This one told the story of the events leading up to the trial at Lancaster Assizes in 1612 of twenty people, most of them women, over half from Pendle, who had stood accused of witchcraft. Most were found guilty and hanged. The Wonderful Discovery of Witches had been written to glorify mass murder, as far as I was concerned.
‘There is no such thing as witchcraft,’ I said. ‘Not now, not then. What was behind it really?’
‘Mainly, I’d say, it was about poverty,’ Mrs Reece said. ‘In those times, women with no property and no man to take care of them found it almost impossible to make a living. Very few jobs were open to them, and even begging was illegal much of the time.’
That, at least, made some sense. ‘So it was just about making a living?’
‘A lot of people would consider the Pendle witches con-artists,’ she said. ‘They fooled their communities into believing they could perform spells, heal the sick, help the crops, that sort of thing. Mother Demdike, the most famous of them, was known as a “blesser”. Farmers would pay her to “bless” the crops, or a sick animal. Sometimes a sick person. She’d turn up, mutter a few prayers, maybe leave behind some herbs and she and her family would eat that night.’
‘But when it went wrong, when the sick person died, they were blamed?’ I asked.
‘In many ways, they were their own worst enemies,’ Mrs Reece said. ‘They let people believe they had powers that could harm as well as help. Demdike had this habit of telling people who’d crossed her that she would pray for them. “I will pray for you long and still,” she’d say. And then she’d stand like a statue and mutter to herself. Not surprisingly people thought they were being cursed.’
I will pray for you long and still. It was a bit creepy. ‘But were they?’ I said. ‘Were they actually witches, do you think?’
‘Almost certainly,’ said Mrs Reece. ‘But guilty of the charge for which they were hanged, that of murder by witchcraft? That’s another question entirely.’
‘It’s absurd,’ I said. ‘They couldn’t possibly have had that sort of power. Nobody does.’
‘Very few,’ she said.
I’d had enough. I picked up the King James book and carried it back to the shelf. ‘I don’t believe King James believed in witchcraft,’ I said. ‘I don’t believe any of them did. These women were terrified and they were tortured. Even hundreds of years ago, I don’t believe people were so stupid as to think confessions under torture had any validity.’
Mrs Reece got to her feet too, and seemed to lean a little closer, although she was already very near to me. ‘Something has frightened you,’ she said. ‘What?’
‘I’m glad we live in more enlightened times.’ I reached for my bag. Coming here had been a waste of time. There was something in the air in the library, an odd sort of smell, stuffy and herbal at the same time, that was making my head ache and dulling my concentration. I couldn’t even properly remember what I was doing here. ‘No more misogynistic vendettas, no more witch hunts, no more witches.’
I tried to walk away and found myself held by Mrs Reece’s intense stare.
‘Oh, my dear,’ she said. ‘There will always be witch hunts. I rather think you’re on one yourself right now.’
I found her self-assurance a little annoying. ‘I don’t believe in witches,’ I said.
She gave an odd, tight-lipped smile. ‘The last witchcraft act was repealed in 1951. What a complete waste of parliamentary time, if there are no witches.’
I opened my mouth to say something, I’m not sure what, and found myself gaping at her, drawn in by those glittering grey eyes. I was actually finding it hard to blink.
And then she smiled, showing big yellow teeth. ‘Don’t look so worried, dear. We don’t turn people into toads any more.’
She stepped away and the atmosphere seemed to lighten, as though someone had opened a door and a rush of sweet-smelling air had swept in. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ she asked. ‘It’s getting a little close to the time when we close for lunch.’
That’s why I’d come. ‘I’m a police officer.’ I watched her eyebrows twitch as she read my warrant card.
‘How very nice to meet you, WPC Lovelady.’
‘I’m investigating a case. A case that might have links to witchcraft. It’s possible you can help me.’
‘Is it something to do with the child murders?’
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘It’s all people are talking about. Poor Patsy was found in a graveyard, and people invariably, and wrongly, make the link between unorthodox graveyard activity and witchcraft.’
‘Mrs Reece, I’d like to show you something. I would really appreciate it remaining confidential.’
‘Of course.’
From my bag I pulled out a Polaroid photograph of the clay effigy. She hooked her reading glasses onto her nose and stared at it.
‘Good Lord,’ she said, as her eyes darted up towards mine. ‘Where did you come across this?’
‘I can’t say, I’m afraid. I’m sorry. Can you tell me anything?’
She was staring down at the Polaroid again. ‘It’s a clay picture.’
‘A what?’
‘You would probably call it an “effigy” these days, but “picture” is what it was called in the old days. The Lancashire witches were accused of making pictures of their enemies.’ She frowned and bent closer to the photograph. ‘What’s piercing the figure? Those don’t look like pins.’
‘Thin slivers of wood,’ I said.
Her head bounced slowly. ‘Blackthorn,’ she said. ‘Long associated with witchcraft. Witches’ wands and staffs were supposedly made from blackthorn wood.’ She looked at me. ‘Is this supposed to be Patsy?’
I said nothing.
‘You can’t tell me – I understand,’ she said. ‘Do you know what, I think I’ve seen this before. Bear with me.’
She crossed the room, bent down in front of another drawer, pulled out a book with a battered brown leather cover and flicked through it.
‘I knew it,’ she said, putting it in front of me. ‘It’s a copy of the Louvre Doll.’
I sat back down and looked. The black-and-white photograph was almost exactly the same as the one I’d brought in myself. It showed a clay effigy of a female, hands and feet bound, thirteen pins or sharp twigs piercing her body. It was far, far too similar to be coincidence.
I stood up. ‘Mrs Reece, I need you to put that book down on the table. Stop touching it, please.’
Frowning, she did as she was told.
‘We’re going to leave the room now, and then I’m going to ask you to stand outside the door while I borrow your phone to call the station,’ I said.
She looked bewildered, even a little frightened. ‘What on earth …?’
‘You may have to close the reference library for a couple of hours,’ I told her. ‘That book, in fact the whole room, will need to be fingerprinted.’
‘Nice work, Flossie,’ said Green, an hour later.
The reference library was closed temporarily, and the fingerprints team was dusting everything down. Mrs Reece was peering through the glass partition, rapping on it every time they went near a book she considered valuable.
DI Sharples, DS Green, Tom and I were seated at one of the heavy oak tables.
‘Now, what can you tell us about the Loo Doll?’ Sharples said.
‘The Louvre Doll,’ I said. ‘After the museum in Paris where it’s housed.’
The book was in the process of being printed, bagged and taken away, but we had Polaroids of the page in question, and I’d made notes.
‘It’s an artefact from fourth-century Egypt,’ I said. ‘A clay figure, impaled with thirteen bronze needles. It was found in a terracotta vase alongside a lead curse tablet engraved with a binding spell.’
‘What’s a binding spell?’ asked Tom.
‘It’s a type of curse in which someone asks the gods to do harm to someone else. This is a really creepy one, thou
gh. I’ve written it down,’ I said. ‘Shall I?’
‘Go on,’ said Sharples.
My handwriting was rushed and I had to concentrate. ‘Lead Ptolemais, whom Aias bore, the daughter of Horigenes, to me,’ I read. ‘Prevent her from eating and drinking until she comes to me, Sarapammon, whom Area bore, and do not allow her to have experience with another man, except me alone. Drag her by her hair, by her guts, until she does not stand aloof from me … and until I hold her obedient for the whole time of my life, loving me, desiring me, and telling me what she is thinking.’
‘That’s a love spell.’ A hint of a grin was breaking out on Tom’s face. ‘He wants her to be his bird.’
‘Do you think so?’ I said. ‘I think he wants her to be his slave.’
32
‘I tell you what puzzles me, Mrs Reece, about this, er’ – Detective Sergeant Brown glanced down – ‘this Louvre Doll.’ He pronounced it ‘Loo-ver’. ‘There must be, how many books in Sabden Public Library? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand?’
He glanced at Randy, sitting at his side, who shrugged.
‘Thirty-six thousand five hundred and forty-two,’ said Mrs Reece, who we’d learned was called Daphne, and I couldn’t help feeling it was a figure she’d plucked out of the air that second.
Brown inclined his head. ‘And have you read them all?’ he asked.
‘Don’t be a simpleton.’
At my side, Tom sniggered and Sharples glared. The two-way mirror we were standing behind wasn’t soundproof. There were signs all over the tiny room warning us to keep quiet during interviews.
‘And yet within seconds of WPC Lovelady showing you a Polaroid of a similar figure, you find the exact book with this photograph in it.’
‘I’m very familiar with those books in the occult section,’ Daphne said. ‘The Louvre Doll is quite striking. Few would forget it, having seen it once.’
‘Do you know much about its history?’
‘Only what it says in the book.’
‘Mrs Reece,’ said Randy, ‘would you happen to know who might have looked at that book in the last few months?’
Daphne pulled a regretful face. ‘One of our staff members keeps a record of all books taken out of the library,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t trust the ticketing system. She tries to keep on top of activity in the reference library too, but she can’t always leave the front desk. I’ve already checked. There’s no record of anyone consulting that book in the last three years. Not before today.’
‘And the original doll was found with some sort of spell, I understand,’ said Brown.
‘Yes, a love spell.’
Tom nudged me. When I looked at him, he was making a ‘told you so’ face. I glared back.
‘So how does it work?’ Brown said.
‘Love spells are very old magic,’ Daphne said. She looked up at the mirror and I had a feeling she knew we were behind it. ‘The figure will have been formed to closely resemble the subject. The closer the resemblance, the more powerful the magic. And it should contain something very personal.’
‘What kind of personal?’ Randy asked.
‘Something from her body. Hair or fingernails are good. Blood, teeth or bone are more powerful but harder to come by. Clothing or a personal possession would be better than nothing. Whatever it is, that essence of the person must be incorporated into the figure.’ She glanced up at the mirror again. ‘If the effigy you found is anything to do with that poor child, there will be a physical trace of her in its make-up.’
All three of us in the back room looked at each other. Patsy’s tooth.
‘The spell, the wording on the tablet in the case of the Louvre Doll, says what you want to happen.’ Daphne was on a roll now. ‘You have to be very clear in magic. The last thing you want is for the energy to become confused and head off in the wrong direction.’
She finished. Brown and Randy both waited.
‘That’s it?’ Brown said, after a moment.
‘No, there will need to be a casting of the spell, to tie it all together.’
‘How is that done?’ asked Randy.
‘There are various ways. I have no idea what this man in fourth-century Egypt did.’
‘WPC Lovelady has a theory about you, Mrs Reece,’ said Brown. ‘It’s a bit daft, but she’s a young lass. She thinks you might be something of a witch yourself.’
Daphne’s eyes flashed. ‘She’s a very smart young woman.’
Brown and Randy shared a look.
‘You admit to being a witch?’ Brown said.
‘I’m proud of being a witch.’
Another look between the men. A heavy sigh from Daphne. Also, I think, her eyes met mine through the mirror.
‘Have you ever done a love spell?’ Randy asked.
Daphne found something to interest her on one of her bright red fingernails. ‘Certainly not,’ she said. ‘I find the idea of forced affection abhorrent. I have nothing to do with dark magic.’
‘And what do you do, exactly, when you’re being a witch?’ said Brown. ‘If not love spells, what?’
‘Our rites are private. I can’t discuss them with just anyone.’
‘I’m not just anyone, Mrs Reece,’ said Brown. ‘I’m a detective sergeant conducting a murder investigation.’
‘And I am not under arrest.’ She folded her arms and let them rest on the tabletop. I had to hand it to her: Daphne Reece was as cool as a Fox’s Glacier Mint.
Brown said, ‘You said “our” rites. So there are more of you? More witches?’
‘Yes, a full coven.’
Encouraged, Brown leaned forward. ‘And how many in a coven?’
‘Thirteen is usual, although some work with a smaller number.’
‘And, if I may ask, what does a coven do?’
Daphne gave a big smile and I thought I saw both men recoil a little at the sight of her teeth. ‘It’s a forum for shared experiences and mutual encouragement,’ she said. ‘We are a group of like-minded people, mainly women, who believe in the power of working together for the common good.’
‘Thank goodness for that. I don’t know about you, Randy, but I thought Mrs Reece was going to claim to perform magic.’
‘Oh, we do that as well. Is it something you’re interested in, Detective Sergeant Brown? Our coven is full at the moment, but we could think about a waiting—’
This time, Tom’s snort must have been heard at the end of the corridor. Sharples glared round at us. I had to bite my bottom lip.
Brown picked up his pen. ‘Can you give me their names, please?’
A slow but firm shake of her head. ‘Not without their permission.’
Poor Woodsmoke.
‘Mrs Reece, where were you on the evening of Sunday, 15 June?’
She didn’t even think about it. ‘Rehearsing.’
‘Rehearsing what?’
‘Macbeth.’
No, she was going too far this time. I looked at Tom but got a blank stare in return.
‘I’m sorry, what?’ said Brown.
‘Shakespeare,’ she said. ‘One of the tragedies. Not his best, in my view, but I don’t get to choose the play. Of course, a lot of the cast won’t even say the word “Macbeth”, calling it “the Scottish Play” instead, but I’ve always considered that a load of superstitious nonsense.’
Brown ran a hand through his hair. ‘Are we talking about amateur dramatics?’
‘Of course. Sabden Library Players’ autumn production. We’ve been rehearsing since the end of May. Opening night is on Friday, 31 October and it runs for three nights.’
‘She’s having us on,’ I whispered. Tom shushed me.
‘I’m playing Duncan,’ Daphne went on. ‘We’re short of men. And to save time, because if you don’t mind my saying so, Detective Sergeant, you don’t seem quite on the ball, we meet at seven and rehearse until nine. After that, we go to the Eagle and Child on Snape Street. That night, I got home at eleven, dropped off by another player, and went straight
to bed. Not alone. All told, I can probably give you around a dozen alibis.’
‘Thank you,’ said Brown weakly. ‘What about Wednesday, 16 April?’
‘The day Stephen Shorrock disappeared? Don’t look so excited – I’ve been following the case. I was out of the country. The Swiss Alps, to be precise, on a walking holiday with the North of England Library Ramblers Association. I got back on Sunday of that week.’
‘Monday, 17 March?’ Brown sounded resigned. ‘When Susan Duxbury was last seen?’
‘Can’t say for sure, but I usually spend Monday evenings with friends.’
‘The coven?’ Brown asked, in a last-ditch attempt.
‘Only on a full moon,’ said Daphne.
33
Terry Parker was released the next day, Friday. We had no reason to hold him and in spite of his reluctance to be let out into the world again, we returned his belongings and sent him on his way. I went back to the public library and, with Daphne’s help, found and checked out every available book on the occult, folklore and witchcraft. I was to have very interesting dreams in the coming days.
Detective Sergeant Brown went to see Patsy’s dentist, who told him that while Patsy had visited him recently, she hadn’t had an extraction in over a year.
‘Some families deal with dental problems themselves, though,’ Brown told us when he got back. ‘Piece of cotton thread round the tooth, the other end round the handle on an open door. Slam the door shut and Bob’s your uncle. We can’t assume Patsy’s missing tooth was pulled out by her killer. Unless it does turn out to be her tooth in that voodoo doll thing. Then we probably can assume it. What a bloody mess.’ Shaking his head, Woodsmoke left the room. I saw him a few minutes later, in the car park, smoking, staring down at the Tarmac.
Once again, I told Sharples we should be visiting schools and warning children to take care. Once again, I was told to shut it and get on with my work.
That same day, while the senior staff and detectives began the process of re-interviewing all known offenders in town, the more junior among us started our systematic search of the town’s churchyards. We were looking for graves, particularly the more recent ones, that might have been interfered with. Most of us weren’t in uniform, and we travelled on bikes or unmarked cars, to keep a low profile. We kept our enquiries discreet, asking about vandalism, trespass late at night, problems with wildlife, but on my last stop of the day, a man in cream trousers and a sports jacket approached as I left the churchyard.
The Craftsman Page 14
