by Syd Moore
‘Starving Marvin, as they say in South Park,’ I said and immediately regretted the crass pop culture reference.
‘Quite,’ said Mr Knight. He reached for a document at the side of his desk. ‘We’re all quite enamoured of your colloquial style. You don’t come across writing like that very often. Wondered if you’d speak like it too. So often you get authors who write in one way and speak in quite a different manner. But you seem to be the genuine article.’
What was that meant to mean? Genuinely working-class? Genuinely Essex? I didn’t want to risk offence by asking for clarification so simply smiled. Felix did too – that wide gleaming grin (no overbite, white pearls verging on perfect), displaying zero visible dental work, evidence of good, strong, well-nourished stock.
He selected a pen and pushed the wad of papers towards me. ‘Let’s get your signature down here. Then we can release the funds.’
The restaurant was Spanish, full of little round tables. Across the walls hung strings of what I first thought were tacky plastic garlic bulbs and chillies, but then realised were the real McCoy.
After signing the contract Delphine popped in to let us know our taxi had arrived and since arriving at the restaurant our conversation had spun away from work into taste in food. It was only after we’d knocked back our first glass of wine that we got down to nitty-gritty book talk.
I explained that I’d already written an introduction about the factors that led up to the witch hunts, then, developing my original proposition, outlined the fact I was planning on setting the work out in three sections: the hunts up to 1644; the Hopkins campaign of terror; and then the decline of prosecutions up to the last known arrest of Helen Duncan, aka ‘Hellish Nell’, who went down for witchcraft in 1944, if you can believe that. Hers was an odd case. She was convicted of fraudulent ‘spiritual’ activity after one particularly informative séance in which she gave out classified information about military deaths. I had to include it. Felix was fascinated. Or at least, he gave the impression of being utterly absorbed; the eyes zoomed in on my face, his mouth set into a line. His expression was neutral, listening, but there was a shadow of a wrinkle across his forehead which betrayed intense concentration.
Enjoying the attention, I went on to explain I had pretty much sketched out the first section and was now focusing on Matthew Hopkins.
‘I don’t know a great deal about him other than what you’ve précised in your synopsis.’ Felix leant forwards across the table expectantly then reached out and refilled my glass. ‘Please do go on. You’ll have to excuse my ignorance on the subject.’
As it was fresh in my mind, I took him through an overview of that particularly nasty witch hunter who had made such an impact on my county.
‘What do you think his motive was? Power? Greed?’ Felix asked as the tapas arrived on the table. I took a modest forkful of meatballs, but didn’t start on them.
‘Of course: they’re your basic tools of capitalism at a time when that economic system was emerging.’ I took a breath. The final cadence of my sentence made me sound way too preachy. I moderated my voice and glanced at Felix.
He didn’t seem to mind and nodded me on, eyebrows higher, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips.
‘I mean,’ I went on, ‘yes, he gained financially from the deaths. And, yes, I’m sure that that was certainly a motivating factor. In one town alone he made about £23 from the executions, which works out to about £3.5k today. Some sources reckon, he netted the equivalent of about £100,000 for a year spent witch hunting. Quite an incentive.’
Felix swirled his wine glass, sniffed it, and took another swig. ‘Exceptional.’ I wasn’t sure if he was referring to the vintage or the witch hunter’s income. ‘But to kill in such quantities? To witness the last moments as the life was squeezed from them. And then to continue – he’s got to have been mad, surely?’ He tilted his face towards me, as if waiting for me to clear up that quandary.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I think he must have partly believed what he was doing. I mean, he had to believe in witchcraft and the Devil. Everyone did at that point in time. The country was one hundred per cent convinced not only of the existence of witchcraft but the idea that its practice could empower some people. Witchcraft was as real to them as, I dunno …’ I searched around for a contemporary angle, ‘… electricity is to us.’
‘That is a fact, however,’ he said. ‘Electricity is real.’
‘Yes, but we can’t see it. We see the results of manipulating or conducting it. We don’t see “it”. But we believe it.’
A slight droop of the eyelids told me the metaphor wasn’t working, so I moved on. ‘Well, anyway, my point is – he probably did believe that some of them were witches. I mean, in a few of the confessions you get the sense that some accused may have been convinced that they had caused their victim’s misfortune: you go begging, someone refuses you charity, you curse them, then they die or fall ill. That sequence of events might have happened fairly regularly – the psychological stress that people underwent when they were “hexed” probably did have a pretty negative effect on their health. Your average seventeenth-century villager hadn’t got a clue about strokes, heart attacks and fits. It was all the work of the Devil.’
‘So, by contrast, he was doing God’s work?’ Felix offered. ‘That’s how he saw it?’
‘Christ no,’ I said quickly. ‘Hopkins made stuff up to convict them. He fabricated stories and coached the accused so that they’d be convicted. I think he enjoyed it.’
‘He was a serial killer then,’ my editor spoke up once more. ‘He got a kick from seeing the cases through from hearsay to execution. Or else why do it?’ Felix shone his metallic eyes on me. ‘Where did he stand with God? How did he reconcile what he was doing?’
I reflected for a moment. ‘I don’t know. The rubbish that he came up with in his book, The Discovery of Witches, reads like he was on the back foot, defending himself, like he knew he’d done wrong. Some of the justifications for starting his campaign are insane.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like seeing an imp transform from a greyhound with the head of an ox into a child of four who ran around without a head!’
‘Ah, but you can’t put yourself in the shoes of those in the past. All these apparitions and manifestations seemed very real to those who lived amongst them.’
I took another sip of my wine. It was exceptional.
Felix looked into the mid-distance. ‘Wasn’t there some suggestion that hallucinogens were part of the witch craze?’ He returned to me.
‘Plants with potentially hallucinogenic effects were used in ointments and medicines during that period. Deadly Nightshade, mace, nutmeg, even saffron, contain essential oils that can have that effect. But you’re probably thinking of ergot fungi. It grows on grasses and cereals and can bring on hallucinations too. There was a book out in the seventies which suggested the Salem witch trials were due to young women eating ergot-infested rye.’
‘What do you think about that?’
‘Well, I’m no biologist but I imagine it’s doubtful. You’d have to consume a lot of it. You know I once read an article that talked about the impact of tobacco and pipe smoking in the seventeenth century and suggested that Hopkins was a stoner. As, like most gentlemen of the time, he was often seen with a little white pipe.’
‘Was he?’
‘I’ve not found any evidence myself yet, but you never know.’ I smiled. ‘The problem is, any explanations of that type just sound like an excuse: “I’m sorry, Your Honour, but I was drunk/stoned/smashed.” You know the kind of thing. That doesn’t cut it with me. Not if you look at the detail.
‘It’s clear, when you actually sit down and read about the trials, that there are instances when you can see his victims were just repeating what he’d told them to say.’
Felix leant back. ‘Give me an example.’
‘Right,’ I said, selecting an episode from my memory. I didn’t then know how or w
hy I found it so easy to recall facts and figures from these particular witch hunts. Ask me the balance of my current account and I’d be umming and ahing but Hopkins’ crimes were burnt into my brain. ‘Well, in the Huntingdonshire trials you start seeing “witches” cite names of imps that have already been used in the Essex trials: Blackman; Grizzell; Greedigut for instance. Quite distinctive. Some of the witches forgot what they were alleged to have said and were prompted by Hopkins at the trial.’
‘Idiot,’ Felix said quietly. I was really starting to like him. That full mouth was definitely quite passionate, I could tell.
‘So he was greedy and power hungry without discipline or intellect,’ he said eventually. ‘It has to be handled firmly – power and money – if one is to succeed.’ He took a hand and smoothed it back through his hair. A little lock fell down over his forehead.
‘Well, you’ve obviously known power. I can’t say I have.’
‘No. I mean – look around you. Look at all the corruption and greed – business, politics …’ he sighed and took up his glass. ‘It’s a disgrace.’
‘I’m hearing you,’ I said.
He looked up into my face. ‘I guess you are too,’ he said and smiled appreciatively.
Of course, I thought. He can’t come across many like-minded individuals being stuck working for Cutt. I would have felt sorry for him had another strong emotion not started to simmer within.
I swallowed and pushed around some food on my plate. ‘I’m sure Hopkins was also a sadist,’ I said, getting back on safe ground. ‘But able to get away with it. Though now demanding of closer inspection, I believe.’
Felix joined my gaze and smiled.
‘Which brings us neatly to our purpose,’ he said. ‘Essex is certainly full of surprising little gems.’
I popped an olive into my mouth and looked at the table again.
‘Are you from Essex by the way, Sadie? I know you write about it, but an interest doesn’t necessarily make one a native?’
‘I am indeed lucky enough to have been born in that county, yes,’ I ventured so far as to send him a wink.
‘That’s grand,’ he said and pushed his plate into the centre of the table for the waiter. He folded his arms and regarded me. ‘So do you go back a long way? Both parents?’
‘Dad’s originally from Suffolk, just north of the border.’
‘And your mother?’
‘Yes. Born and bred.’
‘Grandparents?’
‘One left on my dad’s side.’
‘And on your mother’s?’
I paused. What was he fishing for? Enough credentials to validate my links to the county? ‘I never met them. They died before I was born.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame.’ Felix nodded, that sympathetic wrinkle sewn back across his forehead.
‘Yes, well.’ I refocused the conversation. ‘Don’t worry. You don’t need old family connections to get the gen on Essex folk. We have a brilliant records office and don’t forget, I am a journalist. My press card opens doors. As does my winning smile.’ Cue cheesy grin.
Felix shifted then leant forwards, his eyes a little misty. Any remaining formality had vanished.
I glanced down at his hands. No wedding ring. He caught my gaze.
‘So,’ he said, cleared his throat and grinned. ‘What’s Manningtree like? Where Hopkins commenced his hunt? Is it very rural? I’ve never been.’
‘Oh,’ I said, a little shamefacedly. ‘I haven’t actually visited the place yet.’
Felix’s eyes widened in mock horror. ‘But the home of the beast himself! You must go. I say one can learn a lot about a man, or woman, from their home and surroundings. It might make interesting reading.’
He was right, of course. ‘I’ll stick it on my list of things to do,’ I added. ‘In fact I’ll schedule it after Colchester. I’m planning to go there next week. That’s where the witches were gaoled. Haven’t been since I was a school kid.’
‘Ah. Colchester. What day are you planning to visit?’
I shrugged. I liked to keep my diary flexible in case any local jobs came up.
‘If you make it next Monday,’ he was saying, ‘I might just be able to accompany you to the castle. I quite fancy the idea. One of my authors has moved down to that neck of the woods and she’s due a conversation about her last edit. Could kill two birds with one stone? Visit said writer, and combine a short tour of the city with another from the Portillion fold.’ His eyes arched expectantly. I saw, with a mild buzz of appreciation, that they glinted with splinters of quartz. For a second it looked like he was holding his breath.
‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘But remember – I haven’t been for a long time. I won’t be a very good guide I’m afraid.’
Felix wagged his hand playfully. ‘Then we shall be on an equal footing. And you can bring me a progress report on the book. Are you happy with your timescale?’
He wanted the first draft submitted within five months. A little bit of a push, but as I had the research and structural outline already, I thought I could make it. Plus the money would come in very handy indeed. ‘Yes. That’s fine.’
‘Excellent. Then shall we drink to the deadline?’
‘We shall,’ I said and raised my glass.
It’s a funny old phrase – the deadline. Comes from the American Civil War. Refers to a line drawn around prisoners. If they crossed it, they’d be shot.
Obviously it never struck me then, but on first meetings, why drink to a finishing point? Why not to a profitable association or ongoing success?
But Felix had elected to drink to the deadline. The line of the dead.
His choice was to be uncannily prophetic.
Chapter Seven
On the train home I realised I was a little tipsier than expected. Felix was such a genial host, and never let my glass go empty, so I had no idea how much I’d drunk. Now I was feeling rather drowsy and there was nothing for it but a little nap. I woke up to the sound of my mobile bleeping. A text from Maggie: it was the birthday of Mercurial’s art director, Felicity, and they were celebrating in Leigh Old Town. I was welcome to join them. Her mis-spellings suggested they’d been there a while, which suited me quite nicely. I made a mental note to get off the train a stop earlier.
The next call set my heart racing. It was from Sally. When I looked at the screen and saw the name of the hospice flash up I went into a reflexive panic. Then I remembered that the worst had happened and instantly my spirits, that had been so giddily high after lunch, plummeted back to the abyss of reality.
‘Hi Sadie. How are you going?’ Sally’s voice still conjured up sympathy and cups of tea.
I told her I was getting on.
She murmured heartening phrases about Mum wanting me to do exactly that, and not to dwell on things, then she asked me straight out. ‘Have you seen Dan yet?’
I told her that there was still no word on his whereabouts.
‘Oh dear,’ she said.
I asked what the matter was.
She seemed reluctant to tell me, but then I heard the sound of an inner door shutting and her voice reduced to a whisper. ‘Don’t repeat this. Promise?’
I swore I wouldn’t.
‘Doctor Jarvis looked at Dan’s medication yesterday. He’s rather concerned. It seemed that although the prescriptive label on the bottle was accurate the tablets inside were like nothing he’d seen for that drug before. He’s sent a couple off to the lab for analysis. But,’ said Sally, ‘if there’s been some kind of a mix-up, then it means that Dan may have unwittingly stopped taking his medication.’
‘Shit,’ I said, for want of anything better to express my alarm. ‘Which means?’
‘Possible onset of depression, psychosis, delusion … the list goes on. The main thing is he needs to see a doctor, pronto. Have you any idea where he is?’
I shook my head. ‘No, not at all. I tried everywhere I could think of before Mum …’
Sally huffed out a sigh. ‘Mich
ael managed to speak to his department. They still haven’t seen him. All they’ve had is some message that he’s taken leave to sort out a personal matter. Any ideas?’
‘No,’ I said, though this news was somewhat positive. There’d been forethought at least. He hadn’t suddenly gone off the rails. ‘So, what can we do? For Dan? Should we call the police?’
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to get them involved. Keep an eye out. If you see him or hear from him, tell him about the mix-up and get him to his doctor’s at once. He’ll understand the urgency.’
I thanked her and told her to phone me if she had any more news. She gave her word.
After all that I was a bit wired and completely forgot to get off at Leigh. Instead I disembarked at Chalkwell station, popped into the flat, changed my boots and swapped my dress for jeans and t-shirt.
Afternoon had become early evening. Though we were at the late onset of autumn it was not yet cold and I decided to stroll down to the Old Town via the cinder path, hoping the fresh ionised air would cleanse my aura of its Dan-centred worries.
It was a lovely walk, running the length of the shoreline from Chalkwell station to Leigh Beach. Peaceful too. Above me an aeroplane, flying its passengers to warmer climes, chalked its stubby vapour trail across the fading pinky-blue sky. On the horizon Kent warped in a cloudy mist. Twenty metres out in the estuary a solitary seagull arced high above a moored yacht, flapping its wings without cawing. Closer to land an old guy worked his way up the tidemark, swinging a metal detector back and forth in time to the slow lulling rhythm of the waves.
The evening sun hung low over the chimneys of Canvey Island. There was no wind that evening and everything felt very still.
I dawdled past the Wilton, a former navy warship, now used as a clubhouse by the Essex Yacht Club. The gentle tinkling of glasses and faint chat of the members drifted up across the water. It was an uplifting sound, full of conviviality and good humour, and for a moment I had the feeling that there was a change on its way.
Of course, at the time I assumed it would be for the better.
