Danger at Thatcham Hall

by Frances Evesham

  Dusk was falling fast around Thatcham Hall. Olivia peered at rows of trees that loomed, dark and threatening, matching her mood. Branches waved from side to side in a building breeze. Rooks cawed, bats darted across the fields and a single owl hooted once, in the distance.

  A full moon already shimmered in the sky. The chapel bell chimed the half hour. Olivia, eyes adjusting to the darkness, thought she saw a deer in the distance, disappearing into the woods. The night grew very still.

  What was that? To the left, a figure slipped through the shadows. One of the maids off to meet her lover, perhaps—or James, escaping his fiancée’s scrutiny, up to his old tricks in the village. The servants knew everything that happened at Thatcham Hall. Violet, James and Eliza all had secrets—secrets that had brought one of them out at night?

  Olivia knew, though, that it wasn’t a servant she saw, treading silently through the night. She’d recognise that uneven gait anywhere. Why was he out in the dusk? She left the library as quietly as she’d come, ran back for a coat, slipped down the back stairs and ran through the gun room, out into a blast of cold night air to follow Mr. Roberts.

  All was peaceful. Only the wind rustled the leaves on the old oak tree and whispered through the bushes of the shrubbery. Soon, her imagination began to play tricks. The trees were giants, striding through the dark. The bushes became intruders, shuffling closer to the Hall. A shiver lifted the hairs on Olivia’s neck.

  What was that? That movement under cover of the oldest and tallest of the oak trees? Mr. Roberts shifted, stopped, and moved again. Olivia squinted. She must be imagining it. It was dark, and the movement of the bushes was just the wind—but no. The shape detached itself from the shadow under the tree and flitted, soundless, across the ground to the next tree.

  Olivia waited. Sure enough, he moved again, travelling from tree to tree. Step by step, he covered the ground. Now, Olivia could see where he was headed.

  The chapel.

  Why was Mr. Roberts making for the chapel in the dark?

  Olivia followed, glancing around at every step. She stopped, rigid, in the shadow of the wall. The chapel loomed overhead and she shivered.

  She could hear something. Voices. She strained to hear, but they were just a murmur, from inside the chapel. Olivia made her way around the wall to the stained glass window, lit by ghostly, flickering candlelight. It was too high to see through, even balancing on the tips of her toes. She looked around, but no one was near. Mr. Roberts must have entered the building.

  The only way to find out what was going on was to follow him. For a moment Olivia hesitated, heart racing. She longed to turn and run back to the safety of the brightly lit Hall, but curiosity kept her back. She had to know what was happening inside the chapel.

  She crept to the door, leaned gently on the solid oak and pushed. The door swung inward. Olivia took one step, then another, and felt a rush of air as the heavy door thudded shut. Candles burned on the altar and around the walls. In the shifting light, hooded and robed figures stood, whispering, in a circle.

  Olivia’s heart beat so hard it seemed to echo round the walls. At least no one seemed to have heard her come in, or to have noticed the sudden breeze as the door opened and closed. They were too engrossed in their own affairs. Then, as though at an unseen signal, the murmured conversations stopped, and one of the circle stepped forward into the space inside the ring. Facing the altar, the figure raised both arms and intoned on a single note. “Guardians of the East, I do summon you now to guard this circle.”

  Mesmerised, Olivia watched. The figure turned ninety degrees.

  “Guardians of the South, I do summon you now.” Again it turned, and again, calling out, the voice reverberating in the silence of the chapel. At last, there was a cry. “The circle is cast. Beyond the boundaries of night and day, birth and death, joy and sorrow meet as one. Come into me this night.”

  Every figure took up the chant, their voices growing louder with each word, until the chapel windows rattled. Olivia shivered. This could only be one thing: a witch’s incantation.

  She’d seize the moment. While the coven was busy chanting, she’d hurry back to the Hall and get help. She crept toward the door, legs trembling. Dread weighed her down. Was this where Mr. Roberts had been heading? Was he part of this desecration?

  She heard a sound—a rustle—and turned, too late to ward off the descent of yards of damp sacking over her head. Struggling, legs flailing, Olivia gasped, furious, coughing as choking dust filled eyes and nose. Strong arms hoisted her aloft, squeezing every ounce of air from a crushed chest. She cried out, “Nelson!” Then, the world went black.

  Her eyes opened, but there was no light. The sack blotted out every glimmer. Coarse ropes bound Olivia’s arms to the back of a chair and secured each ankle to a wooden leg. Her fingers were free, but inching them along the wicker seat brought no prospect of escape. She took shallow, painful breaths, the smell of musty, damp hessian overpowering.

  Someone moved nearby. A familiar voice murmured, “You should have kept away, miss.” Eliza, the scullery maid.

  Olivia croaked through a raw throat. “For heaven’s sake, Eliza, let me go! At least, take this sack off before I suffocate.” A bout of coughing choked off more words.

  The maid’s voice was a frightened whisper. “I daren’t let you go, Miss. You don’t know what he’s like. I’ll take the sack off, though. He won’t want you dead, not now, anyway.”

  Olivia gulped fresh, clean air into burning lungs. At last, able to see and breathe, she squinted into a velvety darkness relieved only by the dim light of a solitary candle. “Are we in the chapel?”

  Eliza trembled. “In the crypt.” Under the nave.

  Olivia’s mind was a fog of terror. Determined to keep calm, to think, she took long, slow breaths. The panic subsided to a dull ache of misery. How long would her captor keep her alive? There was no reason to kill her. Witchcraft was no longer against the law. A spark of hope flared. Perhaps the man would release her, after all.

  Her mind shied away from the worst question of all—who was he? Not Mr. Roberts, please. She couldn’t bear it. Acid bile burned her mouth. She wanted, with all the strength of a pounding heart, to believe again in Nelson’s innocence.

  Had he lured her to the chapel? Icy lips hardly moved as she whispered, “Wh-why is he holding me here?”

  “You know too much, Miss.”

  Of course. Olivia peered through the gloom, eyes blurred with unshed tears. To the right, stone steps curled upwards, a pattern of smooth, worn surfaces leading to the nave. On the left, a few chairs leaned against the wall. Boxes, piled nearby, probably contained candles or oil. A wooden chest, smaller than the boxes, but lavishly carved, caught her attention. The lid was open. Objects inside caught the light, glinting.

  Olivia’s jaw dropped. Silver handles glimmered bright in the flickering light. Understanding burst in and she cried, triumphant. “The missing brushes and combs! They’re in that chest!”

  The maid squirmed, gaze darting from Olivia to the chest, then to the stairs.

  “Come on, Eliza. Why should anyone keep them here?”

  “Miss, I mustn’t talk to you. He told me to wait.”

  “Nonsense.” Eliza just whimpered.

  Olivia, suddenly angry, fists in tight balls, heaved at the heavy rope round her wrists. It was no good. The rope seemed tighter than ever.

  She stopped struggling, overcome by despair. “What will he do with me?”

  Eliza bit her nails in silence.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Nelson waited, hidden behind a tree, every breath slow and quiet, as shadowy figures entered the chapel one after another. As the last disappeared, he left the refuge and followed, his pace increasing to a silent loping run, moving more easily now that he had no need to hide his limp from prying eyes. In seconds, he was at the chapel. Muffled voices reached his ears, muted by the solid stone walls of the building to an indistinct murmur. He must get closer.
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br />   He raised a hand and grasped the heavy iron handle of the chapel door. He stopped, fighting back a fit of coughing, as a sharp smell hit the back of his throat. Nelson recognised the smoky, scorched perfume of burning herbs. He’d caught a whiff of the same smell at Grandmother Caxton’s cottage, the day he stumbled upon the strange feathered rope. His eyes watered.

  Slowly, with exquisite care, Nelson turned the handle, heaved the door open an inch or two, and peered into the glimmer of candlelight. He counted eleven figures in a circle, hooded, holding candles, chanting. Another figure, arms raised, hood thrown back, stood alone in the centre of the ring. Nelson’s heart pumped. His skin crawled. Witchcraft. The ancient arts still living, deep in the countryside. The chanting was louder, more rhythmic, insistent. Even the chapel walls vibrated to the overwhelming pulse.

  A sharp cry, swiftly muffled. The chant died. Footsteps echoed, fading in the distance. Nelson flung aside the heavy wooden door. Every hooded face turned to him. He drew a mighty breath and bellowed, “What evil is this?”

  Someone screamed. Nelson’s heart pumped. With a cry, a figure ran toward the vestry, behind the altar. Another followed, then more, until the whole coven was in panicked flight. Nelson’s boots rang on the flagstones as he gave chase, snatching at the robe of the nearest figure.

  The robe fell away, leaving the baker, Hodges—Eileen’s father—naked and shivering. The baker growled, face contorted, and threw a punch, but Nelson was quicker. He twisted the man’s arm round behind his back. Hodges crumpled to his knees, whimpering. The rest of the coven had gone.

  Nelson tightened his grip. “You’ve got some questions to answer.”

  The baker spat in his face. Nelson laughed, the excitement of the fight still coursing through his veins. He heaved the man to his feet. Hodges swore.

  Nelson pushed the baker ahead. “Get back to the Hall.”

  A sudden noise startled Nelson. He spun round, twisting the baker’s arm, ignoring Hodges’ roar of pain. A young girl―one of the maids from the Hall―stood, trembling, fingers at her mouth, at the top of a flight of stairs. “Sir, you need to come this way.”

  The baker swore. “Hold your tongue, you little slut!”

  Nelson looked from one to the other. The maid was shaking. He nodded to the robe, puddled on the flagstones. “Cover him up, he’s no pretty sight.”

  The maid led the way down narrow steps, lighting the way with a stub of candle, until they reached the crypt.

  Nelson’s heart lurched. Miss Martin, cheeks grimy with tears, wrists and ankles tied, glared from the gloom. He lost the grip on Hodges. The baker pulled free. Nelson wrenched his attention from Miss Martin’s pale face, curled one fist into a ball, swung the arm, and punched, the blow landing with a satisfying thud on the baker’s jaw. Hodges dropped like a dead pheasant.

  Miss Martin shouted. “Leave me alone.”

  “What?” Nelson paused in mid-stride.

  “G-get away from m-me. I kn-knew it was you the whole t-time.”

  “Me?” Nelson looked from Miss Martin to the maid. “What’s she talking about?”

  “Don’t know, sir.” The girl shrugged.

  “I know y-you’re at the bottom of everything that’s been h-happening.” Miss Martin was sobbing so hard he could hardly understand a word.

  He tugged at the ropes, releasing one hand. She hammered his chest with a clenched fist, hissing in his face. “You beast.”

  The last coil of rope fell. Nelson gripped Olivia tight as she sobbed, her heart thumping against his chest. Her hair smelled of damp and dirt. “I could never hurt you,” he murmured.

  She raised a wet, grubby face, a puzzled frown wrinkling her brow.

  The maid, ignored, wrung her hands. “Not him, miss. It ain’t him.”

  Nelson wrenched his attention from Miss Martin’s pale cheeks and watery smile.

  “What?” Miss Martin turned towards Eliza.

  “No, miss, he’s come to help you.”

  ****

  The range in the kitchen, still alight, threw a blanket of welcome heat over the servants’ hall, but Olivia shivered. She kept her eyes averted from Hodges, who clutched a bedraggled robe, a little apart. After regaining consciousness in the crypt, he seemed smaller and weaker, but no less spiteful. His lips were clamped together, piggy eyes screwed into malevolent slits. Olivia rubbed the red marks circling her wrists. Whichever of the coven had bundled her down to the crypt, Hodges seemed to be the ringleader.

  Mayhew, the butler, banished the rest of the servants, whispering together, to the scullery and gunroom. He scratched his head, muttering. “I don’t know, sir.” He frowned, eyes fixed on the floor. “I just don’t know how this could all be going on under our very noses. I dread to think what his lordship will have to say.”

  Mr. Roberts seemed to enjoy the situation. Olivia, an enormous cup of hot chocolate warming cold fingers, decided he’d never looked so animated. They say old soldiers never die. Headache fading, stiff shoulders easing, only willpower kept the smile from her face. She felt light-headed with relief. She’d have time to talk to Mr. Roberts soon enough. In the crypt, she’d seen unfamiliar tenderness on that dear, handsome, scarred face.

  The chest rested on the scrubbed table. Mr. Roberts took the combs, brushes and pins out and laid them in a neat row. “We’ll return these to their owners later, after the constable arrives. But we’ll get rid of these.” He held up a handful of tiny rag dolls, rough and crude in execution, each different from the others.

  A blast of cold air touched Olivia’s neck, although the door was closed. She reached out, touching the dolls with a fingertip. “This one’s wearing pink silk, like Miss Dainty’s dress, and here’s one holding a needle. Why, it’s meant to be Lady Thatcham.”

  Mr. Roberts put the dolls aside and laughed. “So, the fools in the chapel thought they’d harm the family with a little of the old magic!” Olivia shivered, but he grinned. “Come, surely you don’t believe in such things?”

  “N-no. Of course, I don’t.”

  “It’s theft that’ll see Hodges in prison for a good few years.”

  A flicker passed across Hodges’ face. Olivia would enjoy watching him in court. Perhaps Mr. Roberts would prosecute.

  As if reading her mind, the lawyer eased himself into a chair, rubbed his hands together, grinned and fixed the two prisoners with a level gaze. “You’d better explain yourselves.”

  Eliza sniffed and wiped her face on the sleeve of a filthy robe. “They made me,” she said, with a glance at Hodges. Pure venom dripped from the look Hodges returned. Olivia shuddered. The maid burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed, head in hands.

  Mr. Roberts waved her to a chair but left Hodges standing. “What have you to say for yourself?” The baker, face sullen, mouth turned down in a sneer, spat on the floor. Mr. Roberts sighed. “Very well, Hodges, if you won’t talk, I’ll let Eliza tell the story.”

  Mayhew smiled. “I will take Mr. Hodges into my parlour, Mr. Roberts, if I may. I will call James in, to prevent any attempt at escape, while you hear the truth from Eliza.” There was a glint in the butler’s eye. Olivia wondered if she should feel sorry for the baker.

  Once Hodges had gone, looking less like a High Priest of witchcraft than a sulky child, Eliza blew her nose, sat up straight and smirked. “Honest, sir, it was the Hodges’ what made us do it.”

  “Us? Who are the others?”

  Mr. Roberts’ voice, cold and harsh, seemed to deflate the maid. The cocky smile vanished. “From the village, sir. Some of us who live there got into d-difficulties with Mr. Hodges.” She covered her mouth, as though afraid she’d said too much.

  He leaned his arms on the table and glared. The maid muttered through welling tears. “He’d f-find things out about people and threaten to tell unless they did everything he said.”

  She sobbed so hard Olivia could only make out every other word. She touched Mr. Roberts’ arm. “Give her a moment to recover.” She poured a cu
p of milk and gave it to Eliza. “Come now. Drink this and you’ll feel better.”

  The maid pushed the cup away.

  “There’s nothing in it to harm you.”

  The maid managed a quivering smile and sipped the milk. A little colour came back into the girl’s cheeks and she started to talk, the words tumbling out in a jumble. “Once Mr. Hodges or Eileen found out something about you, like maybe you pinched a ha’penny of thread from the haberdasher, or took a pie home from the Hall, they made you give them money, and when you ran out, you had to steal things—bits of silver and suchlike. Things from the family at the Hall.”

  “So, you’ve been stealing for the Hodges?”

  The maid nodded, eyes on the table.

  “He didn’t sell the things you stole, though. What use were they?”

  Eliza whispered. “It’s the curse. He tried out a few, like the day Lady Thatcham broke her favourite vase. He’d made a curse, with the doll and some hair from her brush, to give her the trembles. Another time, Miss Dainty slipped on the stairs and tore her new dress. That was thanks to Hodges, too. Practising, he was, ready for tonight. He planned to put a curse on the whole of Thatcham Hall, to prevent any more children being born to the family. Because of Eileen.”

  Mr. Roberts shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

  Olivia intervened. “Eileen’s baby.”

  Mr. Roberts let his breath out in a long sigh. “Of course. I think I can see. Hodges thought someone from the Hall fathered the child and he wanted revenge? Is that it?”

  Eliza nodded, cheeks crimson.

  Olivia leaned across the table, looking into Eliza’s face. “But it wasn’t anyone at the Hall, you know. It was a visitor.”

  Eliza snorted. “Visitors, master, it’s all the same. Them that has, gets, and them that hasn’t have to do their bidding.”

  Her contempt shocked Olivia. “How can you say that? Everyone knows how kind Lord and Lady Thatcham have been to the village.”

  “Kind? It’s easy to be kind when you have everything. Throw a bone to the poor scullery maid, give a handkerchief to a ladies’ maid. It’s nothing to you people. Huh!” The maid’s face turned brick red. “You don’t know what it’s like to scrub floors when your hands are red raw, or sit up all night because your betters want to dance until the dawn comes up, then get up early to set their fires and make their breakfast.”