Witch Hunt

by Syd Moore

  ‘Yes. All true,’ she said with an enthusiastic nod. ‘But you have to agree that it was a rather sudden disappearance. Tuberculosis is slow and creeping. And perhaps Stearne had thrown the towel in with Hopkins. The Witchfinder was involved somehow with Lady Jane Whorwood. Some thought that association was the end of him. She was a Royalist. Absolutely pro-Charles I; visited him in prison. They may have possibly even had an affair. She certainly helped him escape. Perhaps the Parliamentary Puritans who backed the witch hunts grew weary or suspicious of Hopkins’ motives. Or perhaps, as you say, he just wasted away …’

  I could tell she was saving the best for last so I asked, ‘You don’t reckon that happened then?’

  Amelia beckoned me closer. ‘I always wondered if he wasn’t murdered,’ she said, throwing her hands up in the air.

  ‘Really? By whom?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. But I have a half-formed theory.’ She sat back and took a large swig of her champers. ‘Who gains from Hopkins’ sudden disappearance?’

  I had a think but came up with too many suggestions to mention them all.

  Jumping in quickly she answered herself and said, ‘Men. That’s who.’ And gave me this hybrid look that married satisfaction and smugness with a sort of leer.

  Then she leant forwards and touched my knee.

  Crap, I thought. That’s all I need – a predatory radical lesbian on my case. Just when I was loosening up and starting to enjoy myself. ‘How so?’ I countered in a tone that suggested scepticism.

  ‘Well,’ she leant back into her chair and cradled her

  champagne flute in both hands. I could see a lecture coming on.

  ‘It was in the middle of the Civil War. And you know this was quite a time for women. A lot of them took advantage of the breakdown in law and order to come out of traditional female roles. A few women were involved in a peace movement, which tried to persuade men not to participate in the war. Women of all classes battered on doors pleading with people, attacked soldiers … Also, with half the male population off fighting, women had to take a practical and physical part in society. But then people got edgy. Firstly witches, whether real or not, challenged authority. So people were quite pleased to see them smacked down and neutered. But later the country realised that it was mostly women getting hanged, and mostly because women couldn’t speak for themselves, attitudes started to change. Popular opinion turned.’

  ‘Funny,’ I said, listening to what she was saying and making parallels. ‘When you put it like that – I know the whole Essex Girl stereotype started when women were really beginning to infiltrate the work place during the eighties; banking, engineering, the financial sector. The Essex Girl stereotype slapped them back down again by suggesting they were thick, lustful, passive sluts. Which is kind of what they’d rather they were.’

  Amelia tossed back her hair. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised.’

  ‘Hopkins sexed up the “witches” too. Before he came to the stage, it was just finger pointing and local feuds, but once he got his mitts into it the whole thing took on a vastly more lascivious aspect. It was all about women, and some men, letting imps suck them. Women would copulate with the Devil too. Lots of mentions of “carnal relations”.’

  Amelia’s hair wobbled atop her head as she nodded. ‘That’s the thing. It was all spiralling out of control. If you believed that Hopkins was right then you had to concede that half of South England was in the orgiastic grip of Satan. People knew this wasn’t so. Ergo, seventeenth-century rationalists finally speak out and the debate surrounding women’s status kicks off. Only on the fringes but it’s there. For the first time in history,’ Amelia said cheerily and sat up in her seat, ‘men could see that the women involved weren’t witches. And also that they couldn’t speak out for themselves. They had to have a brother, or cousin, or father or son to speak for them. Most of the women accused lived on their own. There was this huge discrimination. If you recognised this unfairness then you started to see the lack of gender balance: any sane-minded individual had to concede that things weren’t right. Then, to prevent this spread of hysteria, the solution was perhaps that women should be granted some kind of status …’

  ‘Okay? So?’

  ‘The idea is growing. Something has got to change to stop the witch hunts. And then all at once Matthew Hopkins disappears. Overnight, everything goes cold.’

  I reflected upon this for a moment. ‘So what are you saying? That the momentum to give women more rights fell away because of the decrease in witch hunts?’

  Amelia nodded. ‘Yes. That took the wind out of the “feminists’” sails.’ She threw me a meaningful glance. ‘In lots of ways Hopkins stirred up a hornets’ nest. Let’s face it – we were only forty or fifty years off of The Enlightenment, when rationalism took to the fore.’

  ‘So you’re saying that he was eliminated? Murdered because he was indirectly challenging the status quo?’

  She raised her glass to me. ‘I’m giving you a steer.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t heard that conspiracy theory before.’

  ‘Is it a conspiracy theory? He’d outlived his usefulness. He wouldn’t be the first person to be silenced in the Civil War.’ She raised her glass. ‘The W.I. loved that angle, I can tell you. Anyway, take my number and visit me when you go to Manningtree. And you’ve got to stay at the Thorn Inn in Mistley. He’s meant to haunt it, you know?’

  ‘Hopkins?’

  Amelia winked at me. ‘Oh yes. Apparently he’s been seen sitting on a chair in the attic and another one of the rooms. They like to play it down but people talk. And we all love a good ghost story don’t we?’

  In the context of the previous few days it was the last thing I loved right now. But I was courteous in my response. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That’s all very interesting.’

  ‘Here,’ she said, reaching into a bag at her feet. ‘Call me if you decide to pop over.’

  We exchanged numbers and were depositing phones back into handbags when Janet came over and the conversation dwindled to more domestic subjects.

  At some point I was dragged off to play cricket with Lettice and Lucy who were in fine spirits and ran circles round me in my semi-inebriated state.

  ‘Why is Aunty Mercedes wobbling?’ I heard Lucy ask as I was getting a good innings in.

  ‘Because she needs another drink,’ said an older male voice. It was cousin Ian, grinning from the sidelines, a champagne flute in either hand. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Refreshments.’

  Somehow it had got to five o’clock and almost immediately we were called into the living room to watch Uncle Roger open his presents. As it turned out he loved the photo. Bloody good job too, I thought. I would have done my nut if it had been passed over without comment.

  There were a couple of speeches and numerous toasts and before I knew it I was going way way way over the legal limit and agreeing to stay.

  When that had all settled down Ian and I went outside and sat on the swing chair. It was good to see him.

  ‘Roger seems well,’ I commented after we’d caught up on romantic attachments (his), careers (mine) and Mum’s funeral. ‘The way Janet was talking I thought he’d be at death’s door.’

  Ian shook his head. ‘No, he’s looking all right now, but his kidney is on the way out.’

  ‘Really?’ I kicked my feet up and pushed the swing back. ‘So what’s the prognosis?’

  ‘Well, he’s only got one left so I guess, traditionally, it would be a transplant …’

  ‘So why doesn’t he get one?’

  Ian’s face had a very solid look to it. He was always the very essence of calm benevolence. ‘You can’t buy them at the supermarket,’ he said gently, as if breaking bad news to a child.

  I was going to protest that people like Roger went on forever, but Dad was marching over the lawn towards us.

  ‘Come on you two. Roger’s leaving. Come and say goodbye.’

  The swinging had made me feel a little sick anyway. So we got u
p and staggered into the house, through to the hallway where there was a queue of well-wishers bidding farewell. Roger was halfway out the front door, his face flushed, his eyes bright and watery. He was having a great day.

  I was quite pissed by now and an unexpected wave of compassion flooded through me.

  Ian and I pushed through to Uncle Roger. Ian shook his hand and I, filled to the brim with bonhomie and bubbles, threw my arms around him and slopped a kiss on his cheek. ‘Uncle Roger, it’s been great to see you. Happy birthday. And listen, I know you’re poorly and I’ve thought about it and I would be happy to give you my kidney if you want it. No really. Yes.’

  Roger took a little gasp of air. Then he broke into a broad smile. ‘Oh Mercedes, that is kind of you. But the photograph will do just fine.’

  He leant forwards and stroked my cheek. It was an affectionate gesture but at the time I was full of drunken passion and determined to donate a vital organ.

  ‘No,’ I said tersely. ‘I mean it.’

  Roger sighed. Then he said rather quickly, ‘You keep it. It wouldn’t do any good.’

  I smiled and said, ‘Go on. You don’t know till you’ve tried. Have it. It can be your Christmas present.’

  He reached down and grabbed my hand. ‘You don’t know how much that means to me, Mercedes. Thank you. But we wouldn’t be a match, my dear. Take it from me, I know.’

  Dad had come up from behind, clearly embarrassed by the turn the conversation had taken.

  He patted my shoulder and prised my arm from his brother’s. ‘Mercedes, your uncle is very tired. Stop bothering him. Ian, will you take her back into the party? She’s had a bit too much –’

  Ian gave my dad a wink and took my elbow.

  As I was pulled away I told Uncle Roger, ‘I mean it, Rog. I’d do it for you.’

  Then I hiccupped.

  Inebriation so detracts from serious intent.

  But I meant it.

  And so, I realise now, did he.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I’m not sure at what point I finally went to bed, but when I woke up I had a serious hangover. It was nine o’clock. Dad and Janet must have risen early but let me sleep on, because when I came down into the kitchen they were sitting round the table with Lettice and Lucy.

  For a minute I watched them from the doorway. Dad was pouring Lucy a juice. Lettice must have just said something funny to Janet, because she was looking over smiling. If you didn’t know better you would assume that they were the perfect family. Maybe they were. The thing is, I saw very clearly that morning that they were happy and self-contained.

  They didn’t need me.

  They never had.

  And I knew they would be just fine if I weren’t there at all. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t that I was full of self-pity. I could see that they worked. Later I would remember the scene. It would clarify a hard decision I was going to have to make.

  It wasn’t long before Lucy spied me and called out my name. ‘You were drunk last night,’ she said, full of childish satisfaction.

  ‘I was tired,’ I told her, sloping into the kitchen and ruffling her hair. ‘You are way too perceptive for your years, young lady.’

  After many cups of coffee and a full English breakfast I finally extricated myself from the household and was on my way by eleven.

  Halfway home I had to pull in for petrol. I was close to Manningtree and considered for a minute whether I should detour and scout the town. But at the back of my mind there was a notion that if I mentioned the visit to Felix, he might wish to accompany me – and that was far too tempting to jeopardise. I was seeing him tomorrow in Colchester. I might drop it into conversation.

  Instead I filled up the car, bought some mineral water and a damp sandwich and was just about to leave the shop when a glance at the magazine shelf stopped me. A local journal was running a feature on witches. I took it to the till, was offered a bag, said I didn’t need one and headed towards the exit, arms full – and promptly bashed into a large man clad in a black leather jacket. Everything spilled onto the floor.

  The big guy dropped to his knees, full of yanky sounding apologies, and helped me scoop them up. It was only when I righted myself that I looked into his face. It was familiar, tanned. He smiled, revealing a set of immaculate white teeth. I couldn’t place him.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘It was my fault.’ He didn’t offer a verbal response, just nodded and looked away. I felt a little bit of an idiot knowing I probably reeked of last night’s fizz so I quickly shuffled out to the car.

  Depositing my goods on the back seat, I took out the mineral water. Still not fully compos mentis I opened it and released a fizzy shower of water all over the dash and driving seat. Bugger. I had cleaning stuff in the boot so hopped round and fetched it. As I slammed the boot I saw the man in the leather jacket get into a black BMW on the other side of the forecourt. He settled into his seat, pulled his seatbelt across his chest and then just watched me.

  I smiled.

  He smiled.

  I turned away and dried the car, inwardly cringing, the clumsiest oaf in town.

  Within minutes I was on my way again not thinking any more of the encounter, drawn in to the meditative hum of the road. The smooth Essex landscape opened up either side of me – flat green-brown squares of land, fringed with shady spinach-coloured thickets.

  Beyond the sunshine autumn was clearly on her way, shading the hedgerows with her amber paint, fleecing the copses of their frayed leaves. The air outside smelt smoky and ripe; the earth was ready for harvest.

  An uneventful hour later I pulled into my drive. My back had been aching a little so I stretched my arms up and rubbed my neck. I don’t know what made me look but just as I was about to get out of the car I clocked a black BMW pulling in across the road.

  No one got out. The side windows were tinted.

  I adjusted my rear mirror to get a better view. Then, I shivered. I didn’t know why at the time.

  An older man in a light-coloured suit got out of the back. He had a trilby pulled over down over his ears so I couldn’t see his face. He sauntered a couple of yards to the post box and posted something through the slot.

  I thought it might have been the big man with the leather jacket, but was glad it wasn’t. Silly of me to assume that. Let’s face it, there were thousands of black BMWs on the road these days.

  I locked my car, took my stuff up to the flat and got on with the rest of my day.

  Before I went to bed I fixed myself another sandwich, tuned into the news channel and half-stifled a groan. Robert Cutt had been at it again. This time there were allegations of bribery; something to do with access to a list of potential mayoral candidates. Cutt was coming out of it all right though – there was a fall guy, Gerald Harp, some executive way way down in the Cutt hierarchy, testifying that Cutt had known nothing about the alleged misdemeanour. Yeah right.

  Photos showed Harp was on the puny side: very fair with see-through eyelashes and matching hair. The last photo on the TV coverage had him in a geeky white blazer, at some sporting event.

  After a few minutes of commentary outside the House of Commons they went to a shot of Cutt leaving a meeting. Reporters jostled with each other to get into a prime position. His bodyguards managed to whack a few out of the way, but one determined newshound got their mic right under his nose.

  ‘Do you have any comment to make on this latest allegation, Mr Cutt?’

  A bodyguard shoved the camera, which tilted to the floor, showing Cutt’s strangely effeminate pale blue suede shoes. The reporter herself was undeterred. ‘Mr Cutt, do you have anything to say about this revelation?’ The camera was back up, trained on Cutt’s face. He stopped and offered his good side to the camera. He didn’t give a toss about the fall guy, you could tell. The operator clumsily zoomed in and Cutt’s broad high-cheeked visage filled the screen: ‘My family and I have always lived a moral and correct life. Despite these slurs, that will continue.’ The light American
accent still lingered in his voice.

  ‘Amen,’ said a bystander and a couple of nearby nutters applauded. Why? He wasn’t an out and out Christian but he did have that American thing about brandishing his genealogy. The more he did it, the more popular he got.

  God, he was smug.

  He gave the camera one last devilish smile, then left the frame. The crew attempted to follow him but were hemmed in by men in suits.

  Some of us could see what Cutt was doing – using every possible media opportunity to promote his wholesome credentials in order to get that power seat in the cabinet. That wholesome image was a well-thought-out strategy. Right on the money, if you forgive the pun. I could almost applaud its engineer: we were up to our ears in secular unrest right now – what with the riots, the Eurozone, the bankers, foreign mafia infiltrating our shores. Never before had a return to some kind of thinly couched Christian ‘Back to Basics’ ethic been so well received by the press. People wanted a quick fix and Cutt was positioning himself as the answer to it all.

  It made me seethe.

  Arrogant git.

  Not all of his family could have lived a good life. There must be someone somewhere who had been a bastard and spawned this crook.

  ‘Well, let’s just see about that, shall we,’ I said to myself, ramming the last piece of sandwich into my mouth. I fetched my laptop, put his name into Google and sat back. The search brought up hundreds of hits.

  A quick tour through the labyrinth led me to Cutt’s own website where his family tree was displayed proudly for all to see.

  It was true – though his parents were working-class people from Wyoming, their roots, through his father, went back to Jediah Curwen-Dunmow of Massachusetts who died in the late seventeenth century.

  Curwen-Dunmow was, according to a mini biog, a fine upright elder. He fathered a son, Certain (who dropped the ‘Curwen’ and kept only ‘Dunmow’), very late in life. Although Curwen-Dunmow himself had no certificates to substantiate a lineage before him, the line from Certain Dunmow to Robert Cutt was strong and unwavering. It stopped at his name. There was nothing else on the bottom of the screen, just his pompous flashing moniker.