week until it had passed.
“You kept typing words, Adrian, meaningless words.” Agnes strode past him to put the mop away; she returned with a rag and threw it to the floor. She stomped on it, and used her foot to guide the rag over the wet patch and dried it.
With the floor sparkling again, she left the kitchen, stating she wanted to rest and read a book. Adrian grabbed his coat and scarf and left. He had no desire to be surrounded by her poor mood for another hour or so.
On a previous walk, the first time he had been alone at the house, Adrian had been to the lake and discovered the remains of a jetty. He thought that might make a nice project just for him, perhaps he could fish or swim from it in better weather. It also got him out of the house. The past few days, as the house became more habitable he felt excluded.
Don’t sit on that sofa; this drawing room is for when we have guests he recalled Agnes saying. He was moved to his study. Please stick to just that one bathroom, it would be nice for guests to have their own she’d said when he wanted to spend some time in the morning with his daily ablutions and not have Agnes rushing him. Yes, the lake and the jetty would be just for him.
He reached the edge of the lake; it was quiet and calm, although the lake itself didn’t look in the best of health. He’d read an article about dangerous algae that had the potential to kill, perhaps he needed an expert involved. If Agnes could consult with sofa designers, he could at least have a knowledgeable gardener to help. He plonked himself down on one of the rotten wooden structures. It wobbled. Adrian stood and sat again, it moved lower. He could see the other end of the wooden arm protruding from the water where it hadn’t been before. He stood and studied the frame. To his delight he found it was hinged just at the water’s edge. He pushed hard and then did the same to the other. The other arm felt heavier and it seemed there was something attached. He would need some weights or rocks to hold down both arms so he could investigate, he had decided. He would ask Mack for help.
Adrian strolled back to the house, not realising he’d been gone for about an hour. Agnes was pacing the kitchen when he returned.
“Oh, my darling, I got ever so worried. I’m so sorry, I feel like I’m such a worrywart lately. I was terribly rude to you,” she gushed, rushing to him and gathering his lapels in her hands, scrunching them. Adrian placed his hands on hers.
“It’s okay, I was cross, of course. You know me, Agnes, I don’t like to be blamed for something I haven’t done, but it was just some water, so no need to worry any more. Let me tell you what I’ve found by lake.”
Both sat on the small chairs surrounding the Aga and bathed in its heat. Adrian told her about what appeared to be two arms, hinged, and that something large and heavy had to be attached to one. He was excited by the prospect of finding out and perhaps restoring it. Agnes was just pleased he had found something to be happy about. Of late, she had found him difficult to be around, depressed, and uninterested in her or the house. She knew he wasn’t as enamoured by the property as she was, but she’d hoped he would grow to love it. The idea of him actually being excited about the jetty could be just the thing to bring him around.
“Oh, do it, Adrian. How exciting! Think of lazy summer days with picnics and swimming, fishing even. You know you’ve always wanted to do that. You could get a boat, a little rowing boat. Take yourself out to the middle to write!”
Her excitement was infectious and both started to laugh. Perhaps Adrian’s doldrums was passed, finally.
Chapter Six
For the next few days, Adrian and Agnes moved from room to room, working in unison to decorate and place furniture at the precise angle required to meet the style measure Agnes lived by. Adrian often laughed and wondered out loud who these mysterious guests were who seemed to have rooms dressed specifically for them. Still, it was a pleasure to see Agnes so happy and secretly he wondered if she was getting the house ready in preparation for a child. There had been talk of one room kept aside as a nursery, but that room seemed to be at the bottom of the list for redecoration.
Before the worst of the winter set in, Adrian spent some time at the lake. He had amassed some large rocks that he’d wheelbarrowed to the wooden arms and eventually he had managed to raise one. What he saw had him frowning. It looked like part of a chair. He threw himself into raising the other.
By the time evening started to fall he had both arms raised and was certain it was a chair, a damaged and broken one, attached. It looked like the one chair had originally been attached to the two arms.
“Well, I never,” he’d exclaimed. He stood and stared at the chair and then laughed.
It had been said that wives, who were too quick with their tongue and answered back, had been strapped to a wooden chair and dunked in a pond as a form of punishment. Of course, that would have been back in the… Adrian wasn’t sure exactly when it would have been but was intrigued enough to make a plan to visit the local library the following day. He kept his discovery a secret. He’d planned to restore as much as he could and then, in humour, tell Agnes the story of the dunked outspoken wives. He was sure she would get the joke.
It was an evening out at the local pub for Adrian. He sat at the bar with Mack, who was fast becoming a good friend, and chatted.
“I found the most peculiar thing,” Adrian started, he then proceeded to tell Mack all about the arms and the chair.
He laughed as he sipped his pint and explained how he wanted to restore it. Mack offered to help. That was until a voice was heard from the corner of the room.
“Best left alone, that is.”
Adrian turned on his stool to see an elderly gentleman in the corner of the room. He sat huddled over as if his spine was curved. He was wrapped in a coat and heavy woollen scarf, with fingerless gloves on hands that held his pint surprisingly steady. He sat next to a roaring fire and Adrian was immediately concerned the old chap would overheat.
“I’m sorry?” Mack said, questioning the statement made.
“Best left alone.” The gentleman raised his pint glass to his mouth, froth caught on his upper lip and the hairs that had been left unshaven.
Mack and Adrian looked at each other; Adrian then picked up his pint glass and moved from his stool. At first Mack placed his hand on Adrian’s arm as if to stop him. However, it seemed that both men were curious as they left the bar and joined the elderly gentleman.
/> “Tell me, why do you think it’s best left?” Adrian asked as he sat.
The old man didn’t speak for a while, he did, however, look at his only third full glass. Mack understood the gesture and rose to buy another. It seemed the bribe of a pint of ale was enough to loosen the old man’s tongue.
“Witches were dunked at that lake,” he said before necking down the remains of his existing pint.
Adrian spluttered, and quickly dabbed his mouth with his handkerchief! “Witches?” he said.
The old man simply nodded. “Witches. Best left alone, that lake,” he reiterated.
Mack sighed and placed both palms on the table as if to push himself into a standing position. Adrian wanted to know a little more, though.
“Why do you think witches were dunked at that lake?” Adrian asked.
It took a moment for the old man to answer; in the meantime they sat in silence with just the crackle of logs to offer some sound.
“That house was owned by Agnes Sampson.”
Adrian’s eyes widened and Mack laughed. “Folklore, Adrian, that’s all.”
Adrian turned to Mack. “What do you know about this Agnes…Agnes…?” he asked, stuttering with shock.
Mack waved his hand around as if swatting an imaginary fly. “She was a midwife, or something like that,” he answered.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Adrian asked.
“I didn’t think it important,” Mack replied. The old man snorted.
Adrian wasn’t sure how to respond. Every fear and cold chill he’d felt in North Berwick House was remembered and re-felt. Every cat meow and bird squawk was resounding around his head. “My wife is called Agnes,” he whispered.
“I know.” The old man held Adrian’s gaze and for the first time he could see the steely blue of his eyes. “Look for the devil’s mark.”
“Ye talking rubbish, man,” Mack said, angrily. He turned to Adrian. “This is nonsense, utter nonsense, something old women tell their children to keep them away from danger.” Mack shook his head in disgust.
Adrian felt obliged to follow Mack back to the bar, but he couldn’t stop himself from looking over his shoulder. The old man’s gaze followed him. Mack mumbled under his breath.
“Pay no attention, Adrian.”
“Some strange things have happened at the house,” Adrian replied.
“It’s an old house, strange things are always going to happen. And they dunked wives not witches, those got burned.”
Mack chuckled and raised his pint to his lips. After a moment, Adrian chuckled along, not forgetting what the old man said, and with no intention of adhering to Mack’s suggestion of paying no attention. As an author by trade, the one thing Adrian was good at was research.
The following morning Adrian packed his notebooks and pens into his satchel and, after a brief kiss on Agnes’ cheek, he left for the library. He was sure they might have some information he could access. In the past he’d used microfilm to research articles in his local library so he was sure, something as significant as a witch or even the history of North Berwick House would be documented somewhere.
It was a short drive to the local library and he was dismayed to discover they had no microfilm, nor any newspapers that dated back beyond the past ten years. It seemed all were destroyed after a fire had ravaged the property. He was, however, directed to the main and much larger library in Edinburgh, which was a little over a one hour drive away. Adrian deliberated about whether to make the journey that day or not. He had told Agnes he’d only be gone an hour or so. However, he came to the conclusion there was no time like the present. Of course, the Jaguar relished the journey, having spent most of its life pottering around the village. Adrian was in his element, having put his foot on the accelerator and cruising down the open road at a speed that would have Agnes screaming. He felt quite manic and also liberated.
The journey was a pleasant one, finding somewhere suitable to leave the Jaguar near enough to the library wasn’t so. However, he did and a short walk later he found himself inside the impressive building. After a conversation with a rather charming young librarian, whereupon Adrian explained he was researching for his latest novel, he was shown to a desk with a microfilm reader. He was astonished to learn the library had newspaper articles going back as far as the eighteen hundreds. Research was something Adrian was great at and he started with the property name.
It wasn’t long before his desk was covered with newspapers and notes. Every now and again, Adrian sat upright to stretch his back and he sighed. His newly acquired home certainly had some history, but more importantly, it appeared North Berwick itself was rather famous.
Adrian had discovered that back in King James VI’s day, North Berwick had been the site of one of the countries largest witch-hunts. Somewhere between seventy and two hundred witches had been executed. That figure had astounded him. He was amazed there were that many residents back in the fifteen hundreds, let alone witches.
The sensible part of Adrian’s brain took the information on the witches with a pinch of salt; that was until he came across a name.
Agnes Sampson had been one of the last witches to be executed in North Berwick.
A cold sweat beaded on Adrian’s forehead and upper lip. He patted his jacket pocket for his handkerchief and mopped his brow. He picked up the mug of tea the kind librarian had made for him and noticed his hand shook.
He wrote the name and underlined it many times. The old man had been correct.
Agnes Sampson–Agnes was his wife’s name, and Sampson had been her maiden name.
Once again, the cat noise, the bird, the bones, the dunking chair, all flooded his head creating a scream of white noise, loud enough for him to cover his ears to no avail.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and he uncovered his ears.
“Are you okay?” he was asked. The kindly librarian sat beside him. “You look troubled.”
“I’m sorry, I discovered something odd, it did trouble me, but thank you for your concern.” Adrian didn’t really want to spend time chatting, he wanted, no, needed to, continue his research.
She smiled and, thankfully, left him to it. He sipped his cold tea and with shaking hands, wrote all the details he could find about the midwife accused as a witch. She met a gruesome end after King James VI believed her among the witches responsible for creating a shocking storm over the sea that meant he was unable to collect his new Danish wife, Anne of Denmark. He believed the witches to be intent on his downfall. Adrian could imagine the rage the King would have felt, but it seemed he was very much witch hungry. Who knew that, after such torture, the women didn’t confess to whatever was put to them to make it stop. He felt a pang of sadness for the women.
It also appeared the people of North Berwick were appalled at the manner in which James behaved. A memento was laid in the grounds of St. Andrew’s Kirk and he made a note to walk there when he returned to study it.
It was some time later that a cough interrupted his feverish scribblings. He looked up to see the librarian at her desk and pointing to the clock on the wall.
“Jesus,” Adrian muttered, realising the library was about to close. He hastily gathered his paperwork and shoved it all back in the satchel. He tidied up the piles of newspapers and hoped he’d be forgiven for not returning them from where they’d been found. He scuttled from the building and rushed to the car.
It was a shorter drive home, in the dark, because Adrian kept a rather fast pace up all the way. As he pulled onto the drive of his house, the front door was opened. Agnes ran down the steps and to the driver’s door. She wrenched it open.
“Adrian, are you okay? I’ve been worried out of my mind!” she scolded.
“I’m sorry, my darling. I completely lost track of time. I’ve been to Edinburgh, to the library and discovered some wonderful things for my new book,” he lied. She sighed, pleased just to have him home.
All through dinner Agnes talked about the house, nothing else. Adrian
didn’t mention either the comment from the old man or any of the articles he’d found. However, he did ask about her aunt.
“I don’t think you’ve ever really told me much about your aunt, Agnes…Agnes.” He laughed at the double use of the name.
“Haven’t I? How odd. She was my mother’s older sister. A little strange but I loved her immensely. And when my parents died, well, she was the only family I had left. We were very close.” Agnes sniffed as tears welled in her eyes.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” Adrian said, somewhat alarmed he had.
Agnes waved her hand and took in a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I’m being so silly. I just keep thinking that Aunt Agnes would love this house so much.”
Adrian nodded, sure that she would, but not liking the thought one bit.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have some more work to do.” He collected the dishes and left them by the sink for washing. He patted Agnes on the shoulder as he passed to head to his study.
For the next week Adrian holed himself up in his study or he visited the Edinburgh library. Agnes was pleased he had thrown himself back into his writing and wrote a letter on his behalf, and without his knowledge, to his publisher to tell them that.
Adrian became more and more convinced his wife might be a descendant of Agnes Sampson, and it wasn’t simply a coincidence they shared the same name. However, without letting on, he would only question gently about her family, most of whom he had no knowledge. He thought back to their wedding.
It was a very quiet affair with just a handful of friends, his parents, and Aunt Agnes, of course. He knew from very early on that Agnes’ parents had been killed in the war and she’d lived with her aunt, but he hadn’t expected them to be the only two remaining family members. He wondered why Agnes wasn’t as keen for a child, if only to keep her bloodline going, as he was considering that.
Also, the more the week wore on, the more strange he began to feel. He had never been a deceitful man but, in his mind, it was time to do some snooping. There was a reason Agnes was so keen for North Berwick House and he wanted to uncover the link.
