Hiding From the Light

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘Perhaps you should have done it at midnight?’ She seemed amused, teasing him.

  ‘No. No need for that. Broad daylight is what we want. Sunshine. Evil hides from the light.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should go after it in the dark when it is about.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘That would make sense.’

  Did she guess how afraid that would make him? He looked up. She was concentrating on the mug between her hands.

  ‘I don’t think there is any need for that yet,’ he replied softly. ‘I’m sure the blessing I did this morning will suffice.’ He met her eyes. Beautiful. Enigmatic. Hostile. Like those of her cats. Why hostile? He was surprised to find the thought that she disliked him caused him a wave of something like pain. Perhaps he had got it wrong? Did she like him and dislike his calling? Or was it Sarah who disliked him? He was confused. Normally he was good at judging people. He could sense exactly where they stood on the like/dislike-the-clergy scale and where they stood regarding him personally, but just as his own feelings about her were swinging wildly back and forth, so, it seemed to him, were hers. One minute she seemed to like him, the next, the look she gave him was pure hatred.

  Or was that Sarah?

  Kill the witch.

  He realised his hands were shaking as he clasped them round his mug and he took a deep breath as he raised it to his lips. ‘Thank you for that.’

  He stood up too quickly. ‘I’m afraid I must go. I’ve got several calls to make.’

  She was smiling up at him from those beautiful eyes and before he realised it he had stretched out his hand and put it over hers. ‘Goodbye for now, Emma. Take care.’

  His last thought, as he left the house, was: that woman is in mortal danger. And so am I.

  46

  It was several hours later that Lyndsey found Emma stacking pots in the barn. She watched her for a moment in silence before announcing herself from the doorway. Emma jumped visibly.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’ Lyndsey hauled herself up onto the dusty workbench and sat, her hands clasped round her knees. ‘I wanted to talk to you again.’ The shadowy old barn with its veiling of spiders’ webs and crusted mud was a muted frame for her vivid colouring.

  Emma pushed her hair back out of her eyes and surveyed her visitor with a frown.

  Lyndsey shrugged. ‘Am I in the way?’

  ‘No, you’re not in the way.’ Finally Emma smiled. ‘In fact I’m quite glad of a breather. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I hear the man of God is looking for me?’

  ‘The man of God?’ Emma echoed, frowning. ‘Oh, you mean Mike?’

  ‘He’s been in the churchyard.’

  Emma studied her face curiously. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘That’s easy. I can tell. And he’s taken my things. Or someone has. Unless it was you?’

  Emma shook her head.

  ‘Then it was him. It must have been. You’ll have to find out what he’s done with them.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I don’t know anyone else who talks to him.’

  ‘Alex?’ Emma pulled off her gardening gloves and threw them down on the bench.

  ‘Alex hasn’t been in the churchyard. Anyway, none of this has anything to do with him.’ Lyndsey narrowed her eyes. ‘If it hadn’t been for you Mr Sinclair wouldn’t have interfered in the first place.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Emma seemed less sure of her ground suddenly. ‘I’m sorry. He was up here this morning. He’s worried about you.’

  ‘I bet he is!’ Lyndsey was furious. ‘And it’s all your fault what with moving here and poking your nose in.’

  ‘Why does my moving here upset you so much?’

  ‘It’s because you are stirring things up.’ Lyndsey slid off the bench and went to the door where she stood for a moment, staring down the garden. She turned and looked at Emma. ‘Waking the past.’

  ‘My nightmares are set in the past.’ Emma frowned. ‘They are frightening. Violent. I don’t always remember them, but sometimes they are about Liza.’

  Lyndsey swallowed. Her mouth had gone dry and she took a deep breath, trying to ground herself solidly. Protection. She must not forget her own protection.

  Emma came to stand beside her in the doorway, taking in the western sky where a strange orange flush reflected up into the clouds where the sun was getting ready to set.

  ‘My mother rang this morning,’ Emma said thoughtfully. ‘I never knew it before, but apparently my grandmother’s family used to live at Overly Hall.’

  Lyndsey turned and stared at her. ‘The Bennetts used to live there. My mother’s family. They lived at Overly for three hundred years.’

  Emma raised an eyebrow. ‘My grandmother was Elizabeth Bennett.’

  They stared at each other in silence, each searching the other’s face for a sign of likeness. Blue eyes met hazel. Dark hair compared to brown. Both were small-boned, of medium height, but there the similarities ended. Lyndsey’s sharp features, small chin, high cheekbones, did not remotely resemble Emma’s aquiline nose and oval face.

  ‘I suppose that makes us cousins of some sort,’ Emma said at last.

  Lyndsey wasn’t sure how she felt. Her hostility was as strong as ever and yet it did explain a lot. Emma’s persistence; her immunity to the spell designed to get rid of her. Perhaps she had sensed it, this blood link between them.

  Emma was watching her. ‘At least it means I’m not quite so much of an outsider.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘I was chased away from the hall this morning and I was only looking through the gate!’

  ‘By Lawson?’ Lyndsey shrugged. ‘He’s a funny man. He went a bit odd after his only son died. No one much has been allowed in since then. Don’t take it personally. Just keep away from him.’ She shrugged again. ‘I suppose it explains why you stirred things up. I thought maybe it was those dickheads making a film about Hopkins. But it isn’t. It’s you.’

  ‘Me?’ Emma shivered uneasily. ‘I don’t understand any of this, but I did meet the film people back in August.’

  ‘Unfortunately they are coming back.’ Lyndsey thrust her thumbs into the front pockets of her jeans. She was staring at the far hedge where Max had appeared, tail high and stately, patrolling his new kingdom. ‘There have always been cats here,’ she put in absent-mindedly.

  Emma nodded. ‘They love it here. It’s heaven for them after London.’

  ‘It would be.’ Lyndsey’s emphasis did not flatter London.

  ‘Is it Matthew Hopkins’s ghost in the shop?’ Emma was pursuing her previous line of thought.

  Lyndsey shuddered, her whole body reacting instinctively to the name. ‘Who else?’

  ‘But not here. Not at Liza’s.’

  ‘Of course not here.’

  Emma shook her head, thinking of Flora’s warnings. ‘No, I’d have known if he had haunted this house. I’d have felt something. It is Liza, isn’t it?’

  Lyndsey looked away. Again the shrug.

  ‘How does the churchyard come in then?’ Emma persevered. At last she seemed to be talking to somebody who knew about the past.

  ‘He was buried there.’

  ‘Hopkins?’

  Lyndsey nodded. ‘It’s a strange place. Powerful. Evil. I think I’ve located his grave there. I had him sealed in. I made a binding spell, but it wasn’t strong enough.’

  ‘A spell?’ Emma echoed her words. ‘A witch’s spell?’

  ‘Of course a witch’s spell.’ Lyndsey gave her a sideways glance. ‘So, now you know why it is so important to get my things back. They are consecrated. If he’s got them, you’ve got to get them back for me.’ She moved out of the barn and headed up the path round the side of the house towards the gate.

  ‘Consecrated?’ Emma followed her. ‘Consecrated to what?’ She caught Lyndsey’s arm. ‘Is Mike right? Do you actually worship the Devil?’

  Lyndsey wrenched it away. ‘No, I don’t worship the Devil!’ she said furiously. ‘Why do people always think that? The Dev
il belongs to Christianity. They call him Satan. I’m not a Satanist! I’m a witch.I worship the goddess. It’s quite different. You of all people should know that if you are of Sarah’s blood!’

  Her face flushed with anger, she turned and ran to the gate where she grabbed her bicycle from the hedge.

  ‘Wait!’ Emma shouted after her. ‘Who was Sarah?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ Lyndsey straddled her bike.

  ‘I need to know now,’ Emma called, but Lyndsey was already pedalling down the lane.

  47

  Emma stood and watched her go. Sarah was the name that came to her in her dreams. The woman whose personality was threatening to take her over. The woman who had lived at Overly Hall, and, she was sure, had lived here at Liza’s. She realised suddenly that she was shaking. The fury and venom with which Lyndsey had suddenly exploded had frightened her, as had the news that her volatile visitor was her own cousin. Oh God, that was all she needed!

  She was still standing by the gate when the muddy blue Volvo pulled to a halt outside.

  ‘Hi.’ Alex turned off the engine and climbed out. ‘Was that Lyn I saw pedalling hell for leather down the hill?’

  Emma stared at him for a moment, trying to pull herself together. ‘It was indeed,’ she said at last rather grimly. ‘An apt description as it happens.’

  Alex followed her towards the house. ‘What’s she done now?’

  By the time she had recounted the conversation, Alex was seated in the kitchen with Min on his knees and the kettle was on the boiling plate once more.

  ‘She scared me, Alex!’

  He sighed. ‘Ignore her. She has a penchant for the dramatic.’ He kept his own worries about Lyndsey to himself.

  ‘You don’t think it’s real, then?’

  ‘Witchcraft?’ Alex laughed. ‘No way. It’s an excuse for dancing round the bonfire in the nuddy!’

  Emma smiled. ‘So I needn’t worry?’

  ‘No. Put it out of your mind. And don’t let her think she can wind you up. I wouldn’t put it past her to try and get you out of here. For some reason she doesn’t like you, or anyone else for that matter, living here. That’s what this is all about.’

  ‘It’s because it was Liza’s house. And Liza was a witch.’

  ‘I don’t see what that has to do with it. She clearly doesn’t need the house now.’

  Emma glanced towards the window. ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t sound too sure.’

  ‘No.’

  Alex took a deep breath. ‘You mustn’t let it frighten you. Every house round here which is called after a woman is supposed to have belonged to a witch of some sort. There’s Kate’s up on the Colchester Road and Betty’s Corner, down Wix way. They were both supposed to be witches. You know, it might actually be a plus, this witch story. It would bring in the tourists. A potted herb from the witch’s garden. In fact what a brilliant name for your business. The Witch’s Garden.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Emma was half frowning, half smiling. ‘Alex, this is jumping the gun a bit.’

  ‘You ought to think about it soon. Time is of the essence.’ He grinned. ‘After all, everything you stock will have to be grown. You need to be up and ready to run by the early spring. The actual ground needs working. The barns need repair. Where will the shop be? We’ll have to identify suppliers. Find stationery, paper bags – ’

  ‘Stop!’ Emma was laughing. ‘I’m not sure Paula would approve of all this.’ And nor would Flora if she ever became involved. Suddenly Emma realised that she rather hoped that Flora had meant it when she said she might be interested in joining the venture. The trouble was, she would not be happy to find someone else coming up with all the ideas.

  Alex’s eager grin had disappeared. ‘Paula will come round. Look, I know I get carried away. But I want you to think about it.’

  ‘What on earth would Lyndsey say if we went ahead with something like this?’

  ‘She’d be furious.’ He shook his head. ‘People tramping all over the place disturbing everything. You reorganising it. Planting new things.’ He knew Lyndsey used to make secret visits to the garden. He wasn’t sure if she was still doing so, collecting herbs when Emma wasn’t around. Probably not.

  ‘And she would put a spell on me?’

  I had him sealed in. A binding spell. Lyndsey’s voice suddenly echoed in her head. It wasn’t strong enough.

  Was that because her spells weren’t efficient or because Matthew Hopkins was too strong for her?

  Alex was looking thoughtful. ‘Do you think I’m wrong? Do you think witches actually do have power?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Not those poor old ladies in the seventeenth century, but people like Lyn who study Wicca and believe they can actually force people to do things they don’t want to do?’

  Emma raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that what they do?’ She thought they had been talking about stopping people doing things they did want to do. Perhaps it was the same thing.

  ‘I used to think it was all about herbs and crystals and stuff. Harmless. Rather attractive, really. Pretty dresses and the frisson of thinking that they dance around naked.’ Alex shook his head nostalgically, then he snapped to attention. ‘I didn’t mean that I think about Lyn like that!’

  ‘No, of course you don’t.’ Emma was laughing again. ‘And I know what you mean. I have a friend in London, Flora, my best friend actually, who is exactly like that. She’s an aromatherapist, but she keeps a broomstick in her umbrella stand in her fourth floor flat. And the flat is wonderful. An Aladdin’s cave. Crystals. Chimes. Wonderful smells. And her plants love it so much they romp all over the place and grab you by the throat as you go in through the door. But never once, in all the years I’ve known her, did I suspect she might cast spells in the nude at midnight. Actually …’ She paused, thinking fast. She may as well forewarn him that other people were interested in this project. ‘She would be a good person to talk to about the herb garden. Something else to sell maybe – essential oils and things? She’s quite keen to get involved. She could be a consultant, too.’

  Alex did not seem worried at the idea. He nodded. He was itching to grope in his pockets for a notebook and pencil but resisted. He didn’t want to seem to be trying to take over and he recognised the thoughtful expression on Emma’s face. He had sown the seed. Time to let it mature. Glancing at his watch, he pushed his chair back and eased Min off his knees. ‘I must go. The kids will be home soon. They have tea with one of Sophie’s friends on Mondays and I need to collect them. Can we talk about this again? Soon?’

  ‘Of course.’ Emma nodded firmly. She in turn recognised Alex’s eagerness. There was a lot of talent and business acumen there, rotting away unused. He could be useful, but she was not about to let him take over.

  After he left she pulled on her waxed jacket and let herself out of the back door into the garden. She needed to collect her thoughts. So much had happened today and she was exhausted. She took a deep breath of the cool air and stood staring up at the sky. It would soon be dark. There was still a touch of red in the west, but behind her the cold darkness was rolling in off the North Sea. With a shiver she went to sit on the low wall which bounded the lawn, her hands deep in her pockets for warmth. A few minutes later her eyes had closed.

  The dream was waiting for her. In seconds it had overtaken her.

  Sarah had tethered the horse at the top of the lane. With a kiss to the soft muzzle and a whisper in its ear to stay quiet in the pitch darkness under the tree she lifted her skirts clear of the ground and hastened down towards the village. The windows of Hopkins’s house were shuttered, but to her amazement the front door stood ajar. She pushed it cautiously and peered in. The house was deathly silent. It was in darkness save for a candle burning on the table outside the door to one of the front rooms. The wax had burned low and dripped into fantastic sculptural shapes in the draught from the open door.

  ‘Hello?’ Sarah’s voice sounded more confident, and far louder than she had expected. ‘Ma
ster Hopkins, are you there?’ Where were his servants? The house was cold, the atmosphere unwelcoming, unpleasant. She shivered, pushing open the door to his closet. She could feel the echoes of his presence in the room. Overwhelming, self-righteous, dark. The notes for the book he was writing were spread all over his desk but he was not there in person. She crept out of the room and stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up. The house was empty. She could sense it and she had no desire to go up and check further. Turning her back on the stairs, she surveyed the hall in the flickering candlelight as if hoping to find a clue as to where he was, and suddenly she knew. Liza had been taken to Mary Phillips’s house in Church Street. He was there with her now.

  Running down the street, she neither remembered nor cared whether she had closed the door behind her, glad only to be outside, away from the overwhelming unpleasantness of the atmosphere in Hopkins’s house. The other houses in the street were mostly shuttered; here and there candlelight spilled out over the cobbles but the place was empty. Listening.

  Listening for what?

  The High Street was busier. The sound of laughter and loud conversation spilled from the coffee house, and she could see the press of figures through the window. From one of the taverns there came the sound of drunken laughter. Men stood in groups outside the Crown Inn, lanterns burned, a link boy ran before two men on horseback, his torch trailing smoke as they trotted down towards the river and a coach clattered past her up the hill. No one noticed her.

  The door of the house on the corner of Church Street was barred. She knocked loudly, aware of faces turning towards her now in the dark from the street behind her.

  ‘Let me in!’

  Liza was here. She knew it. She thumped with her fists on the oak panels. ‘Let me in!’ She could hear feet shuffling along the floor behind the door now. ‘Open up. I need to come in!’

  The sound of two bolts being drawn back stopped her fists in mid-air and she waited as the door was pulled open a crack. In the shadows the other side of it she could see nothing. ‘Let me in! I have to see Master Hopkins!’