The Drowning Pool

by Syd Moore

  I was cold now, my stomach churning as I recalled Alfie’s reference to the girl on fire. The horror of it. Could that possibly be what he’d seen? Poor Alfie.

  Next, my own dream came flooding back. The one in the Old Town. The burning girl. The acrid stench of smoking flesh. Could I have dreamt the scene described in the book so vividly that night? Had Sarah Grey and Jane Tulley connected telepathically with me and my child?

  I had never read this before. I couldn’t have made it up as accurately.

  Though perhaps I had overheard the story somewhere and absorbed it, storing it subconsciously until Alfie’s words triggered a response.

  Nothing was certain but that the tale was appalling. I sighed and released from within a wave of pity for the child burnt and the woman blamed.

  And then behind that I felt anger rising. Sarah had tried to put the flames out. Of course the children were terrified and saw it as the wicked act of a witch or a child-catcher. But surely not the adults around them?

  Whenever there is horrendous suffering, I reminded myself, someone must always be found to blame. It’s the only way humanity can make some sense of the chaos in which we exist.

  If Sarah had a reputation as a witch by then, it would have been confirmed in the eyes of those who witnessed the dreadful scene.

  Hideous. My heart grew heavy with grief for the parents robbed of their daughter so cruelly. I couldn’t begin to imagine what they had gone through – the devastation, the helplessness, then the guilt and the rage. Would they have been angry enough to exact revenge on Grey? To take an old life for one so young?

  The incident took place in 1852. After the cholera epidemic of 1849 and the ‘poisoning’ of 1850, the death of Jane Tulley would have confirmed Sarah’s murderous malevolence.

  You see, although I didn’t realize it, I was assembling the fragments and dreams into a narrative of her life. The vision that night of the storm had left me in no doubt that some great misfortune had befallen Sarah.

  In the room that was now part of Doctor Cook’s surgery, I had watched as she was traded like an old pair of boots. Then on the beach I had become her as she fled from that terrible man and headed for the only thing that could help her escape her fate – the dismal embrace of the Drowning Pool.

  But it had rejected her, so she had been branded a witch by those ignorant onlookers.

  Perhaps that had been enough to start the gossip mill turning.

  Whatever, Leigh had its new victim – every ship that went down, every child that died, each crop that failed, could have been, would have been, blamed on the witch. It had been that way all over England for hundreds and hundreds of years.

  With every calamity her reputation would have grown. When Jane Tulley burst into flames, Sarah Grey became the hag of old Leigh: the sea-witch.

  Poor Sarah. Her only crime was to have been a herbalist and a soothsayer in an age that respected ‘cunning men’ as the sanctioned experts in divination and healing. I remembered Corinne recounting the tale of Cunning Murrell. He was a sorcerer, and reportedly an intelligent man. The community treated him with deference as he also led crusades against witches. Whereas Sarah …

  It was all so very tragic and unjust. I threw the book across the table with disgust. The old man shot me a warning glance. I brought my furious resentment under control. If I was to find what had happened to her, to see beneath the legends to the truth, I needed to think rationally. Like a policeman. I took out my notebook and scribbled ‘suspects’ in a column. Then I entered the names of the child cholera victims and made a note to find out who their parents were. Underneath I wrote the names of the children involved in the fire: Emily Langdon, Thomas Tulley and his poor sister, Jane Tulley. I jotted down their parents too.

  Then there was the captain of legend. Hero or villain, in both versions the killing was laid at his feet. That was beyond dispute but I doubted now that all the myths were true. Brightling had noted that the Great Storm of 1870 was attributed to Grey’s curse and invocation. Later, however, he admitted discovering her death registered in the church records in 1867 aged 80, three years before the storm. At least I had a date that I could pass on to Sharon. And I knew now that Sarah Grey had lived and wasn’t just a legend.

  I sat there for a few long minutes, while my neighbour coughed and spluttered. I hadn’t noticed the rain but now it lashed against the windows. A sharp south-east wind swayed the arms of the trees in the gardens back and forth like they were waving at me.

  I gazed out of the window and was soon overcome by a feeling of gloom. Something was out there, waiting to happen. I could feel it throughout my body. Slowly I put the book to one side, intending to take it out, and then turned to the last volume on my pile, another illustrated tome on Leigh.

  There was nothing more on Sarah, but flicking through the pages I came to a section on nineteenth-century Leigh characters. Lady Olivia Sparrow was in there. A photograph of a painting depicted a dignified woman sitting on an ornate carved chair, drenched in yards and yards of taffeta or silk, I don’t know which, but it was shiny and fashioned into a crinoline, very much of the time. The portrait had been reproduced in black and white but I imagined the fabric to be a royal blue or emerald green. Her cap was so full of lace it could have been mistaken for a fluffy white beard. She looked off dreamily to the right of the artist, her eyes clear and warm, her mouth pursed into a neutral expression that gave nothing away. Her right hand rested on the Bible by her side. She pointed to a particular passage, but there were no clues as to what that could be. Beside her was a three-tiered tray, which contained an assortment of mysterious objects. I couldn’t see what they might be as the reproduction was too blurred.

  Lady Sparrow was described underneath as a benefactor of Leigh, and a frequent visitor, though not a resident. The benefactor of the spiritual evangelist, Ridley Herschell, a Polish Jew, who converted to the faith, and with whom she set up a school. Her coat of arms was depicted in another photograph with that of the town’s mayor, Doctor Festus Hunter. There was a familiarity about his very large, fussy portrait that I couldn’t place. It showed an older man with pinched white lips and small ferret-like eyes. Dressed in fine velvets he was surrounded by the symbols of recently accrued wealth.

  Beneath Hunter was a photograph of a bust of the Reverend Robert Eden. He had strong features: a high forehead, and aquiline nose. A man of resolve, he looked with purpose, off to his right. Eden came to Leigh in 1837 and spent much of his private income on establishing a school for local children, refurbishing the church and building a new rectory. The blurb stated he was respected by the people of Leigh. Perceived as a good pastor, he was said to have been influenced by the Tractarian movement, and in the cholera epidemic of 1849 he nursed victims and massaged them with his own hands.

  The reverend was succeeded by Canon Walker King, who held the office for many years and as a consequence there were several pictures of him. All showed a middle-aged man with kindly eyes and a two-pronged beard, which I supposed was fashionable at the time. In one picture the family were posed formally outside the rectory, looking stern but as friendly as Victorians ever did. The canon, facing slightly away from the camera, eyes gazing thoughtfully seawards, was surrounded by his large family, four dogs and Bishop Edward King of Lincoln.

  From the distinctive eyes and nose he was obviously the canon’s brother. I paused to read the key, which identified each member of the family, and was about to turn the page when I started at the rectory window on the right-hand side of the photograph. At first sight it looked like a reflection clouding the window to the right of the group. Though a reflection of what, I wasn’t sure. Cloud-like swirls and smudges of something like window cleaner appeared to fill the glass of the bay window behind the family. To my eyes the window was barely bigger than a thumbnail but then I saw something that stilled my heart. For there, in one of the window panes, was Sarah Grey. Two tiny dark patches formed the distinctive almond-shape of her eyes, a diagonal smudge on th
e glass evoked her strong aquiline nose, dim smears gave the impression of ringlets. There she was, a disembodied face, suspended in the glass, mouth open as if calling out.

  It was a small image but it was definitely there.

  I must have gasped as the old man across the table glanced up from his paper again and grunted.

  I held my hand over my mouth, and breathed heavily.

  My brain had frozen, stilled by disbelief, but my eyes raced on, looking back to the page again. I was positive now – I would recognize those doleful eyes anywhere.

  What did it mean? What was she trying to say?

  As my wits slowly returned, I became aware of a strange sensation: a tiny voice, not quite a whisper, was emanating from the page, pleading softly. As I tuned into the noiseless voice it was as if something touched my soul. A strange lovely melancholy seemed to wrap itself about me and pull me down as though through water into the page. As seductive as it was, I felt sure I shouldn’t sink into it and with some effort I shut the book with a loud crack.

  The sound shocked me back to reality.

  My neighbour raised an eyebrow. Uncomfortable under his gaze, I collected myself and went to the window, uncertain of what had just taken place.

  I was standing over the spot the photographer had taken the portrait of the King family. Sarah’s window was directly below. Perhaps she was there now? With a message?

  I tore down the stairs and rushed into the park. The casement was still there on the south side of the rectory, in what had once been Eden’s study.

  But I was to be disappointed. I could make out an indefinite reflection of the park vegetation but there was nothing else in the windowpane. The gardens had no doubt changed since the picture was taken, though there was nothing in the grounds now that could have produced such an image in the rectory’s glass.

  A little deflated, I returned to the reading table and flicked through to the photograph again. The face was still there. In fact, I could perceive another two: two older women in bonnets, with faces too obscured to identify.

  What did it mean? Were they souls trapped in the rectory? Other witches?

  Or perhaps Sarah was indicating something significant happened here. What, I could not yet know.

  I replaced the book on the shelf, unwilling to take it home, and questioned why no one else had commented on the photograph? Books on the supernatural were full of photos far less distinct.

  Unsure of what to make of it I noted the name Canon Walker King in my notebook. Perhaps not a suspect, but the man was connected somehow. I could feel it. The picture was a sign.

  The after effects of seeing the women in the window had utterly drained me so I decided to call it a day. I’d covered a lot of ground after all. I gathered my belongings together, shoved my mobile and purse in my bag, and headed for the stairs.

  I couldn’t have been paying any attention to my surroundings because in a matter of seconds I had collided with someone. A wet black leather jacket had me rebounding sharply. ‘My fault,’ I said, looking up with an apologetic smile, and found Andrew McWhittard standing there on the landing, glowering. I’d knocked his bag from his hands.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ it wasn’t a very welcoming greeting. For a second I thought he looked angry, but then he said, ‘What are you doing here?’

  Typical bloody manager. I swooped down and caught his bag strap before he could grab it. Handing it back I went, ‘It’s my local library.’

  ‘Oh right,’ he said. ‘Text books?’

  I didn’t want to go into details so I nodded and said goodbye. Then I went to the desk and booked out the Brightling title.

  As I left the building I rubbed my arms until the goose bumps had subsided.

  When I got home I read out the summary of my notes.

  Then I added, raising my voice to the air, ‘I do understand, Sarah. I know you weren’t responsible for the girl’s death. You were trying to put out the flames. I know that. I can read between the lines.’ The words sounded strange, slightly sarcastic.

  My body tensed as I waited for a reply.

  In the silence that followed my eyes rested on the small stubby cone on my pine table.

  I couldn’t remember if I had left it there.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Records Office was an odd-looking modernist structure set in a car park in the heart of Chelmsford, the county town of Essex. Previous connotations that the town held for me (slightly boring, allegedly posh, and parochial) were now overlaid by the morbid discovery last week that most of Matthew Hopkins’ victims had spent their last days in the prison there before being tried at the Assizes and hanged.

  It was another one of those tightly coiled mornings; under low heavy clouds the temperature headed for the mid-twenties. We needed a breeze that wouldn’t come.

  When I got there the weather, which had started quite brightly, had turned grey and sallow.

  I had brought with me the full list of items necessary to secure a membership card, which I supplied to the man behind the desk. I was instructed to put my belongings in a locker and only take a pencil and notebook into the main reading room.

  I wasn’t sure what I was looking for but I thought I’d try to confirm when Sarah Grey died. This would perhaps give me some clues as to the circumstances of her death.

  The stiff-faced man at the front desk suggested I scrutinized the microfiche of parish records. Once I had located St Clements in the main index I started scrolling through the records.

  It was fascinating to see the handwriting in the registers. Despite different record-keepers, nineteenth-century writing was similar in style, all slanted loops. As the records neared the middle of the century the hand became more consistent and firm. Approaching the end of 1867 I saw her entry. ‘Sarah Grey of Leigh, December 9th 80 years old. The signature seemed to resemble ‘W. King’. Canon Walker King presumably. The man in the photograph in which I had seen Sarah’s face suspended in glass.

  I shivered, still unsure of what to make of it. I considered what to do next then decided to try and find her birth date.

  At the chest in which the microfiche were stored I found the 1798 section had gone.

  There were about twenty or so people, heads silently bent over machines, computers and books. One of them was interested in the same town, same church and same year as me.

  Rather than waste time, I sauntered over to the book section and browsed through some local histories. One mentioned the ‘Doom Pond’ or ‘Drowning Pool’ of Leigh-on-Sea and described the method used to ascertain the guilt (or, more rarely, the innocence) of those accused of witchcraft. I’d heard Corinne describe it before but this passage had more detail and a pretty lurid illustration: the hands and feet of the ‘so-called witch’ would be bound tightly. A rope would be tied around the victim’s waist. If she (the author referred to them all as female) sank and drowned, she was innocent. If she floated, she would be guilty and hanged. The accompanying picture depicted a woman, wide-eyed and naked, twisting and choking as she fell through the water.

  There was more about the legendary witches of Canewdon, a nearby village further inland, that had a strong association with spooks and hauntings. Then there was a passage on the mighty ‘Cunning Murrell’, which segued into a section on Sarah Grey, who was of course depicted as ugly, fearsome and bad. In addition to this, she was allegedly able to out-swear most fishermen, and was made to sound like a thoroughly unpleasant person. The author outlined what I was coming to realize was the generally accepted version of the story, although in this version it was a foreign skipper who cut the mast (and Sarah) down.

  I shut the book and went back to the fiche chest. 1798 had still not yet returned. A little mental arithmetic had me wondering if it was worth looking at fiche in the early 1820s for any relevant births or marriages.

  1820–1823 were missing.

  I frowned and looked up, scanning the reading area to see if there was anyone watching me. Although more researchers had arrived
there was no one familiar. All I could see were heads bent; everyone was absorbed by their own studies.

  The thought that someone here was preventing my investigation occurred to me.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I told myself. I didn’t want paranoia becoming my regular state of mind.

  I wandered over to the archivist and told her of my discovery of Sarah’s death. She was a little taken aback and suggested trying the computer to see if there was an entry on the 1851 census.

  After a quick search I found Sarah living with Harriet, 16, Eliza, 17, Alfred, 24 and Ector, 22, on Strand Wharf. Sarah had given her age then as 53.

  I returned to the fiche chest: 1798 had still not returned.

  I selected the 1797 section and scrolled through to the end of the year. But there was a funny thing: half of the pages from the earlier months had been scanned in upside down, overlapping the latter months and rendering them illegible. It didn’t look like it was a recent mistake. Perhaps the pages of the parish register had been forced back or stuck together-unpeeling them might have damaged the antique paper. Or was there something more sinister going on? Was someone deliberately obscuring Sarah’s identity?

  My imagination was going into overdrive and I needed to calm down. I returned the fiche to the chest, grabbed my bag from my locker and went downstairs to the small café.

  Coffee probably wasn’t a wise choice for calming the nerves but it seemed to work. I took some time to review what I had found and was deep in thought when I heard my name called. I say called but it was more of an exclamation. When I looked up Andrew McWhittard stood in front of me, face aghast.

  I was just as shocked and, in a fluster, I offered him a seat.

  He continued staring for a moment more, then wordlessly pulled out the chair opposite and slumped down.

  I managed to recover myself and tried to form my mouth into a smile. ‘Andrew. We meet again. Whatever are you doing here?’