‘She’s gone,’ he said reassuringly and struggled to his feet. ‘Don’t worry, we can go home now.’
She shuffled wordlessly towards him trailing the coat through the mud and he gently picked her pressing his face into her cold hair.
‘Everything is fine,’ he promised. Paul stared across at Queenie who was being helped to her feet by Archie. Blood trickled down her cheek and a purple bruise had appeared on her forehead and her bloodstained eye was beginning to close. ‘Are you okay?’
She nodded slightly and clutched at Archie’s arm for support.
‘Is that it?’ he asked, glancing fearfully around the circle of stones. ‘Have they really gone?’
‘I damn well hope so,’ she replied wearily. ‘I’m not ready for round two.’
With one last look at the smouldering ash Paul walked over to join Queenie and Archie.
‘I’m sure they’re gone,’ he said. ‘I just hope they will find some peace now.’
Patricia, who had collapsed against one of the stones, stared angrily at him. ‘Why should they be at peace?’ she screamed. ‘They killed my daughter!’
‘And you were going to do the same to my daughter!’ he burst out.
‘No, no,’ she protested. ‘I wouldn’t have!’
He felt a touch on his arm; Queenie was slowly shaking her head at him. ‘Leave it, Paul,’ she said quietly. ‘She didn’t know what she was doing.’
‘I’m sorry Queenie, but that doesn’t make it any better,’ he replied angrily. ‘They were planning on killing my little girl so as far as I am concerned they deserved everything they got!’
‘It’s not up to us to judge them,’ Queenie said wearily and moved over to the stone where the poppet was still smouldering.
‘What shall we do with the doll?’ asked Archie, gently dabbing at the cut on her cut with a tissue.
‘Has it been completely destroyed?’ asked Queenie, trying to see the poppet through her swollen eye.
‘No. It’s still burning.’
‘Let it burn, then we can scatter the ashes.’
They stood guard over the poppet as it burnt for a further ten minutes, its wooden body slowly crumbling as the flames crackled around the dry wood. Queenie repressed a shudder as the blank eyes stared at her for one last time until the head was consumed by the fire.
‘It’s gone,’ she said thankfully, staring at the pile of ash, ‘and all it stood for.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Paul.
They fell silent and in the distance they could hear the faint sound of sirens drawing closer.
The three police cars, sirens silent, waited on the grass verge as Patricia was led away. She gazed blankly ahead as two officers helped her into the back seat of the patrol car.
‘What will happen to her?’ asked Paul.
‘She’ll be taken back to the station, but not for long. I’m sure they will transfer her to a psychiatric unit,’ muttered Queenie. She nodded at the officer who handed her a blanket then moved briskly towards Victoria’s car. ‘Shall we go?’
‘If you don’t mind waiting Madam, we have a few more questions.’
‘Later young man, we are all freezing, wet and muddy.’
‘I understand that but...’
‘You know where to find us.’
‘Yes, but,’ the officer said quickly, ‘we need to ask a few more questions.’
‘This child needs to get home,’ she replied sternly, giving him one of her cold stares. ‘Your questions can wait.’
The journey home was a sober one.
Archie pulled out slowly into the line of traffic closely followed by the two remaining patrol cars. The car containing Patricia had already sped off back to the town.
‘What are we going to tell them?’ he asked Queenie in an undertone.
She yawned and rubbed her sore forehead. ‘Nothing.’
‘But how are we going to explain all of this?’
‘Even if Patricia does start blabbing about witches and sacrifices they won’t believe her.’
‘That’s true,’ added Paul quietly, from the back seat. He had his arm around Eva who had dropped into a fitful doze. ‘The Doctor will confirm that she has been under a lot of emotional stress since Emma’s death so they won’t take any notice of wild stories about witchcraft.’
Archie nodded. ‘I guess so.’
‘So all we have to do is to say that she stole your car and took Eva in a moment of madness and we followed her here,’ said Queenie. ‘Anything else we will deny.’
Archie slowed as they drew near to Paul’s Land Rover which was still nose first in the ditch. A police car, its blue lights flashing, had pulled in behind it; a solitary officer was pacing around the abandoned vehicle.
‘Damn,’ said Paul feelingly. ‘I suppose I will have to arrange for a recovery vehicle for that.’
‘Better wait and see what the police say, it might be evidence or something,’ muttered Queenie.
‘What, my car?’
‘Yes, Patricia used it to kidnap a child.’
He sighed. ‘I wonder what will happen to her?’
‘She’s going to need a lot of psychiatric help.’
He tightened his grip on his daughter and looked down at her sleeping face. ‘I wonder what effect this will have on Eva?’
‘Children are fairly resilient,’ said Queenie. ‘She might have forgotten all about it in a few weeks.’
Archie, his eyes fixed on the busy road, shook his head in disbelief. ‘Nobody will be able to forget the sight of those women burning.’ He looked across at the women slumped in the seat next to him. She was staring blindly out of the window.
‘No.’
She jumped as a hand suddenly gripped her shoulder. ‘Don’t you dare feel guilty, Queenie!’ said Paul firmly. ‘There wasn’t anything else you could have done. She would have killed Eva and then us. If you hadn’t stopped her she would have been free to wreak havoc in this world.’
Queenie nodded. ‘I know, but it doesn’t make me feel any better about having to do that.’
Archie cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Paul, how did you know about her daughter?’
‘Oh that,’ he replied. ‘That’s what I was doing while I was at home. I searched through all the local records and found entries for the marriage and a christening for a baby girl called Margaret at the Holy Trinity church. Saw the name for Spicer’s wife, Hepzibah, and realised it was the fourth name in the witch’s book.
‘Clever you,’ murmured Queenie.
‘Thanks,’ he said, looking in concern at the muddy and exhausted woman. ‘You look as though you could do with a stiff drink.’
‘A double whiskey,’ she murmured, sitting back and closing her eyes. ‘Or maybe a triple.’
Chapter NINE
‘Well,’ said Sybil coming into the front room. She wiped her hands on a towel and gazed across at her sister who half asleep in front of the fire. ‘I have done what I can but those mud stains won’t come out.’
‘Let them soak.’
‘They have been soaking,’ pointed out Sybil. ‘All night. Your clothes are ruined. Still never mind,’ she half smiled and looked sideways at her sister. ‘We could go shopping and buy you a whole new wardrobe. I’m sure Archie would appreciate a new look.’
‘Huh!’ she snorted, stretching out her slippered feet to the fire. ‘He didn’t appreciate the old one! We haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since yesterday. He didn’t even want to come into the vicarage for a drink when we got back!’
‘He was probably feeling a bit shell shocked,’ observed Sybil, moving to the chair opposite her sister.
‘Weren’t we all,’ said Queenie bitterly. Her eye was still bruised and swollen and she touched it gingerly.
‘Still painful?’
‘Yes.’ She glared at her out of the one good eye. ‘Why don’t you go and make your poor old sister a cup of tea?’
‘Of course,’ Sybil said and stood. She paused,
one hand on the back of the chair and smiled at her sister. ‘Just give him a chance Queenie.’
‘Chance for what?’
‘To get used to the idea of you being a witch and everything that comes with it.’
‘If he can’t cope then he had better stay away!’ she answered pettishly and stared into the flames refusing to meet her sister’s gaze. She heard the door close quietly and rested her head against the side of the armchair then angrily wiped away the small tear that trickled down her cheek. ‘Damn, she muttered drearily.
A shadow crossed the window followed by a gentle tap on the front door.
‘Sybil,’ she shouted. ‘There’s somebody at the door!’ An indistinct mumble came from the end of the hall. ‘Sybil?’ Grumbling she threw aside the newspaper and kicked off the rug covering her knees and stamped out into the hall. A dark silhouette stood on the other side of the glass panel and she frowned trying to ignore the fluttering in her chest. She slowly opened the door.
Archie stood on the doorstep sheepishly clutching a bunch of cellophane wrapped red roses.
‘Hello, Queenie.’
Chapter Ten
June 1630 -The New World
The patched and torn sails billowed before the stiffening breeze driving them towards the dark smudge on the horizon. It had been a long and arduous voyage, battling against the worst storms that the Captain could remember and unusually for him, a veteran of many sea voyages, he was glad to see land in the distance.
‘Not long now,’ announced Captain Squibb. He glanced sideways at the man who had appeared at his side.
He too was gazing eagerly towards the approaching land. ‘God be praised,’ he said thankfully and looked around as the other passengers crowded forward across the wet deck to stare out over the grey sea.
‘And your plans sir?’ asked Squibb. ‘Where are you and your family bound once on land?’ He glanced at the silent figure clinging to the man’s arm and the young child huddled beneath the woman’s thick woollen cloak. The child’s eyes were fixed on the Captain’s face as he spoke and he gave her an uncertain smile, the cool unnerving stare reminding him uncomfortably of the mother.
‘We plan to join my brother and his family,’ he replied. ‘He has a small farm and we will board with him in return for labour, until I find a parcel of land.’
‘There is good fertile land at the head of the river,’ suggested the Captain. He nodded towards the other passengers crowding the decks. ‘That’s where they are bound.’
‘Not for us, Captain,’ replied Spicer. ‘We are going further inland.’
‘Cape Ann perhaps?’ asked Squibb.
‘No Sir. We are bound for Salem.’
In the hot dry summer of 1613 a fire swept through the county town of Dorchester, Dorset. It started in the workshop of the local candle maker and soon spread through the surrounding wood and thatch buildings, fanned by a strong easterly wind. Over half the town was destroyed including two churches, All Saints and Holy Trinity.
Despite the awful destruction there was only one fatality, a Cecily Bingham, the shoemaker’s wife killed while trying to save her husband’s stock.
There were reports written at the time of a hare bounding up through the High Street just hours before the fire started , this strange spectacle was taken as a sign of bad luck.
The ‘Great Fire’ as it came to be known, was seen as God’s judgement on the ungodly ways of the town and was seized on as an excuse by the foremost merchants and councillors to start a crackdown on the drunkards, fornicators and Sabbath breakers of Dorchester.
It was led by the Reverend John White, the Puritan Rector of Holy Trinity, 1606-1648. However their control of the town was not without opposition but protests were soon swept aside.
White saw it as an opportunity to create a new social order, a godly community where power would be exercised by those of religious commitment rather than those of wealth and rank. Its main purpose White believed would be to provide the moral and religious training of the poorer classes.
Known for his philanthropic activities in the town White organised the fund raising to enable the reconstruction of the town and job re creation for the poor and homeless. A school, almshouses and workhouses soon followed.
“All able poor were set to work and the important maintained by the profit of the public brew house, thus knowledge causes piety, piety breeding industry, procuring plenty into it. A beggar was not to be seen in the town.”
The result of this was that Dorchester became one of the most Puritan towns in England at that time and was at the centre of the Puritan emigration to America.
As well as all his charitable works, White was also the founder of ‘The Dorchester Company’ (later absorbed by the Massachusetts Company) in association with Sir Walter Erle and a group of Dorchester merchants.
Having a long held ambition to establish a permanent colony for the religiously oppressed Puritans in the New World he became involved with the group that sailed on the Mayflower. A small trading post was established in 1623 at Cape Ann, organised and financed by White.
Another fleet of ships was organised to set sail in 1630, the first, the Mary and John left in March. This ship carried people from Dorset, Somerset and Devon, all personally recruited by White.
It seems likely that most of the settlers would have embarked at Weymouth, accompanied by White for the short journey down the coast to Plymouth where they picked up the remaining west country emigrants. He attended and spoke at the last service at St Thomas’s before their departure.
Following instructions from Rev. White, Captain. Thomas Squibb, from Plymouth, did not land the 140 pilgrims at Salem instead bypassed it and sailed them into the Charles River and on June 1630 they landed and founded the settlement which was to become Dorchester, Massachusetts.
Other books by Elizabeth Andrews
Illustrated
Faeries and Folklore of the British Isles
Faerie Flora
Fiction
The Psychic Sisters series:
The Lavender Witch
The Cunning Man
The Haunting of Stoke Water
Children’s Illustrated
The Faeries Tea Party
The Mice of Horsehill Farm series:
Teasel’s Present
The Great Storm
The Whale’s Tooth
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The trees spread out their wintery branches protectively enclosing the stone circle as once again silence returned to the sacred site. Nothing remained of recent events apart from the footprints in the muddy ground and a crumpled tissue lying at the base of one of the stones.
A solitary bird crouched on a bare branch above and stared unblinking at the bright red blood stain and with a harsh croak fluttered down to land on the rough sandstone. Head on one side it examined the tissue closely before hopping down and picking it up.
Carrying it carefully in its beak, it fluttered across to the now cold pile of ash in the centre of the circle and began methodically poking it deep within the fine dust.
Above the tiny copse birds began to gather and one by one they came down to rest in the trees, watching with inquisitive eyes as the bloodied tissue was slowly drawn deep within the pile.
Elizabeth Andrews is a fae artist and author living among the green hills and
valleys of the West Country and is known for her love and knowledge of
the country’s folklore.
It is from this amazing world of mythology that she draws her inspiration
for her novels.
The Doll Page 23
