Gallows at Twilight

by William Hussey

  ‘If you will, Sir Daniel,’ Earl Richard said, his voice muffled.

  Acting as clerk, the magistrate addressed Jake:

  ‘You are charged, Mr Hobarron, with performing acts of conjuration and witchcraft contrary to the Witchcraft Act of 1604. How do you plead?’

  ‘Not guilty.’

  ‘Very well,’ the Earl sighed. ‘In that case, I call upon Master Matthew Hopkins to present his evidence.’

  Hopkins made a deep bow to the judges and the jurors, his nose almost sweeping the floor.

  ‘My lord, venerable magistrates, good people of Cravenmouth—I tell you now, the Signs are everywhere! In the stars, in the seas, in the great turmoil of the Age. This wicked world is coming to its END!’

  A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd. Emboldened, Hopkins stepped towards his audience, hands outstretched.

  ‘But does that mean we lay down our arms and wait for the End of Days? No! We must fight to prove that we are worthy of our place in heaven! Good people, I know that you, like all true Protestants, have been fearless in your crusade against the enemies of God. You have smashed the gaudy windows in your church and broken the idols of the old religion!’

  Rapturous roars and shrieks greeted these words. Jake saw the joy in the faces of the people and felt his heart sink. Hopkins, that master manipulator, had them eating out of his hand.

  ‘But I tell you this,’ the Witchfinder continued, ‘you have but scratched the surface of the Evil that plagues this land. I name this Evil—Witchcraft!’

  The crowd fell to murmuring. Hopkins’s eyes blazed and he spun round and pointed at Jake.

  ‘Here is a practitioner of the craft! Here is the Devil’s true Disciple! In the Book of Revelation it tells us that such sorcerers must be thrown into the fiery lake. My friends, it is our duty to hasten this foul creature to those infernal shores!’

  Hopkins’s theatrics had the room enthralled, but he had not captured everyone’s imagination. The Noakes brothers gave dry little coughs and said together:

  ‘You are not in the pulpit, Mr Hopkins. Please present your evidence.’

  ‘Gladly, sirs,’ Hopkins said, and bowed again. ‘I call my first witnesses: Mary Dower, the butcher’s wife; and Geoffrey and Caleb Gidd, bakers.’

  Mrs Dower and the Gidds gave their evidence. Jake could not fault the beginning of their story. Some weeks ago, this strange man—a boy, really—had appeared in the square, exploding from thin air in a ball of flame. As the testimony went on, however, Hopkins began to pepper the tale with his own additions.

  ‘And is it not true, Mother Dower, that a few days before this witch’s arrival a strange light was seen in the sky?’

  ‘Aye,’ Mary Dower frowned. ‘Now that you mention it, I do recall a light.’

  ‘A comet, was it not, blazing across the heavens?’

  ‘It was! I saw it! A great ball of flame in the sky!’

  Hopkins turned to the bench. ‘Others have reported seeing this phenomenon, my lord. The comet was a dark herald. An omen of the witch.’

  He moved on to the bakers, starting with the father.

  ‘Mr Gidd, is it not true that, on the morning of the witch’s appearance, the first batch of bread you baked came out of the oven and was full of blood?’

  ‘I-I cannot be sure.’

  ‘But you have testified this story to Sergeant Monks. At the peril of your immortal soul, tell me, did not the bread bleed when you pricked it?’

  ‘It is so!’ the old man said, tears in his eyes. ‘Yes, I swear it!’

  ‘And you, Gidd the Younger—did you see this omen too?’

  ‘Aye,’ Caleb Gidd murmured, less certain than his father. ‘As you say.’

  The witnesses were thanked and dismissed.

  ‘Now I will set aside Signs and Omens,’ Hopkins said, ‘and come to the evidence of my own eyes.’

  With Monks backing him up, Hopkins told the court that they had searched the suspect for witch marks and had discovered two places insensible to pain just below Jake’s shoulders. He then went on to describe how, over the course of six days, Monks and Utterson had watched Jake to see if his demonic familiars would appear.

  ‘And did such creatures come to him?’ Hopkins asked.

  ‘Aye, sir, they did,’ Monks affirmed. ‘A great black rat and a loathsome spider. He named the rat Mr Smythe and the spider Miss Creekley.’

  Jake realized what must have happened. Barely conscious during his torture, he had probably seen these creatures—one of the thousands of rats that plagued the keep and a stray house spider—and associated them with the demons of Sidney Tinsmouth and Mother Inglethorpe. In his delirium he had most likely called out those names. But how could he explain such a thing to the court?

  ‘And did you not see this Mr Smythe and Miss Creekley suck blood from the suspect’s body?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’

  ‘The accused will hold his tongue!’ Earl Richard commanded. ‘You will have your chance to speak later.’

  Hopkins turned to the bench.

  ‘My lord, if I might now sum up the evidence?’ He counted off the points on his fingers. ‘We have the testimonies of several witnesses, each of whom saw the magical arrival of the suspect. My assistants and I have told you of the marks below his shoulders and of seeing demon familiars attend the witch. And you yourself, my lord, saw how the waters of God rejected his evil body.’

  The Witchfinder swept every face in the hall. He looked to the windows where the crowd outside pressed against the glass, desperate to hear his words.

  ‘ “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.” So said the Lord, our God.’

  He turned to the vicar of Cravenmouth, who had been twisting his hands together in anguish.

  ‘Is that not so, Mr Lanyon?’

  ‘It … I … ’ Lanyon’s gaze flitted between Hopkins and Jake. ‘The Bible tells us that mercy—’

  ‘Mercy for witches, sir?’

  Inside and out, the people roared their disapproval. Jake could almost feel the heat of their fury as it switched from him to Lanyon. The vicar wilted before his eyes.

  ‘Does not the Bible say that witches must be rooted out and destroyed?’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ Jake said.

  ‘Shut your mouth, witch!’ Hopkins snapped. ‘Mr Lanyon, I asked you a question, sir! If this wretch is found guilty should he not hang for his crime? More! Should not he be torn to pieces and his head mounted on a pike as an example to all other foul sorcerers?’

  Jake looked to the bench. While the magistrate brothers shuffled uncomfortably in their chairs and twittered about procedure, the Earl merely raised his eyebrows and waited for Lanyon’s response. It was as if Hopkins had worked his own dark magic on the man. And he was not the only target of Hopkins’s spell. The people of the town were now baying at their vicar like a pack of rabid wolves.

  ‘YOU WILL SPEAK, SIR!’ Hopkins roared.

  Jake felt the Khepra Beetle stir. Its pincers slipped smoothly out of his brain and it began to scuttle around to the front of his head. Jake remembered Dr Holmwood’s words: As long as you’re alive, as long as it doesn’t sense that you’re in mortal danger, the beetle will remain inside your head. It’s your only way back … The beetle had felt danger before and loosened its grip. Now it sensed that Jake’s time was up.

  ‘I believe that witches are evil,’ Lanyon muttered, head down.

  ‘We cannot hear you,’ Hopkins hollered. ‘Speak with conviction!’

  ‘I-I believe all … all magic is the work of devils.’

  Jake grimaced. Little stabs of pain accompanied the beetle along his optic nerve and to the back of his eyes.

  ‘Witches are the enemies of God,’ Lanyon said, his face etched with misery.

  ‘And they must be wiped from the face of the Earth?’ Hopkins prompted.

  ‘Yes!’

  The Witchfinder pointed a trembling finger at Jake.

  ‘And th
is creature you see before you. If the jurors find him guilty of witchcraft should he not be hanged?’

  ‘Yes,’ more quietly now. ‘Yes, he must be … ’

  Jake screamed.

  In his surprise, Hopkins staggered back and grabbed hold of Monks for support. The entire hall watched aghast as blood exploded from Jake’s nose. The red spray showered the floor and several people fainted. Those that remained conscious fell to praying and wailing.

  Hopkins was the first to recover his nerve.

  ‘Have no fear! We are in the sight of God! The witch cannot harm us!’

  Monks gibbered and clutched at Hopkins’s arm.

  ‘What is it, man?’

  ‘His nose!’ the sergeant bleated. ‘In God’s name, what is coming out of his nose?’

  Jake’s left nostril bulged. It had been just over a week since Monks had broken his nose with the rifle butt and it had never been reset. Now the bone cracked again as the beetle worked itself free. Blades of pain rocketed through Jake’s face. He fell screaming to his knees.

  The hall was in uproar. Someone had opened the doors into the square and, while half the chamber ran for the exit, the crowd outside pressed to get in. The shaken voice of Earl Richard called for order, but no one was paying any attention. People called out in pain and, over the commotion, Jake could hear the snap of arms and legs being trampled underfoot. Babies cried and children shrieked for their parents.

  Two black feelers tickled inside Jake’s nose. A second later, they were tasting the air. Wet with blood, the head and body of the beetle followed. The insect clicked its pincers and dropped to the ground. It had begun to scuttle away when a heavy black boot descended.

  ‘NO!’ Jake cried.

  He heard the crack of the beetle’s body and looked up into the face of Matthew Hopkins. The Witchfinder lifted his foot. All that remained of the Khepra Beetle was a few shards of dusty old soapstone. In death, it had reverted back to its talisman form.

  Defeated, Jake rocked back on his knees. Now there was no hope of him returning to his own time. No hope of him seeing his father and his friends again …

  ‘Behold, it is dead!’ Hopkins shouted.

  Like a magical command, his words brought the crowd to order. While a few stayed back to help the injured, the rest gathered around the Witchfinder.

  ‘What is it?’ Monks asked.

  ‘One of the witch’s demons,’ Hopkins said. He turned to the Earl who had joined the gathering. ‘It is my last piece of evidence.’

  Earl Richard nodded. ‘What say you then, men of the jury? Guilty or not guilty?’

  ‘GUILTY!’ came the roar.

  ‘The verdict of this court is that Josiah Hobarron is guilty of witchcraft!’ the Earl cried. ‘The sentence: death by hanging. May God have mercy on your soul.’

  Hopkins stared down at Jake in triumph.

  ‘Amen.’

  Chapter 22

  Revelation of the Claviger

  Simon had been living at the cottage for several weeks when the letter came. Apart from the odd takeaway flier it was the only thing that had been shoved through the letterbox. He looked down at the stiff, black envelope. Printed in flowing script was Simon’s name and the address of the cottage. Who knew he was here? No one. He had not even told Adam Harker where he was going …

  That final meeting with Dr Harker flashed into his mind. Adam had listened calmly as Simon described the irresistible urge which had led him to call the Demon Father. Simon had expected outrage, fury. Instead, Adam had told him that it wasn’t his fault; that, in fact, he was to blame for not having foreseen that the Demon Father would have implanted such instincts in Simon’s mind. Dr Harker had been trying to make him feel better, but the sick man’s softly spoken words had only added to Simon’s sense of guilt.

  He tore open the envelope.

  Charming? Simon sniffed the stale air. Unoccupied for years, the paint had peeled in long tongues from the cottage walls and mice had chewed holes in the carpet. All the familiar things that Simon remembered from his childhood were gone and everything was layered in thick dust. This had never been a happy house, but now it felt truly desolate.

  Simon made up his mind. He left the cottage and strode down the road to the twenty-four-hour garage. Although it was warm outside, he shivered. Someone was coming. Someone who knew what had happened to his mother. He should be happy—finding out the secret of his mother’s death was why he had come here in the first place. He had hoped that, by returning to the cottage, old memories might stir. Relieved to find it empty, Simon had broken in and spent his first sleepless night on the cold basement floor, staring up at the door. He remembered his mother standing in the doorway, horrified as she looked down at him. The ghost of her scream echoed inside his head. And then …

  Nothing.

  He had gone door-to-door, asking people if they remembered Mrs Lydgate and her son who used to live in the old fisherman’s cottage at the outskirts of the village. Most said they did. Some frowned at Simon, clearly recognizing traces of the Lydgate boy in this troubled young man. One old lady, Mrs Grady, had blinked at him over her half-moon spectacles.

  ‘You’re him, aren’t you? Little Simon? Had a hard time of it these last few years by the look of you. Why’ve you come back?’

  Simon swallowed hard. He was surprised she hadn’t shrieked in horror and run to telephone the police. The story of how Mrs Lydgate had been butchered, and how her son had then disappeared, must still be told in the village.

  ‘I need to find out what happened to my mum,’ Simon said. ‘There must have been an investigation, an inquest. Do you know anything, Mrs Grady?’

  The old woman had looked puzzled.

  ‘Dear child, did something happen to your mother?’

  ‘Yes. She … she was killed.’

  ‘My God. She was a difficult woman, especially with you, but she didn’t deserve that. My condolences.’

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  Mrs Grady shook her head. ‘After you left the village, I didn’t hear from your mother again. We were never close, Simon. I told her once that she ought to treat you better and, well, after that we didn’t really speak.’

  ‘What do you mean—after we left the village?’

  ‘Well, it did come as something of a surprise, both of you just up and going like that, not a word to anybody.’

  ‘B-but my mother,’ Simon stammered, ‘she was murdered here. In the cottage.’

  Mrs Grady narrowed her eyes and took a step back.

  ‘Your mother didn’t die here. She just left one night and never came back. Both of you just left. If she’d been killed in the village don’t you think they would have found a body? Now, I don’t know what your game is, but you better stop it right now.’

  With that, she slammed the door. It was the same story at every house he visited. Everyone believed that Simon and his mother had quit their rented cottage and never returned. At one house a middle-aged woman, Mrs Makepeace, had looked at him sympathetically and sighed.

  ‘I always felt sorry for you, Simon. She was such a hard woman. Very pretty and well-presented, though. And doesn’t she look like her? It really is uncanny—’

  The trill of the telephone stopped Mrs Makepeace mid-flow. ‘Sorry, must get that. Nice to see you, Simon.’

  All this time Simon had pictured his mother’s body being found in the cottage, torn to shreds. Since regaining his memory, he had avoided reading newspapers for fear of finding his nightmares confirmed. Now he had discovered that his mother had simply disappeared. Of course, that didn’t mean that he hadn’t murdered her. Maybe—Simon shuddered—maybe after killing her, he had eaten the remains.

  The old red telephone box stood just outside the garage forecourt. Simon rummaged in his pocket and drew out the last of the money Dr Harker had lent him. He dropped a fifty pence piece into the slot and dialled. He heard clicks and fizzes on the line—the sound of the call connecting to a phone that existed beyond the b
orders of reality. It rang twice before it was picked up.

  Simon was ready to slam down the receiver. It all depended who answered.

  ‘Monster Central, Pandora speaking.’

  Simon let out a long breath.

  ‘Pandora, it’s me. I need your help.’

  Simon sat in the gathering gloom and thought over what Pandora had told him. He had hoped that, by leaving, he would take all the danger and misery out of Rachel’s life. Instead, his absence had broken her. The picture Pandora had painted of a girl, lost and abandoned, cut deep, but he was still determined never to see her again. In time, she would forget him, find someone else and build a new life. A safe life.

  Rachel’s torment was not the only distressing news from the Grimoire Club. Adam was now very near to death. Pandora described him as a determined corpse, propped up in bed and agonizing over each twist and turn of the Codex Tempus. The phantom quill had continued Jake’s story, through arrest, torture, and trial. It had reached the verdict of the court and had come to a stop. In some distant time and place, Jake was waiting to mount the scaff old. Another wave of guilt crashed down on Simon and he held his head in his hands.

  It was a little after eleven o’clock when he heard the crunch of feet on the gravel outside. A shadow loomed against the sitting room window. Simon sprang to his feet and went to the hall.

  ‘Pandora? Brag, is that you?’

  No answer.

  Simon crept down the corridor.

  He was within an arm’s length of the door when it exploded inwards, striking him with the force of a steam train. He flew the length of the corridor and landed hard on his tailbone. Shaking his head against the pain, Simon saw a figure silhouetted in the doorway.

  ‘Wh-who are you?’ he groaned, pushing the broken door aside.

  ‘My name is the Claviger,’ the woman said. ‘I believe you received my note.’

  Simon staggered to his feet. ‘You’re early.’

  ‘A lady’s prerogative. And after we intercepted your friends on their way here, I thought I’d better hurry things along.’