“Now, Cora,” says Mrs. Ketch. “What’s happened? Why have you come here — in such a hurry?”
“I’m sorry, I’m just not sure …”
After a few moments she looks back up at the clock, then stands abruptly and rests a hand on the crowded sideboard. “Cora, I’m sorry to be so blunt,” she says, “but we’ve just had a visitor — Mrs. Bullen from the village, who urgently needs our help — so I’ll have to be plainer and quicker with you all than I’d like. I hope you understand.”
“Yes — yes, of course.”
“You need to know where Iris and I come into all this, so I’ll start in August 1940, not long after we arrived here from India. The local paper reported that a little girl had gone missing in Bryers Guerdon, and that Mrs. Eastfield, who had been looking after the child and her older sister, had briefly been taken in by the police for questioning.”
I look up sharply.
“Of course, being wartime, the paper dropped it soon enough, but Iris and I, as outsiders here, became aware of whispers behind hands, noticed the knowing nods every time Mrs. Eastfield was mentioned in the shops or on street corners. Eventually we came to hear about a ghoulish creature who had once been a leper man called Cain Lankin, who apparently roamed the Bryers Guerdon marshes feeding on children, and everyone round about believed that this little girl had most likely been taken by him. We made modest enquiries and learned more of the story — how this Lankin fellow and a witch, Aphra Rushes, had killed the infant Guerdon heir for his healing blood, and that the witch had been burned and, with her dying breath, cursed the Guerdon family.”
I shift uncomfortably on the hard chair, exchange the flicker of a glance with Roger.
“Things went quiet for a long time, until, four years ago,” Mrs. Ketch continues, “we heard that Mrs. Eastfield had suddenly died. Rumours spread, and almost as quickly hushed themselves up, that the monster had at last been killed, and that Mrs. Eastfield probably had a hand in it.” She looks hard at the two of us, narrows her eyes. “And there were murmurs about children being there… .”
Roger gives an awkward little cough.
“Then, a few months ago,” she goes on, “the word went round that Guerdon children were coming back to the house. Gideon Wragge, one of our old gentlemen here at the Saint Lazarus, was asked by Ed Blezzard to help modernize the place. Anyway, Gideon was ill for a few days and couldn’t get down, but when he did return to work there, he was horrified to find that Mr. Blezzard had taken out and destroyed the witch bottles, painted over the witch marks, and hacked down the trees. He told Iris and me about it, because he was worried about you and Mimi — that you, the last of the Guerdons, would be left unprotected.”
“Why you?” I ask. “What could you do?”
Mrs. Ketch sighs, turns towards the fire, bends down, and picks up the poker. “Well, Cora, Iris and I travelled with my husband to some remote and secret places, watched and learned from shamans, magi, and conjurers, saw many bizarre and wonderful happenings in the mysterious byways of the world. People around here know that, come to us for remedies and healing.” She looks up at the clock again.
“Like Mrs. Bullen?” Roger asks.
“Her husband has double pneumonia,” she says. “He is going into crisis, and the doctor can’t get here through the snow from Clevedon.” She glances towards the kitchen door. “Iris is especially skilled” — she lowers her voice — “even in her silence, especially in the blending of herbs. She is preparing something to help him. My gift is in the words — I make sure everything is in concord.”
Mrs. Ketch prods the coals. Hot ash crumbles down into the hearth.
“Mr. Wragge thought we might be able to protect you secretly,” she continues, “so you wouldn’t know and be frightened, but as you found out, it’s almost impossible to lay protective charms around a house like Guerdon Hall on the sly, and quietly. Whatever we tried was going to be seen or heard sometime, although we did our best to be discreet.”
She leans the poker back into the fireplace.
“Some things are the same the world over, you know. The remains of a burned witch are believed to be full of lingering spells; they should be burned again so that the witch cannot be reborn, but the north wind took Aphra Rushes’ ashes and scattered them before it could be done. Of course, Iris and I had no way of knowing whether she could or would return, but we knew it was unlikely that her spirit could rest while the curse was still to run its course, especially with the last of the Guerdons returning, coming close again.”
“And Mimi?” I ask anxiously. “Why did you get Mimi to help you — Mimi but not me?”
Mrs. Ketch sighs. “I don’t know what happened to Mimi in the past, Cora, but at some moment in her life she must have been touched powerfully by the spirit world, because the child is separate — a sensitive.”
“She told me.” I swallow.
“We sensed it immediately, the first time we saw her,” says Mrs. Ketch, “walking down Old Glebe Lane with the woman who was looking after you —”
“Auntie Kath,” I interrupt.
“Auntie Kath, then,” says Mrs. Ketch. “Well, Mimi recognized it in us too, dawdled behind, then stopped. Most unusual … an oddly self-assured thing for a child to do. Of course, as I said, we didn’t know whether the witch would return until — until we were in the garden on Bonfire Night. We had hung up the protecting curtain — the little white stones — and afterwards, from the darkness, noticed Mimi looking out across the garden. It was obvious she had glimpsed something in the smoke from the fireworks. Smoke, fog, and mist draw spirits in, you see, Cora. That evening we became really worried for you both. We have busy lives looking after the men here, and helping people who seek us out. We thought Mimi could help us, being there… .”
“But Mrs. Ketch, she’s only eight years old.”
“We thought it was for the best, Cora, thought her gift could be used for the good… .”
From somewhere a clock chimes.
“Cora,” Roger says. “We’re all running out of time. You need to show Mrs. Ketch what’s in your pocket — tell her why we’ve come.”
“All — all right.” Hesitantly, I stand up. “It’s this, Mrs. Ketch.”
Feeling again the sense of revulsion as my fingers close around the head of the cloth figure, I bring it out and lay it in my open hand, the pins pointing upwards.
The woman’s eyes widen. “Oh, Cora, it — it’s a poppet,” she breathes. “You can kill a person with this — without even leaving a mark, or you can direct events to cause them harm, and nobody would know how they died.”
She turns and takes a small, lidless cardboard box from the back of the sideboard, beckons to Roger, and tips the box slightly to show us what’s nestled inside.
A shudder passes between us.
“Cunning people have been making poppets since before recorded time,” she says, “in every dark corner of the world.”
Lying in a bed of shredded newspaper is a small doll with a crudely carved wooden head and a stuffed cloth body, dressed in scraps of stained, faded fabric, its head stuck all over with tufts of curly human hair. A handwritten brown paper label tied around its neck says: Vodun (voodoo) fetish doll from the Kingdom of Dahomey, West Africa. Collected GNK 21st March 1932.
“There is a strong connection — a spirit thread — between the maker and the victim,” Mrs. Ketch says darkly.
The kitchen door opens. Mimi is there, Miss Jewel directly behind her. Mimi’s eyes go from the doll in the box to the one in my hand. Her mouth drops.
“Daddy …” she breathes. “He’s hurt… .”
The figure trembles in my shaking hand. I look at Mimi, at her crushed face, her round, startled eyes. “Oh, Mimi, Dad — Dad’s been stabbed. He’s in hospital. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry… .” My legs seem to fail me. I sink back onto the chair, reach out and circle her waist tightly with my arm. “Ange must have overheard me saying I wanted him to get rid of her. I — I don’t th
ink there’s much time — there was a phone call just before we left… .”
Mrs. Ketch puts the box back on the cupboard, then comes to me and says, “Don’t be alarmed, Cora, but could I look at the doll? I’ll take great care with the pins. It’s best not to disturb them if we can help it.” I place the little man on the woman’s outstretched palm.
“This poppet has been artfully made, and to a particularly old pattern,” Mrs. Ketch says, examining the stitching, touching the hair with her fingertips. “Who did it? Was it the woman we saw at Guerdon Hall, the one who shouted at us?”
I nod wretchedly.
“But that wasn’t Auntie Kath. She was different,” she says.
“No, she got scared and went back to London. The one who yelled at you was Ange.”
“That’s when we knew we were too late,” Mrs. Ketch says, glancing at Miss Jewel, her face drawn and anxious. “The spirit of a returning witch is insubstantial. It needs a body … hands to do its work — work like this… .” She gazes at the poppet. “It is a difficult thing, a delicate balance, finding the right, vulnerable person to use, knowing how to play their weaknesses, judging how much they will or will not do for you.”
Mimi kneels by my chair and I squeeze her shoulder.
Holding the figure delicately, Mrs. Ketch lifts the scrap of shirt to reveal the edge of the small red stone. Her brows knit deep.
“A bloodstone, Iris,” she breathes to Miss Jewel, whose spectacles gleam in golden curves in the light from the fire. “Makes it much more difficult for a cunning person to undo the harm. This means that only you, Cora” — she inclines her head — “or you, Mimi — only a blood relative can break the spirit thread that binds Aphra Rushes to your father; then if — if he is still alive, he might be able to fight on his own.”
“But we wouldn’t know what to do.” My voice rises. “And I don’t think this is the only one. I’m sure Ange has made more dolls — of Mimi and me.” I hear Mimi swallow. “She’s got our hair and bits of our clothes. She might have stuck pins in them as well. Anything could happen to us — any minute.”
“Now, Cora,” says Mrs. Ketch, “these things take care to make. Ange might not even have finished them yet. We may still have time.”
I pull the stitches tight so the little skirt gathers under the arms, fasten the thread at the back with two more stitches, bite it off with her teeth. I take another piece of rosy pink, wrap it round the shoulders, sew it to the chest, and conceal the bloodstone heart, the chip of jasper — one stitch, two, three … snip.
Done.
I prop the finished poppet up in a swell of the counterpane, stroke the soft, wavy hair with her fingers, run her nail over the red running-stitch mouth.
Then I pick up the other poppet, its body half sewn.
“Then we’ve got to find them before she does finish them,” Roger says urgently.
My head swims. Mimi sits glassy-eyed, dazed, on the floor.
The wind whines down the chimney and blows a small cloud of soot into the room.
“Come, Cora.” Mrs. Ketch hands me back the poppet. “Put it away for the moment — carefully, now — then up you get, all of you. Get your gloves back on. Oh, and we’ll need a good long knife from the kitchen. How much time do we have, Iris? Is Mr. Bullen’s remedy prepared?”
Iris nods solemnly.
“Then we must be quick,” says Mrs. Ketch.
“Where are we going?” I ask, alarmed.
I pull more feathers from her pillow, lay them in a hollow of the blanket, take a small quantity in her fingers, and push them up into the head through the slit in the poppet’s side. More feathers, more and more, make the head tight. I pad out the little arms. The feathers float across the bed, drift slowly through the air to the ground, and seek out all the little dark and dusty corners. Now the poppet is nice and plump, the feathers are leaking from the seam in the side. I pull a length of thread, cut it, hold the end to the eye of the needle …
Mrs. Ketch, in her long hooded coat and peaked hat, opens the back door at the end of the kitchen. The bitter wind sweeps in, fanning the tea towels folded over the rail on the range, setting the ceiling light bulb swinging on its flex, cooling the green liquid in the saucepan on the gas. “Shut the door, please!” Mrs. Ketch calls as the two women stride down the back steps and over the snowy lawn, their black coats flapping and snapping behind them as they march purposefully on.
Mrs. Ketch pulls open a gate in the white fence and signals us to follow. On the other side a path skirts the back of the vicarage garden. As Roger, Mimi, and I hurry after the two women, the overhanging, bustling trees shower us with drops of icy snow.
We hasten towards the lane at the end of the path. Over the road is the low stone wall, crusted white, enclosing the churchyard of Saint Margaret’s, and a few yards along is an old, rusted kissing gate leading inside.
The wind moans and sighs, tossing the dipping branches of the huge yew tree next to the solid bulk of the church and lifting like dust the snow that powders the stepped bases and arms of the dark crosses and the arches of the gravestones. We move round the building, picking up our feet, bypassing straggling bushes and solitary tombs.
On the boundary farthest from the main road, completely hidden from the shops by the church, stands a small, crooked tree like a bent and withered old body with its shrivelled arms outstretched. The crown, a mass of twisted, thorny boughs, is almost at right angles to the narrow, contorted trunk that leans into the churchyard, forming a web-like roof over two cracked gravestones beneath. The misshapen branches end in knots of spidery twigs like old arthritic hands, bobbing and swaying in the wind.
Miss Jewel is ahead of her aunt, almost at the tree.
“The ground will be frozen, Iris,” calls Mrs. Ketch. “Perhaps you should tackle it first. It’ll speed things up a bit.”
Miss Jewel stoops to get under the flattened, spiky crown, then rests both hands, palms outward, on the trunk. She closes her eyes, leans her cheek against the rough bark, and stands there for some time, her mouth moving now and then as if speaking, but otherwise a still and silent figure under the windswept, hissing branches. We stand a few feet away, watching, restless, growing ever colder.
Mrs. Ketch’s words rise over the wind. “Even in the wintertime the sap flows through a tree like blood through veins,” she says. “Its roots are deep in earth, its trunk in air; it flows with water which never freezes, and in autumn is crowned with fire in leaf and fruit. It is elemental and should never be meddled with unless it gives you leave to do so.”
At last Miss Jewel opens her eyes and nods to Mrs. Ketch, who passes her the kitchen knife. With a grunt the younger woman kneels on the hard, snowy ground at the foot of the tree, then plunges the blade into the earth. She begins to dig and scrape, both hands clutching the handle, tossing aside the clods, lifting then jabbing again at the frozen soil, the deadened sounds echoing off the church wall behind her. After a few minutes she stops and, with laboured breath, beckons to Mimi.
Mimi looks back at me, her eyebrows knotted, her lip trembling. “Please, Cora, I don’t want to do anything,” she cries miserably. “What if it doesn’t work? What if … if Daddy dies? It will be all my fault.”
All my fault … I am a child back in Limehouse, listening to my mother howling through the wall … All my fault … all my fault.
If that burden must be borne again, then it must be mine, not Mimi’s.
I take a step forward, Roger too, but Mrs. Ketch holds us back with a firm hand.
“We must let Mimi do this,” she says. “Her gift will make the ritual more potent.”
“You said ‘a blood relative,’ Mrs. Ketch.” I push her arm away. “Back in the house you said either of us.” I walk on, rub Mimi’s head through her hat. “You go to Roger, Mimi. I can do this as well as you.”
In a moment, Mimi has run to Roger. He gently clasps her shoulder but looks across at me with an uneasy gaze.
With a sharp glance at Mrs
. Ketch, Miss Jewel stands aside for me under the crown of the tree and hands me the knife. Deep down the earth is soft, shifts easily. In a short time there is a metallic clunk as the blade jars against the roots.
Miss Jewel lays a soft hand on my arm. I look up. The gas lamp beyond the boundary wall sends a sharp shadow across her face so her eyes become like crescent moons behind the circles of glass. I hesitate. Miss Jewel wipes her moist forehead under her hat, streaking it with soil from her glove, then kneels awkwardly beside me and points at the hole in the ground.
All at once the church tower clock resounds across the graveyard with a long, slow tolling.
Hurriedly I reach into my pocket for the poppet, lean forward, and place the doll deep among the roots.
At the same moment it seems as if a gust of wind catches the bare, knotted branches above. The tree shuders and twists, stretching out, then pulling in its finger-like twigs.
Miss Jewel reaches out and lays her hand on the bark, and Mrs. Ketch leans forward.
“Cover it up quickly, Cora,” she says, “but make sure the pins are not pushed deeper in.”
I steady the pins with morsels of soil, adding more, little by little, until only the two gleaming red pinheads are visible at the top of a small mound. Then I begin to cover the rest. The scraps of striped shirt disappear bit by bit, then the arms, the legs, the hair, and the stitched-on face vanish into the dark crumble of the earth. When not a speck of the cloth man is to be seen, I gently pat the soil down and reach out for a handful of snow to sprinkle over it.
“We hope the tree will take the poppet,” Mrs. Ketch says, her voice low and slightly uneven, “crush it with its roots, and snap the spirit thread.”
“Hope?” I say with dismay. “Aren’t you sure?”
She looks over her shoulder through the net of branches towards the church. “Nothing is certain in this world, Cora, but the hawthorn mother is very powerful here — her roots are deep in holy ground.”
A sudden jolt of pain.
The Mark of Cain Page 28
