by Syd Moore
‘Yes. I had some knowledge of it when I lived here. But,’ I stressed to him, ‘I visited her home several times and found nothing of witchcraft there. The woman trifled with herbs but there seemed no other evidence of ungodliness.’ I did not speak of the confession she had once made of her sin.
He leant forwards. ‘I agree. What little I know of her, her reputation had little foundation. Yet as I told you she was found by the Drowning Pool. Fortunately (please forgive the use of this word but you will understand it presently) it was my curate, Henry, who made the grim discovery in the early hours of the 5th, brought to the pond by the yapping of his hounds. He hastened directly here. On informing me of what he had found I directed him to call the physician, as is the common practice. Henry was in a state of extreme disquiet and insisted I saw it for myself. When we reached the pond, he took me to a bush where he had concealed the corpse.’
The reverend paused to take a deep breath. ‘She had been bound, as witches were swum: her right thumb tied fast to the left toe.’
I expressed my repugnance. ‘She had been drowned then?’
The reverend paused, then nodded his head away from me as if he could not meet my eye. Slowly King turned, and looked directly at me. ‘I must tell you this: she had been beheaded. We identified her by a locket that she was known to wear. The scene of the atrocity, dreadful though it was, was bloodless. A later search did not throw up the head. We have not found it yet.
‘We called upon the nearest physician – Doctor Hunter. On examination of the corpse he declared it most likely she was dead when the head was removed and that the body had been submerged for some hours. The tying, too, had come after death, he suggested, to suggest the woman a witch.’
I took this on board. ‘Aren’t they innocent then if drowned? That is what the fishing folk believe. One might say she achieved some kind of vindication at last. Though that is of little consolation to the dead.’
‘Of that I cannot make comment. You must understand the implications of this for the church. We have moved on from those times but there are those within the parish who will cite “thou shall not suffer a witch to live” on a daily rote.
‘Hunter’s footman helped us to transport Grey’s body to the doctor’s house. At this he remarked that the folk by the river were all a chatter about an incident that occurred the night gone by. Sarah Grey had been seen speaking passionately with the captain of a vessel bound for Antwerp. There was some dispute. Folk supposed she had begged him for a penny to bless his passage home, not received one, so cursed him instead and run away. The captain had hastened to sea, for a storm was on its way. One that the fisher folk believed Sarah had called down on him.
‘It was a difficult matter to decide upon. I have not always seen eye to eye with the doctor but the man was admirable in his loyalty to the law and insistent we call the coastguard to pursue the captain. “It was he that must have done for her”, he said. “Or if not him, then some crusader from your church.”
‘His words struck fear into my heart. The ramifications of a churchgoer involved in this horrendous crime stirred me into a great anxiety. The unusual position in which Grey was bound, the absence of her head, suggested superstition, and a zealous antipathy to “witches”. Hunter was sympathetic and suggested we then urge discretion in the matter. All those involved were soon sworn to secrecy, never to utter a word. As mayor of the town, Hunter was able to command a great respect and authority. He took it upon himself to make investigations and agreed to send men to pursue the captain of the ship, who was, according to Hunter’s man, of a distinctive cast.
‘It was agreed that we should not expose the family to the unfortunate circumstances of their mother’s death. We sealed her in a coffin that night. Doctor Hunter agreed to insert “carcinoma” as the cause on the certification. As I said, we buried her with dignity within the walls of the churchyard.
‘There has been little made of her death and yet rumours abound. I suspect the source to be one of Hunter’s men but there is little one can do to silence wagging tongues and many suppose the story an invention of sorts.’
The reverend fetched more brandy as I digested this in silence. When he returned I asked what Hunter’s men had found.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘The captain had gone to ground. Tipped off, I presume, by someone at the port. We have agreed unless there are any further deaths of this sort that it may be concluded the captain was the culprit. And, my friend, I wish that it is so. She was an old woman and she was given a Christian burial. We can but pray for her soul in heaven.’
And with that, we sat down and did pray for poor Sarah Grey.
When we had finished I agreed I would not speak of it again. No good would come of it for the family or for the people of Leigh. We could but wait.
I was disturbed by the turn of events and did not wish to linger. Emma could see my mood was somewhat diminished and did not delay our departure. I could not speak to her of what had occurred in the study but she detected something grave had taken place. Having made our way back to Cliff Hall she did not demur when I made plans for our return home the following day.
Yet even in my home, my dreams are uneasy, my conscience is brought low. I pray soon this will fade and I can return to my duties with a focus that at present eludes me.
I worry for the legal ramifications of my suppression of evidence and the complicity this confers. Even as I write these words I know they may be held against me. But I need to think and to pray and the exercising of the event through my pen is coincident with some coming of clarity. I cannot destroy this paper yet. I will pray for guidance. But if you, my sons, read this and I have not concluded the matter I must ask you to swear to hold the truth. Or obliterate these words.
I was fatigued now, pierced with compassion for Eden. I could understand his guilt. Briefly I wondered why his words had not been destroyed but was thankful that they had not. They were indeed an illumination on the past.
And then suddenly I was full of anger at the injustice of it all.
I could smell the sulphuric mustiness of estuary mud: Sarah was about me, floating in the watery film that separated our worlds, waiting in the shadow pools, urging me on.
Help me, Sarah.
A pressure on the back of my neck propelled me forwards. A shudder convulsed my upper body. I needed to let her know I was with her but my voice was sticking.
The stench in the kitchen intensified.
I forced myself to speak: ‘I won’t let you down.’ My voice was hoarse, frail and unconvincing but this time I meant it.
The fusty tang of seaweed lingered a moment more. Then a pine cone dropped onto the floor.
Sarah had heard me and she had gone.
I felt sure she would return to me in a dream that night and as a result I tossed and turned as if thrown about on an unquiet sea. At one point I thought I heard the spiteful laugh of a man on the stairs, but when I looked there was no one there. Before morning broke, I gave way to exhaustion and sank finally into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter Seventeen
I was woken at ten by a text from Martha. Alfie had got into bed with me at some point during the night and was playing with his Action Men. I was surprised he hadn’t roused me earlier. For once I didn’t have a feeling of pity or sadness about me. Instead I felt OK. Stronger even. I was starting to understand Sarah. Her awful tragic life. Her restless body in her grave. I was still tired and as edgy as hell, but I felt I was getting somewhere now, making progress.
Martha’s text was a round robin reminding everyone of her party that night.
I, of course, had completely forgotten.
To be honest it was the last thing on my mind.
I resisted the urge to phone Andrew immediately, recalling his one hundred per cent accurate prediction that I would want to speak with him first thing. Instead I texted Giselle to see if she could babysit.
It was her night off but fortunately she said she would do it.
&nbs
p; After another hour, in which I showered and breakfasted, I gave in and texted Andrew. He replied saying he had to wait in for a delivery but that I was welcome to come over. My head was on fire with questions, so I coaxed Alfie from the television and within a few minutes we were sauntering down the Broadway.
A barrel of chirping Sea Scouts were heading straight for us, taking up most of the pavement, so we crossed the road to avoid the inevitable collision and found ourselves outside the church. And, you know how sometimes your feet decide to take you somewhere before your brain has made any such decision? Well, it was a bit like that. One minute we were on the pavement in the shade of the large bushes, the next we were going through the east entrance. Alfie found a large twig and started firing it and shouting, ‘Cover me!’
I improvised a pistol with my mobile and we fired at each other for a while, sporadically ducking behind gravestones and rolling over on the grass until Alfie found what he thought was ‘a worm eating a snail’ and became instantly engrossed, poking it with his gun.
I stood up and stretched my legs, then wandered quietly round the east wall and along the hedge to the south. A lot of the headstones looked like they were sliding down the hill pointing accusingly to the sky at forty-five-degree angles.
Walker King had said Grey had been given a good Christian burial and I wondered if she might still be here, but squashed the thought when I remembered reading somewhere that many of the graves were moved to make way for the Broadway. I think they went to the cemetery just south of the old highway, London Road. She was probably there, I imagined. Even so, strolling round to the more populated west side, I stopped to inspect a few of the graves. Some went back to the 1600s. Inscriptions carved in an archaic curved hand had been rendered pretty much illegible after hundreds of years. A big, dark, black one in the corner looked quite interesting. The ground was slightly springy to the touch and as I crouched down to read the memorial my heels sank slightly into the grave.
Soon Alfie came scampering up and announced that the snail had won. Before I could stop him, he shot me (at close range too) and ran off to the north of the church.
We weren’t in a hurry but I wanted to move on now. I had told Andrew I wouldn’t be long.
I fished out my mobile and fired after him. As he rounded the north-east corner of the church he disappeared from my view.
Bugger. I would need to use guile to flush him out.
‘Alfie. Where are you, mate? Come on. We can’t be too long. Andrew’s waiting for us.’
‘Come and find me,’ a little voice sang from the shadows.
I sighed lightly.
Alfie’s giggles came from straight ahead. I stepped up from the path onto the grassy verge.
He was in the corner behind a marble slab.
I nipped behind an arch-shaped stone and saw his golden head pop over the top of the gravestone. ‘I’m coming to get you, ready or not.’
Alfie squealed and ducked down.
I sprang from my hiding place, sneaked closer to his, then dipped beneath a stone lump half sunk in the ground. As I was getting up I brushed my elbow against it, dislodging a layer of yellow-green lichen that had obliterated the wording. I saw an H then GRE.
I stopped, knelt back down, rubbed the space next to the H and uncovered SARA. This had me rocking back on my knees. I took a deep breath and started brushing off moss after the E.
Slowly the Y came into view, then ‘BELOVED MOTHER’. The rest of the script had been eaten by earth.
Of course it was there. Of course it had to be: in the shade of a cedar tree.
‘So, is this where the pine cones have been coming from, Sarah Grey?’ I whispered softly. ‘I know that you’re not easy in your grave. I understand it now.’
I touched the grass by the headstone, aware that whatever was left of Sarah’s remains lay decomposing beneath me, separated only by six feet of earth. We had never been so physically close before. A huge sense of pity came flooding over me.
‘Hey!’ Alfie was at my side, indignant. ‘You were meant to find me!’
‘I’m sorry, honey. I found someone’s grave instead.’
‘Ohhhh!’ He inspected it. ‘It’s not very big.’
‘I think it’s sunk over time. It wouldn’t have been like that to start with.’ Or would it? Would they have wanted to conceal the witch’s grave?
Alfie nodded, and then tugged my hand, visibly running out of patience. ‘Can we go now? Can we go?’
‘Yep.’ I stood up and clapped my hands. Then I said to the grave, ‘I’m getting there, Sarah. I promise to find out for you.’
I was grateful there was no response – not even the plop of a pine cone from above. But then she wasn’t there, was she? She was roaming over Leigh and stopping by my house.
Alfie put his hand in mine and yanked.
We tramped out of the graveyard with a somewhat hasty gait.
Within twenty minutes we had found our way to a Leigh suburb that didn’t exist when the Reverend Eden inhabited these parts.
A tired and sleepy Andrew opened the door to us in tracksuit bottoms and a stained t-shirt. He’d caught some sun up North and his arms were bronzed, sinewy and muscular. He was ruffled and messy but louche. Alfie pushed him aside and marched straight into the house, leaving me to apologize for my son’s manners.
‘It’s all right,’ he laughed. ‘They’ve got no idea at that age, have they?’ and led me into a large, open-plan kitchen. Well, I say large, but Andrew’s house was a terraced cottage. It had that developer look to it: the walls of each room were a characterless cream: the kitchen, smart and modern, seemed ill thought out as though whoever had designed it never had any intention of living there. There was a feeling of emptiness and a slight echo in the room when I spoke.
Lack of storage space meant spices, herbs, cooking oils and condiments spread out untidily across the surfaces. ‘A chef too,’ I caught myself thinking with approval. I blushed and bent down to speak to Alfie so Andrew couldn’t see my cheeks.
Andrew apologized for the mess and made a token effort to clean up, pushing everything into a corner and dumping unwashed crockery into the sink. Apart from that the kitchen was spick and span.
Andrew put the kettle on and made some space for Alfie to play in the middle of the room. When he’d made up a pot of proper coffee we went through to the sitting room, which was simply and blandly furnished like the rest of the house.
‘Do you like jazz?’ he asked, sorting through a rack of CDs.
I would rather stick needles in my eyes, I thought. ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Good. This is a nice Saturday afternoon mix.’ He stuck it in the player. A track, which to my relief had words in it, floated out of the speakers.
Andrew picked up his mug. ‘Cheers. So?’
I launched into the fray. ‘So, what do you think? Who killed her? It’s weird isn’t it? I thought it might be something like that. And what do you think about the captain?’
Andrew was smiling as he watched me. He had a look of satisfaction on his face and seemed to get off on my enthusiasm. ‘I knew it’d get you going. I re-read the journals last week. It is a good story.’
‘Tragic though. If it’s true. Both her death and her life. Losing her lover in that way.’
‘Well, there’s a thing – I’ve not found mention in the local papers of a murder at that time. Neither his nor the press ganger. Of course if Fitch had murdered a press ganger maybe the news would have been suppressed. They weren’t popular, were they? And Lady Olivia had money and authority. She would have wanted to give the scandal a complete body swerve. I have no doubt those involved could have been bought off fairly easily.’
‘But there were press gangs operating then?’
Andrew nodded. ‘Yes. It’s a credible story to a certain extent. The impressment laws didn’t become obsolete until 1835. Did you see my notes underneath that bit? The last Leigh man known to have been press-ganged was Goldspring Thompson. He died in 1875.’
‘Blimey,’ I said. ‘You’ve got a good head for names and dates.’
He laughed. ‘How could you forget a name like that? Press gangs targeted Leigh a lot through the centuries – young men who had good sea sense and knew about boats were always in demand. With it being on the coast and unfortified it was an easy target. One of the books I read said there used to be a secret passage in St Clements beneath the flagstones of the tower. All the eligible men would hide there while the press gang sharpened their cutlasses on the Mary Ellis grave. That’s the big one outside by the cemetery gate. You can still see the marks the knives have left.’
‘Aha. Yes, I know it. Came up in a quiz question once.’
Andrew gave me a lop-sided smile.
I responded lightly. ‘Impressed by my local knowledge, I can tell,’ I said, wondering simultaneously at the easiness of our banter – how we could move from heavy and historical to flippant and frivolous in the beat of a heart, neither of us irritated or put out of kilter by the mercurial change of tone. ‘So,’ I returned to the story, ‘do we work on the theory Sarah’s story is true?’
As he nodded a lock of hair flopped over his eye. He pushed it back. ‘I’m inclined to want to believe it as much as she did. Although,’ he stopped and gestured to the ceiling with his free hand, ‘as a historian, one always has to consider the possibility that she could have made it up. We can’t forget that she was grieving when she told Eden; she was probably extensively sleep-deprived and delirious too. We both know the effects loss can produce on a fragile mind.’
My head shook vehemently. ‘No way,’ I said, surprising myself with my passion. ‘She didn’t make it up. I know it.’
‘How do you “know” it?’ He drew inverted commas round the word. ‘I understand that you might want to believe it, but how do you know it to be true?’ It was the academic speaking.
I put my cup on the carpet and stared at him. I wasn’t sure myself until now. But I did believe what Sarah had told Eden. Something had resonated with me as I had read his account of her. It felt true. And it fitted completely with what I’d seen in my dreams.
