Witch Hunt

by Syd Moore

  I shook my head. ‘No, it was more about the witches themselves and the qualities they shared with the contemporary Essex Girl …’

  Maggie cut in. ‘Yep, yep. They “were poor, dumb and ‘loose’ as in not controlled by, or protected by men”.’ She was quoting my article. I got her point – she knew it back to front. ‘So why exactly did it happen then? To the extent it did here? I assumed that Essex and its inhabitants already had a reputation for being thick, flat and uninteresting?’

  I coughed. ‘No, not at all. Up until the witch hunts, Essex was seen as the “English Goshen”.’

  ‘I last heard that word in Sunday School. Fertile land and Israelites. Now don’t go all religious on me, Sadie. We’re not the Church Times.’

  I sighed. I hated having to explain things to her. She had such a high IQ and always made me feel like I was rambling. ‘Goshen also means place of plenty. And that’s a pretty fair description: Essex has an interesting geology. Sits at the southernmost point of the ice sheet that covered the rest of the island. Soil’s full of mineral deposits brought down from up north via the glacier.’

  Maggie pulled a face then converted it into a smile. ‘Geology’s a bit of a turn off for our readership …’

  I held my hand up. ‘Hang on. Let me get to the point – it was perfect for farming, for cattle, for livestock. It’s surrounded by rivers and the North Sea for fishing. Until the 1600s it was seen as a pretty cool place to be. But after that it changes a bit.’

  Maggie’s eyes blinked. ‘Because?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Well, this is where I come in. I think a) because it was quite the revolutionary county in the Civil War. Backed parliament. Wanted reform. Was seen as the “radical” county. And b) because of the extent of the witch hunts.’

  ‘Which were because?’ She cocked her head to one side and sat back in her chair.

  ‘Lots of things, I think. One was class aggression – you look at the European witch hunts and they had it in for all different types of people: aristocrats got burnt at the stake and their lands neatly confiscated by the Church. But in the Essex witch hunts the victims are mostly poor. At the same time you’ve got a mini Ice Age, crop failures, Civil War, a general breakdown of law and order. Indictments in Essex were already higher than elsewhere in the country. Then suddenly in 1644 the numbers spike dramatically. It was down to Matthew Hopkins, whose dick must have fallen off or something.’

  Maggie raised an eyebrow. ‘Language, darling.’

  ‘Well, he’s got serious issues with women. Killed more than any of the other Witchfinders put together. Decided to call himself the Witchfinder General and got rid of whole families of,’ I lifted my fingers to draw imaginary quotation marks, ‘“witches” in his brief career from 1644 to 1647. Some sources suggest that he was from Lancashire, others from Essex or Suffolk. That he worked in shipping as a clerk and spent some time in Amsterdam learning his official trade, where he witnessed several witch trials.’

  I looked up to catch her expression. ‘And?’ she said, eyebrows furrowed, not giving anything away.

  ‘So he comes back and starts on Essex Girls in Manningtree. That’s where he was based. There and Mistley. The Thorn Inn is where he had his headquarters.’ I jerked my chair closer to the desk. ‘Killed a good hundred more people than Harold Shipman, who I might add, we can draw comparisons with – he also enjoyed murdering older women living on their own. But, like I said, it’s thought that Hopkins killed more. Possibly making him the number one serial killer of all time. Conservative estimates look to about 350-odd victims. And,’ I drew breath for emphasis, ‘he was only twenty-six or twenty-seven when he snuffed it. That was in 1647. In 1692 you get the Salem witch hunts – and guess where they were?’

  Maggie drummed her fingers on the desk. ‘I’d put my money on Salem.’

  ‘Okay. I didn’t phrase that well. What county do you reckon Salem is in?’

  ‘It’s in Massachusetts, no?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the state though. Salem is in Essex County.’

  ‘That, I didn’t know,’ said Maggie thoughtfully. ‘You have my full attention. What are you thinking?’

  ‘Not sure yet. I have to do some digging. I’ve got a tingling feeling going on. I think I could come up with something strong. Perhaps, and this is just a perhaps at the moment, it could be part of a bigger series – The Essex Girls’ History of the World.’

  Maggie’s eyes brightened – pound signs were presumably whizzing through her brain. ‘Now you’re talking. What are you saying – six, twelve articles?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. Let me see what I can come up with.’

  ‘I like it. I really like it. Sounds like you’re talking ahead of the next deadline. Can you come up with this in three weeks?’

  I’d already thought about that and shook my head. ‘I’ll definitely need longer.’

  Her eyes dipped and hardened. ‘You’ve got a current deadline. This is like an ongoing column. Readers will be expecting a piece in the next issue. Be a dear and sort something out for that please.’

  I already had something up my sleeve. ‘What about little-known Essex Girls of import … ?’

  Maggie picked up my line. ‘That go against the stereotype …’

  I gave her a stony stare. ‘All Essex Girls go against the stereotype …’

  She ignored my comment. ‘Yes, okay, you can have that. But I don’t want you trotting out the regulars: Helen Mirren; Sally Gunnell … yada yada. There was a piece like that in the Standard just the other week.’

  ‘I’ve got enough research to concoct a decent article pretty quickly. There’s Anne Knight who campaigned against slavery and for women’s suffrage …’

  Maggie sniffed. ‘Not too political though please, Sadie. We need an arts or culture steer.’

  ‘Come on – she’s a notable woman. A lesser-known

  notable …’

  ‘Oh dear. I’m going off the idea. Who else have you got?’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, reaching mentally for someone a little more exciting. ‘Maggie Smith?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Oh and also Mary Boleyn – the “other Boleyn Girl”. You could run a nice pic of Scarlett beside it.’

  ‘Was Mary from Essex?’

  ‘Lived in Rochford for about ten years.’

  ‘Born here?’

  ‘Not exactly …’

  ‘She’ll do. Stick in a couple more like that and think pictures.’

  She wrote something down in the book on her desk. ‘Good, good,’ she said to herself and bit the end of her pen with gusto.

  ‘Then I can go into Hopkins?’

  ‘Darling,’ she said, replacing the pen and fixing me with one of her scary smiles. ‘After that you can do whatever you like – as long as you hit your deadline and make it contentious. We need debate. Especially on the website. The bigger the better.’

  ‘Great. Thank you.’ I said it in earnest. ‘I’m going to get something good out of it – got an instinct with this, believe me.’

  Now she leant forwards. ‘Very topical Essex is right now.’

  ‘That, I know, dear Yoda.’

  She grinned. ‘Do you think you could explore your contacts and get some coverage in the nationals? If you come up with anything biggish?’

  ‘I can’t promise anything but it’s always a possibility. I’m pretty sure there’s an angle I could work out that could pull in the wider population. Hopkins has more than a regional fascination.’

  Maggie’s eyes were fixed on my face. ‘Excellent. I want more than an “And Finally” on Look East. God knows we need to boost circulation.’ She leant forwards and picked up her mug.

  I mirrored her. The coffee was hot and delicious so I gulped it greedily, feeling the heat in my throat, then processing her last comment, I said, ‘I thought you were doing great.’

  Maggie sighed. ‘We are, in terms of readership and profile. Best it’s ever been. But our landlord’s putting the rent up; the
price of paper is going through the roof right now, and what with the recession or whatever this dire slump we’re passing through is called, a lot of our regular advertisers have had to pull. A fair few have gone bust still owing us. Marketing is always the first thing to go when times are hard.’

  I stared up and caught a sagging around her eyes. ‘I had no idea.’

  Maggie reached for a fag and projected her chair to the sash window. Lighting it, she pushed the bottom half up and craned her mouth to the opening.

  ‘Please don’t tell anyone, Sadie. I’m confiding in you as a friend, not an employee. I don’t want it to get out to the others.’ She blew a long sigh of smoke through the gap. ‘We’ll be lucky if we’re still trading this time next year.’

  ‘Ouch,’ I said.

  She faced me. Her regular kittenish expression disappeared. There was more of a hungry alley cat look going on there. ‘Pull this “Essex Girls’ History of the World” article off and I’ll think about upping your rate to something bordering on decent and throw in your expenses.’

  I sat back and looked her squarely in the face. ‘That’s a generous offer. Considering …’

  ‘I said I’d think about it. You know me, always one for a get-out clause.’ She laughed, and the kitten returned. ‘Let’s call it a calculated risk. I have faith in you.’

  A strong blast of air came in through the crack, scattering several loose papers across the desk and blowing my notebook shut. I gathered them up, feeling a little less excited than I had been just moments before. ‘Thank you for the vote of confidence. I’m not sure that I deserve it. Not yet.’

  ‘Don’t be so down on yourself.’ She shot me another look and said more softly, ‘You sure you’re okay?’

  It was an invitation to talk. But I didn’t want to open those particular floodgates so I sniffed, swallowed down all self-doubt and wobbliness, and smiled as brightly as I could. ‘Fine. Honest.’

  ‘Right then,’ her tone changed: she was wrapping up. Our transactions were like that. I’d got used to Maggie’s looping behaviour that swung from utter professionalism to friendly concern then promptly back again. ‘Can’t stay here chatting about books and whatnot. You get going. Crack on with your witches. When do you think you can give me an idea of where you’re going with your leads?’

  I told her about two weeks should do it and stood up to go.

  ‘Great,’ she said as I made for the door. ‘Oh, and Sadie. Call me if you need any help sorting Rosamund’s house.’

  I told her she’d be the first on my list and said goodbye.

  She was second actually, but I appreciated the gesture.

  Chapter Four

  Okay, so the first on my list would be Dan. I wouldn’t ever say that he was like a father to me: he came onto the scene when I was hitting my twenties. Although Dad had upped sticks and remarried by then, we stayed in touch, and he did his paternal duties to the best of his ability. There was no gaping hole there and I had no desire for another father figure. Thankfully Dan didn’t attempt to patronise me by insinuating himself into my life. That’s not to suggest there was conflict there – although we enjoyed a good debate, holding opposing views on many issues, it rarely strayed towards heat. We gradually learnt that we shared several traits: an unfashionable respect for the Beckhams, a crossover in early punk CD compilations, a distrust of online shopping and, of course, we both loved my mum, Rosamund.

  I couldn’t understand where he had disappeared off to?

  It was so unlike him.

  But I was going to sort it. I was determined. After I left Mercurial I drove over to Leigh.

  Dan’s flat was on the third floor of a large 1920s block with stunning views over the Thames Estuary to Kent and beyond. It wasn’t massive: two large bedrooms, a contemporary kitchen/diner and a lounge with a balcony just big enough to squeeze on a round table and two small chairs, three at a push if I happened to pop in. The first time I visited I was impressed by the minimalist interior. Later I discovered his style was a product of divorce and OCD, rather than fashion statement.

  Over the past few years he’d chosen his furniture carefully, with an eye on simple classic design, and as a consequence his flat had a groovy, contemporary vibe that was quite charming.

  That afternoon though, I was surprised by what I found. Not that there was anything immediately concerning, well not anything I could put my finger on straight away. In the kitchen Dan’s laptop sat on the work surface half open. It wasn’t plugged in and the battery was flat. Next to it was a three-quarters full, stone-cold cup of coffee with a thick skin on the top.

  It wasn’t like Dan not to clean up after himself.

  I crossed the kitchen and entered the lounge. The TV was on, volume way down low. Perhaps he had returned and gone out?

  Maybe he was here? Asleep in his room? The bedroom came off a central hallway. As I pushed it open, I tentatively called out his name.

  I felt intrusive entering his bedroom, but once I was assured no sounds of life came from within, I opened the door wide.

  His bedroom was in a state of mild disarray. But I mean, mild. In my place it would be considered tidy; the duvet was jumbled up loosely in a mound at the end of the bed. Some of the drawers from the large mahogany chest had been pulled out and not pushed back in.

  So, although it was more chaotic than Dan liked, it didn’t resemble a robbery. The laptop was in full view and the plasma TV that hung on the wall hadn’t been touched.

  Perhaps he’d been searching for something. Or packed in a hurry.

  But it just didn’t feel right.

  Like most recovering depressives, since Dan had learnt to control his moods, everything else under his rule was managed efficiently and tightly too. He was as likely to leave this mess as he was to miss an appointment with his doctor. Or with my mother, for that matter.

  Could an old infirm relative have needed him? Family crisis?

  Then why not let Mum know?

  Why not send a message at least? It was selfish not to.

  Anger tightened my brow.

  Remembering Sally’s request, I stomped into the bathroom. A quick scan revealed an unusually tousled cabinet. At the back, on the bottom shelf, there were two bottles of Dan’s regular medication. I stuck one in my bag and closed the bathroom door.

  I felt odd leaving the place all messed up like that, so I nipped into the kitchen, closed the laptop, stowed it away under the sink and washed up the mug.

  As I was locking up on the landing the neighbour’s front door opened a few inches.

  ‘Who’s that?’ The voice belonged to an old, well-spoken woman. Through the crack I could vaguely make out sleek white hair, and elegantly bespectacled blue eyes.

  ‘I’m Sadie, Rosamund’s daughter.’

  The door trembled then opened to the length of the

  security chain.

  The smell of grilling bacon wafted out into the hall.

  Dan’s neighbour squinted through the gap. ‘Where’s your mother?’

  I gave her a taut explanation and the blue eyes softened a little. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. Standard response.

  The woman regarded me with what I assumed was pity, then she sniffed and lowered her head and said, ‘I’ve heard things, you know.’

  Most of us tend to gloss over non sequiturs like this but as a journalist, when people come out with lines like that, I’m always straight in there, probing. You usually find they’re spoken in unguarded moments – when the conscious, or the conscience, is struggling with the subconscious mind, and not guarding the ‘truth lobe’.

  ‘What things? Do you know where Dan’s gone, Mrs … Sorry, I don’t know your name?’

  I held out my hand and took a step towards her. It completely backfired. The woman took a step back and her door slammed shut.

  I hung about for a couple of minutes, waiting to see if she was going to open it again, then shrugged mentally and put the nei
ghbour’s words down to old age or battiness and left.

  As I crossed the ground floor foyer I passed a tall man in a black leather jacket with a remarkably expensive-looking tan, not the kind you get from living in the UK. Or out of a bottle for that matter. And, believe me, I’m from Essex – I know.

  He smiled as if he knew me. That kind of reaction wasn’t uncommon: Leigh was a small town, people tended to know of each other, even if they hadn’t yet met. I nodded back.

  As I approached the large glass doors at the front, the tall man skipped in front of me. He smiled again, this time revealing perfect white teeth and a pair of intense blue eyes, then he held open the door for me. ‘Ladies first.’ There was an accent there, though the exchange was too brief to pinpoint it.

  ‘Thank you.’ I stepped through it and continued over to my car expecting him to follow me out.

  He didn’t.

  As I swung out of the car park I saw him behind the glass door.

  I couldn’t swear to it, as I was a fair distance away, but I think he was watching me.

  Back at the hospice, I found Sally.

  ‘I think it’s all right to take them,’ I told her and handed over the bottle. ‘There was another one there of the same. I know Dan usually has a lot of spares in case he mislays the meds. He’s not going to run out for a good while.’

  Sally heaved a sigh. ‘It’s all been very stressful for poor Dan. You’re managing to cope, Sadie. You’re young and have friends and your dad. Dan’s pretty much on his own and I think he might not be handling this too well.’

  I had been so wrapped up in feeling sorry for myself and Mum that it hadn’t occurred to me what Dan might be going through. Now I saw Sally could be right. I remembered a conversation I had once with him about his medication. He described the drugs as creating a ‘semi-porous wall’ which managed to keep out what he referred to as ‘the dark’. ‘Sometimes,’ he told me, ‘it’s just not strong enough.’

  ‘What do you do then?’ I asked him.

  ‘We go back to the doctors,’ Mum interjected.