Witch Hunt

Chapter Twenty-Eight




Amelia was early; when I went downstairs she was waiting in the reception area, her light-sensitive glasses adjusting to the bright interior of the pub. She had on a deep russet coat – teamed with her long bobbed hair, she resembled a kind of female Johnny Ramone.

We ordered a drink and sat up by the bar, making small talk.

I was doing a good job of holding it together, looking competent, conversing eloquently. Inside my head there was some dizziness where a section of brain cells were busy making sense of the ‘lice shower’ and the Hopping Bridge. I let them puzzle it out while the frontal lobes continued their work of interacting with my dinner guest. When Amelia asked me what I thought of Manningtree the two areas overlapped and I let slip a wry smile.

‘It’s very stimulating,’ I told her.

She nodded. Dangly green earrings swayed to and fro. ‘I imagine it must have really got you going.’

‘It certainly has.’

‘Very atmospheric, isn’t it?’

‘That is something it doesn’t lack.’

‘So glad you’re enjoying it.’ She took a sip of her wine. I had ordered brandy. Purely medicinal you understand: I was resolved to stick on one glass and have a white wine with dinner. No more than that as, once I’d finished with Amelia, I wanted to capture some of my experiences in words and then as Felix had suggested ‘filter them into the chapter’ that he wanted by Friday.

‘I wouldn’t say “enjoying” it was the right word,’ I told her.

Amelia’s eyes rolled. ‘Hopkins getting to you?’ And she let out a little piggy snort of a laugh. She removed her coat and straightened out a more formal-looking dress than the outfit she’d worn to Uncle Roger’s party. I caught a waft of lavender and imagined a small scented wardrobe full of well-preserved clothes. I could picture her giving her lecture at the Women’s Institute.

‘I have to say,’ she said as we sat by the bar, ‘I did have a few nightmares when I was researching him. He really was a sod.’

I smiled at her profanity, guessing that was as far as someone as well-bred as Amelia would venture to go.

‘Your table’s ready,’ the waiter interrupted and gestured to a corner seat. I squeezed past a large group of diners.

Amelia had her drink in one hand and her handbag in the other, and was holding them up over her head as we navigated to our table. She narrowly missed hitting a middle-aged man with her handbag. It turned out that she knew him and stopped to exchange a greeting.

We sat down and arranged ourselves. ‘Is this your local?’ I asked.

‘No. I’m further out past Manningtree, but I recognise most of the people in here. One tends to get to know faces in such a small town.’

I watched her settle her bag onto her lap. ‘No, I’ll start with this,’ she said to herself, hands rummaging through into the depths of her carpetbag. She looked up brightly. ‘I’ve got quite a lot to talk about but I think I’ll keep the best for dessert and coffee.’ She winked. ‘We’ll need the space.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘Well,’ she pulled a thin A5 notebook out and passed it over the table, ‘I found this last week and thought you might want to have a look at it. On page five is the Red Lion. In Manningtree.’ She pointed to a black and white photograph of a street decked out in a host of flags. On the left I could see the sign that denoted the old pub. The caption beneath it stated the photographer had captured the townspeople celebrating the coronation of George V. ‘It’s thought that Hopkins lived there in the cottage to its right. It was demolished. Now it’s a beer garden.’

So there it was: the place where it all began. A pretty humble abode for such a pompous individual. ‘So, Elizabeth Clarke would have lived next door to him presumably?’

Amelia poked her glasses onto the bridge of her nose. ‘Remind me – which one was she?’

I laid the book on the table. ‘The first woman he accused. He said he overheard her and her coven one Friday night.’

‘Were they in the pub do you think?’ Amelia asked shifting her gaze to the book. I handed it back so she could have another look.

‘I don’t know,’ I said honestly. ‘Not much gets written about the victims.’

Amelia tutted. ‘Well said, my dear. No, it’s usually the victimisers that occupy our fascination and ergo the press. We can all too well imagine the horror of chancing upon a killer. Or having them chance upon you. I get it all the time walking home alone from the pub at night: the internal Crimewatch voiceover narrating my “last movements”.’ She let out a less forceful piggy snort. ‘But the killers themselves. Well, that’s what we don’t understand. I think we’re drawn to them like moths to a flame – wanting to know the “hows”, “whens”, “whats” and “wherefores”, but also not wanting to know about it too. It’s a double-edged sword, this kind of knowledge. I think the main thing we want to understand is “why” they do what they do. I know I do. In fact I have visited several sites of serial killings myself.’

She was searching my face for a reaction. I think I looked pretty open. ‘Really?’ I said.

Amelia nudged the book into the middle of the table,

and picked up the menu. ‘The same reason as everyone else – I’m compelled to stop and stare: the crimes are so grotesque.’

I was quietly impressed. Who would have thought beneath that fusty exterior such morbid fascination lurked? Although, I suppose, it also explained her interest in Hopkins. ‘So where have you been?’

Amelia fanned herself with the menu. ‘Saddleworth Moor. The site of the Wests’ house in Gloucester.’

‘God,’ I said. ‘That’s pretty hardcore.’

‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘It is.’

‘Isn’t there a name for that sort of behaviour?’

She wasn’t fazed. ‘I’ve heard the term “ghouls” bandied around.’

‘You don’t seem like one. You seem perfectly nice.’

Amelia shrugged. ‘I’ve given up apologising for it. It’s something in me. Something that I’m pulled to. I don’t know why. I just am.’

I knew that feeling. ‘So what are your thoughts on Hopkins?’

‘Like I said, the question I’m always trying to answer is “why?” Why did he do it? Why, in fact, do any of these monsters do what they do? I think as individuals we tend to seek out depths in the human psyche. We have this notion that there are areas that these killers have access to, which we don’t. But I’ve concluded that we’re looking at things the wrong way round. It’s more that they haven’t got the same capacity for feeling that most people have. It takes a fully formed adult a huge amount of mental strength to put out the suffering of family pets or injured roadside animals because we’re empathetic. These murderers can’t have empathy. They just can’t. Or guilt, for that matter.’

‘Some surely do experience guilt?’ I asked, leaning in to hear her better. The tables around us were filling up.

‘Psychopaths don’t,’ she said and took a sip of her drink. ‘Nor shame nor remorse.’

That was interesting. ‘So you think Hopkins was a psychopath?’

She blinked and paused. ‘There are common traits certainly: he was narcissistic, called himself “The Witchfinder General”. No one bestowed that term on him, he gave it to himself. That implies a self-aggrandising. And in that role he was able to “devalue” others around him to build up his sense of dominance and power and supremacy over his victims. You’ve done more in-depth research than me. Do you think that he was a good liar?’

I nodded. ‘Pretty good. Though he slipped up a couple of times.’

‘Mmm,’ Amelia said and bit the inside of her cheek. ‘But he wasn’t anti-social as such. He didn’t actually deviate from the socially acceptable norms of society at the time.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘But he used them.’

Amelia caught the eye of the waiter. ‘Quite so. A conundrum.’

The waiter appeared at the table before I could respond.

‘Are you ready to order?’ He flicked open his notepad.

‘I’ll start with some oysters,’ she told him.

Insipid conversation returned to the table whilst we made our way through three courses. I was beginning to wonder if the picture of the Red Lion was all that Amelia had to show. Don’t get me wrong – it was interesting, but I’d be miffed if it was the only thing I’d dashed over for. After all, Dan had just emerged and I would have liked to have spent more time with him.

However once she’d polished off a trio of desserts my dining partner took a large slug of wine, ordered two coffees and leant towards me.

‘Right,’ she said at last. ‘I don’t want us to run out of time and it’s getting late. You’ve been patient.’ She picked up the leftover cutlery. ‘Can you put these to one side please? Okay.’ Amelia picked up the napkin and carefully wiped any vestige of grease from her fingers. I watched her stretch her fleshy forearms over the table and sweep the crumbs from the tablecloth. ‘Last Saturday, after your uncle’s birthday party, you really got me thinking about Hopkins again. Hadn’t thought about him for a while, at least a few years, until our conversation at the party, so when I got home I dug out the file which contained all my info for the lectures back home. And I came across an old biography of the man, which I’d bought many years ago. I’d forgotten all about it, to be honest with you, but after hearing about your book, I suppose my interest was rekindled. So I sat down and skimmed it, and before I knew it I was completely taken by it again. I ended up re-reading it from cover to cover. Now, a couple of things hit me. I don’t know why I hadn’t put them together before and perhaps you have, I don’t know.’

The waiter returned with two cappuccinos. I was eager to hear what she had to say and coaxed her on. ‘Go on.’

Amelia thanked the man then reached down for her handbag and put it to the side of the table. She sequestered a tissue from the sleeve of her dress and dabbed a spot of wine on the tablecloth. Then she plucked a thin ream of carefully folded papers from the dark of her bag, and laid them across the table.

‘Right now,’ she said to herself. ‘Okay,’ she unfolded the papers. I guessed from her careful manner of handling them that they were fragile and old although the last piece that she took out was a photocopied sheet which she placed on top of the pile. ‘Now, Bishop Hutchinson you have probably heard of.’ She tapped the topmost sheet and tilted her face to me.

I nodded a confirmation. I was familiar with Francis Hutchinson. Born in 1660, he had been so appalled by the witch trials he penned and published An Historical Essay Concerning Witchcraft. The work gathered together a whole bunch of pertinent historical detail and provided a good sceptical examination of events.

‘Right.’ Amelia was tracing her finger over the page. ‘Have you read it?’

‘Skimmed it,’ I said, a little impatiently.

‘Don’t blame you,’ she sniffed. ‘I tried once. All those extra “e”s and convoluted sentences. I got quite confused by the old English “s”s. They’re printed here like “f”s. Lots of comments about imps “sucking” that make you look twice. Dearie me! Couldn’t get through it all but I did re-read parts of it that are relevant to what I want to show you. This bit in particular.’ She turned the page round so that it faced me and pointed to a sentence halfway down. I tried to work out the curly script of the early eighteenth century. ‘See.’ She had highlighted a section in a fluorescent pink. The first paragraph, which was very long, referred to the alleged swimming of Hopkins. At the bottom was written, ‘that clear’d the Country of him’. Amelia had put two fat pink exclamation marks in the margin beside it.

I processed it and looked up at her. I’d read this before. ‘So? Some people thought that he’d been drowned. That’s “clearing the country” of him, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ she said hurriedly and fingered the document. ‘But note the capital “C”. A reference to England rather than Essex?’

I realised that her instruction to ‘note’ was literal so took out my notebook and wrote down: ‘Bish Hutch – Cleared England of him.’

This had better not be the juice she had to spill. She was going over stuff that I already knew.

It wasn’t. Amelia was on a roll.

‘Now look at this part.’ She removed another A4 sheet from the pile on the tabletop and handed it to me. ‘Read it out.’

She had highlighted another section that referred to stories of some of the witches (Elizabeth Clarke, Anne West) and their imps. I read them out, then went on to this: ‘They are of ill fame in these parts; and I have heard, that it was Time for Hopkins …’ As I read the last part of text my voice wobbled and I fell silent, taking in the next sentence. Had I read this before? I wasn’t sure. I glanced at Amelia. She was radiant, nodding her head vigorously.

‘Go on. Finish the sentence.’

I read it out loud. ‘… and I have heard, that it was Time for Hopkins to leave the Country when he did, for the People grew very angry at his Discoveries.’

We held each other’s gaze for a moment longer.

‘What are you suggesting?’ I said. ‘That he fled abroad? I’m sure there’s no truth in it. There’s a record of his burial in the churchyard at Mistley. Here.’

‘Yes, that’s interesting though. Don’t you think? People hated him that’s true. Some thought he was in league with the Devil himself. Some said he was lynched by the mob. Others that he was tried as a witch.’

I was following her. ‘Yes, but that’s all rumour of course.’

‘Well, witches weren’t allowed to be buried in sacred ground were they? If Hopkins came back to Manningtree, which seems to be the accepted idea, then there were still relatives of those he killed living there. It wasn’t a big place back then. Don’t you think that they’d try to get him buried elsewhere?’

‘I don’t know. That’s conjecture. The entry in the parish register is incontrovertible.’

Amelia’s face gleamed. ‘Do you know who wrote that?’ She emphasised the ‘who’.

I cocked my head to one side and regarded her. It was obvious. ‘What do you mean? Who entered the burial in the register? The parish priest.’

‘It was indeed. A certain Johannes Thomas Witham. Or, as he referred to himself – John Witham.’

I couldn’t see where this was going but went with her train of thought. ‘Okay?’

‘Who was on his second wife – Mary. His first, Mistress Free-Gift Witham, died in December 1633.’

She was leading me now. ‘And?’

Amelia’s brow dropped. A ‘humph’ pushed out through her lips. Downwards curves appeared at the corners of her mouth. It was a similar expression of muted irritation that my mum used to wear. Immediately I regretted my impatience.

‘Sorry, do go on.’

She angled her head towards the document. ‘Well, here we have the second wife. Witham, of course, was her married name. Before that she had been Mary or Marie Hopkins.’

‘Oh.’ Now I was beginning to catch her drift. ‘Oh! You reckon that was Matthew Hopkins’ mother? Previously married to James Hopkins?’

Amelia shrugged. ‘Could be. It never occurred to me as relevant before. But Sunday, when I was looking at it, it struck me as odd. Look.’ She took another sheet from the pile and spread it in front of me. It was a sketchy family tree. ‘See here: James Hopkins died around 1634, a year after Parson Witham’s first wife. His second wife, Mary Witham, was certainly the mother of “John Hopkins” who was also buried in Mistley Churchyard in 1641. The entry reads 1641 Dec 24 John son of Mary Hopkins (wife of Mr Witham, parson). Also, from what we know, the Hopkins named their sons after the disciples: Thomas, Matthew, James. Why not John?’ The dates are all about the right time. Mary Hopkins and Parson Witham must have known of each other. Great Wenham, where the Hopkins family lived, is just across the water in Suffolk, only five miles away as the crow flies. Both Mary’s and Witham’s spouses die within a short time of each other. On one side of the Stour you have a bereaved Minister and on the other a bereaved Minister’s wife. They’ve both got children. One batch without a mother, the other without a father. A quick practical marriage would have addressed their mutual material and practical needs. Ergo they unite the households and move to Manningtree or Mistley. Witham becomes stepfather to a teenage Matthew Hopkins. Who knows, the parson may have even played a part in supporting young Hopkins’ prosecution of Devil-worshipping witches.’

‘Yes,’ I said, picturing a thin tight-lipped man smiling down at a similarly sickly-looking youth. ‘It makes sense.’

Amelia rubbed her hands together. ‘It explains why Matthew returned to Manningtree and Mistley. Why do that unless you’ve got a reason to come back to the place? It’s the scene of his first prosecutions. The tide had turned. His actions here had caused several families to suffer. Why come back when you know you’ll be greeted with hostility? Why not go back to Great Wenham instead? The village where you were born and a place where no witches were to be found. The Wenham population might be more, let’s say, welcoming?’

Her hands were open, facing up to the ceiling.

I had my hand on my chin. ‘Why not indeed?’ I said slowly. ‘You’re suggesting he came back here because his mother was in Manningtree. Interesting.’ I was processing the information at a pace now, absorbing each detail wholly and completely. ‘But it’s hardly front page news.’ I spoke without thinking and saw Amelia bristle.

‘No. You’re not listening to what I’m saying. How old was Hopkins in 1647 – twenty-six, twenty-seven?’

‘One of those. No one is sure.’

‘He’s young though, right? What if he didn’t die of TB?’

‘Stearne said he did.’

‘Yes, well, Master Stearne had his own reasons for distancing himself from the unpopular Master Hopkins.’

‘So what are you saying? That he didn’t die? That Mary Hopkins persuaded her husband …’

‘Matthew’s stepfather …’

‘… to enter the record of Matthew’s death falsely? Why?’

‘The war was ending. Men were returning home to find their villages decimated and their womenfolk gone, dead. They wanted someone to blame. Manningtree and Mistley had lost a fair few souls. Belligerence towards her son must have characterised many of the returning villagers and concerned Matthew’s mother. The situation may have got very nasty indeed. Mr and Mrs Witham had other children to protect. It would compromise everyone if Matthew continued to live with them. He had no respectable future any more. One way out for them all would be to tell everyone the Witchfinder had died, then get him out of the country. Just as Bishop Hutchinson wrote.’

I thought about this for a moment. ‘But where would he have gone?’

She unfolded a photocopy of a photograph – the original will, proved in 1634, for James Hopkins, the vicar of Great Wenham.

I recognised it. ‘Matthew Hopkins’ father.’

‘That’s right.’ She pointed at a paragraph.

It read ‘My sonne Thomas My Mynede & Will is that my Executrix shall as soone as she can finde opportunitie send him over the seas to such our friends in Newe England as she shall thinke fitt.’

‘New England,’ I murmured. ‘Of course.’

‘Uh huh,’ Amelia harrumphed with victory.

My hand was starting to tingle. It made sense.

‘So,’ continued Amelia. ‘Then I thought – what if he did go out there and couldn’t resist getting up to his old tricks?’

I was nodding along with her, willing her to speed up. She pulled another piece of paper out of her bag. ‘Well, looky here. I looked up “early witch hunts in New England” and guess when the first one is?’

I shook my head.

‘1648. One year after Hopkins disappears off the face of the earth. Well, the Essex earth anyway. How long would it have taken to cross the Atlantic back then? Maybe four, five months?’

‘About that, I’d say.’

‘And guess what else? In that very same essay that Bishop Hutchinson talks of Hopkins leaving the country, he also mentions Cotton Mather. Mather was actively involved in the Salem witch hunts. He writes about it in his History of New England. And,’ she drew the last word out for drama, ‘he also mentions two cases in Chelmsford from the year 1645.’

‘The Hopkins witch hunts,’ I said and exhaled all my breath.

Amelia nodded. ‘Hopkins’ stories were out there in the New World. Was he?’

She sat back, picked up her glass and drained it.

‘Bloody hell, Amelia. You’re a little gem. You really bloody are. This is excellent. Shit. I suppose you want to investigate this now?’

Amelia smiled. ‘To be honest I’ve done all I want to on this horrid man. This is for you. Also I’ve got no time now. I’d rather read a couple of books with a bit of a Greek flavour. Soak up the atmosphere out there. Just let me know how you get on and give me a credit when you publish your piece – Amelia Whitting.’

That was extremely generous and I told her so. The implications that this could have for my book were fantastic. ‘It could be a staggering revelation,’ I piped up and rather excitedly clapped my hands together with almost childish glee. ‘I’m so grateful …’ I was about to thank her again but my attention was caught by the chap sitting alone on the small round table behind her. I hadn’t noticed him previously. But now he was staring at me, his body very still, shoulders rigid with tension. Then suddenly he jumped to his feet, spilling his drink over the small table, and raced for the door. Surprised that he would leave the contents spreading over the surface onto the floor, I looked after him. The angle where I was sitting meant I only caught the profile of his face. But I recognised it. He was the man I had knocked into at the garage after Uncle Roger’s party.

Amelia had turned to see the commotion. She looked back and raised her eyebrows. ‘Some people!’

‘He’s not a local then?’ I said as he disappeared out the front door.

‘No. Not seen him before. Actually I was going to say earlier – I thought you’d pulled!’ She snorted with laughter again. ‘He couldn’t take his eyes off you, the whole time we’ve been here. He was at the bar when we were, then took a table after us.’

Unusually I felt myself blush. At least I think it was a blush. A surge of heat spread through my body, leaving me slightly nauseous and queer.

‘Are you all right, Sadie?’ Amelia asked, eyeing me up and down.

I told her I was feeling a bit dodgy and got the bill.

As we wound down our chat Amelia suggested I should take a trip to Kew Gardens.

‘The National Archives are in Kew. They keep passenger lists for ships bound to America.’

‘Great,’ I said, enormously indebted to my new friend. ‘Ever thought of going into journalism?’

‘Couldn’t hack the hours,’ she said with a grin.

I paid up and called a cab, then saw her out onto the pavement. Just before she got into the car, she darted back and gave me a hug. ‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘I mean, with tonight. Don’t let the ghosties or the bedbugs bite.’

I kissed her goodbye and watched the car disappear round the curve of the road. I can almost see myself standing there, waving into the distance. I wish she’d have told me to ‘gird my loins’ or something. It might have helped.

My night at the Thorn was just about to begin in earnest.