Witch Hunt

Chapter Thirty-Eight




Situated at the end of a narrow lane that petered out into nothing more than a muddy track, I came across a driveway. It swept past two leafless weeping willows, went round a corner beside what would have been flowerbeds of roses, to a very dark house. Only a couple of windows had light behind them.

The porch was a glass extension – the kind that was popular in the eighties: large, double-glazed and square. However beyond it a depressed arch, that must have been Tudor at least, covered the entrance. Above and around that stood the oldest part of the house; a grey stone-carved frontage, with large rectangular leaded bay windows. This had been added on to later in the nineteenth century with an impressive castellated tower on the corner.

I grabbed my handbag and brought out my phone, checking the photo of the map. This had to be it. I let the engine splutter and die at the end of the drive and made out across the gravel, tucking my head down into my collar against the bitter oncoming wind. It picked up my hair and blew it around, and a spattering of raindrops mixed into the elemental battering. Above the rooftop, storm clouds were gathering and the sky had an angry look. Somewhere above me an owl hooted a warning. I felt it was best not be here long. As basic as the accommodation at the Hen and Chickens was, it was at least friendly and full of human beings; this house was foreboding and gloomy. The lit-up windows on the second floor gave it the appearance of a cross-eyed old duchess that scowled at my parka and jeans.

Inside the porch, and out of the wind, I picked my hair from my lipstick and tried to make myself presentable before pressing the bell. The sound of barking dogs broke out behind the front door. A female voice chided the animals, then I heard several bolts being scraped back. The door opened a crack and a woman in her sixties peered through.

‘Hello,’ I said brightly in my most posh voice. ‘I’m very sorry to disturb you. My name is Mercedes Asquith and I’m a writer researching the Essex witch hunts. I came across this article which mentioned a diary of Nathaniel Braybrook.’ I handed over the clipping. ‘Is it here? I’m not sure if I have the right address?’

The woman said nothing. Her eyes hovered over the scrap in my hand then fluttered back to my face. Perturbed by her silence, I went on. ‘I’m happy to come back at another time if this isn’t convenient?’

Through the vertical slit her eyes glistened.

Still no verbal response.

I blathered on. ‘The book I’m writing is due to be published next October and I’d very much like to have a look at the diaries, if that’s at all possible. Are they still here?’

Nothing.

I stalled, wondering if I was dealing with a low IQ and went on to outline the angle of my book. Best to leave any family connection out at this stage. Didn’t want to come across as nuts.

The woman interrupted me before I’d even got a quarter of the way through my spiel. ‘Yes, all right, I see. Do you mind waiting a moment please?’

It was a little abrupt but I told her ‘No, not at all,’ and the door closed. Two bolts were drawn across, then the patter of dainty footsteps disappeared into the house.

One of the dogs came back to the door and growled.

‘It’s all right mate,’ I told it. ‘I’m a friend not foe.’ But it didn’t believe me and started barking. A couple of the others joined it.

I stepped back into the porch. A little black moth skittered around the light. It looked virtually identical to the one that had landed on my wall. I thought back to that night. I was certain that moth had chosen a spot on the map that was pretty damn close to where I was actually standing now.

‘Is this where you were leading me then?’ I asked it. In response it spread its wings and took off, landing on a large spiky cactus in the corner. The place was, in fact, crammed with pot plants: on one side a rectangular wicker planter held a dozen spider plants and beside it stood a large ceramic tub from which sprouted a large money tree. To each side of the solid wood door were hanging baskets, containing an assortment of tropical plants. I was admiring them when I heard heavy footsteps coming down the passage.

Bolts slid back. The door opened, wider this time, but still only to six inches across.

A man with long white hair, a grey beard and black-rimmed spectacles poked his head round and had a good look at me.

‘So,’ he said. ‘My wife says you’re a writer. That true?’

I nodded.

‘Can you prove it?’

No one had ever asked me that before. ‘Um, how?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said a little sarcastically. ‘You’re the writer, aren’t you? What have you written?’

I remembered I had some old issues of Mercurial in the back of my car. One of them had a photo of me beside my piece, I was sure.

‘Can you wait for a moment while I fetch something?’

‘Of course,’ the man said and shut the door. Two bolts scraped across.

I fetched the mags. The rain was pelting down now so I shoved them under my jacket to keep them dry and ran back to the house.

The door opened and a hand came out. I put the magazines in it and watched it slam shut again. This, I had to admit, was very odd.

I think I must have waited outside for a good ten minutes before the dogs went off and the heavy footsteps came back down the passage. The door opened fully and the man, who introduced himself as Harry Phelps, greeted me, very cordially.

Like his house, Harry was also eccentric: his long white hair cascaded down over a ‘Free the Weed’ t-shirt which featured a humanised marijuana plant looking dolefully through prison windows.

I remembered Bob’s comment about ‘high hopes’.

This could explain the paranoid security ritual.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Harry, quite cheerful now. ‘We have to be careful these days. Can’t have any Tom, Dick or me, turning up unannounced can we?’

Not if you’re caning it, I thought. ‘Very wise,’ I said.

‘Come in, into the kitchen. Anne’s already put a pot of coffee on. She thought you’d be all right. She’s got a nose for it,’ he beamed.

‘Right,’ I said noncommittally.

The entrance hall was grand and lofty, probably as big

as my entire living room, with a wooden staircase that

went up the centre then split into separate staircases to either side.

Harry bobbed down under a doorframe only five foot high that led into a room of normal proportions, which had a couple of tatty sofas positioned in front of a huge old fireplace. This he told me absently, was the ‘snug’ and then opened a taller door opposite the fireplace, leaving me to follow him out into a bright modern kitchen/diner-cum-family room.

This side of the room was exposed red-brick, with a range cooker and a butcher’s block spread out in front of it. The rest of the room, however, showed no signs of age or whimsy.

Standing by a glossy oak table Harry’s wife, Anne, whose eyes I recognised from the door, poured coffee into three glass mugs.

‘Do come over, dear. Mercedes is it? Very nice to meet you.’ She smiled and gestured to one of the chairs, as if the bizarre entry routine had never happened.

She’s obviously used to it, I thought, and took a chair. ‘Actually it’s Sadie,’ I said and sat down, though I was thinking ‘It’s not. It’s Mercy. Mercy Walker.’ How did I go from that to Mercedes Asquith? Why had Mum completely changed my name? She’d also evolved hers, from Rose to Rosamund. What was in that? A familiar wrench of guilt tugged at me. Harry shouted something at the dogs, which were sniffing me cautiously.

‘Do put them in the snug, Harry, won’t you?’ said Anne and shone a regal smile at me. ‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Both please. One sugar.’

‘I guessed it would be,’ she said and handed me the cup she had already filled.

‘Told you she has a sense for these things.’ Harry called over, shooing the dogs round the door.

I took a sip of coffee and smiled at Anne. Harry returned and grabbed his mug. ‘So Sadie, do you mind going over your interest in this as you did with my good lady wife?’

I gave them a brief history, but Harry was full of questions, and soon my story was cutting into the good part of an hour. At some point the coffee was replaced by a bottle of red wine, and, although I had declared that I was driving, a full glass appeared before me.

I tasted it when Harry finally allowed me to get on to the diaries. Bringing that part of the story to an end, I asked him if they were still in the house.

‘They are no more,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid they perished in a fire not long after that article was published. We sold what was left of the collection after that. Brought us nothing but bother if I’m honest.’

I was immensely disappointed but it gave me an opener to what I really wanted to know. ‘That’s a real shame. You must have had a lot of interest in it?’

‘Oh yes,’ Harry’s eyes darted to Anne’s. She nodded imperceptibly. ‘There was a flurry of activity when we decided to sell.’

‘We had a university who wanted to study the diaries,’ Anne continued. ‘But after the fire that petered out.’

I opened my notebook and took out a photo of Mum circa ’99, all shining black locks and sunhat. ‘Do you remember if she looked at them? I think she may have. Do you know her at all?’

Harry took the photo and squinted.

I held my breath.

‘Not sure. Need my glasses.’ He made no move to get them but passed it to Anne who had a pair dangling round her neck on a golden chain. She slid them along her nose.

‘Yes, she came and looked at them.’

I swallowed. ‘She looked at the diaries? Did she say why she wanted to look at them?’

Anne took her glasses off and twirled them in her hand. ‘I think, though I can’t be entirely sure – it was a long time ago – she said it was personal. Nice woman, if I remember correctly.’

‘Personal.’ I repeated her words. ‘Why?’

Anne dropped her glasses and grasped her hands. ‘No idea. I merely let her view the collection.’

‘Did she say anything? After she’d read them?’

‘Not that I recall. Thanked me and went on her way.’

That stumped me. Mum had never expressed an interest in Hopkins before. Well, not that I’d noticed. True, we’d talk about politics and literature and she was interested in local history, but that was about it.

Anne had turned to Harry. ‘I think it was only a couple of days later that the American showed up.’ She stressed the word American. Harry nodded, made a tutting noise then looked at her.

One of the dogs in the snug yelped.

His wife nodded. ‘He was very interested in Nathaniel’s diaries. Very. He made us an offer for the document.’

‘A very handsome offer,’ Anne repeated.

‘We said no,’ Harry said.

‘He was most disappointed,’ Anne added.

‘Bordering on hostile,’ Harry chimed. ‘They get like that, some of those Americans, don’t they? Think money’s the answer to everything. But then we had the fire in the study.’ His voice dropped. ‘Unusual eh?’

‘Oh Harry, don’t go on,’ Anne sent me a wink. ‘He loves a good conspiracy.’

‘Why didn’t you sell them?’ I asked, keeping them on track.

‘They belonged in a museum or a university,’ said Harry firmly. ‘Personally I’m not fussed but it was what Uncle Alexander wanted.’

‘Sorry, Uncle Alexander?’ Where had that come from?

‘From whom we inherited the house and the collection. He was an academic. Obsessed with the Civil War. Spent a lot of time building up a library of authentic witness accounts. He was writing what he considered to be, the definitive book on the subject when he died. I believe he bought the diaries in a private sale after they were discovered in an old house near Chingford. The family had to give it up and sold it to a developer who wanted rid of the contents.’ He smiled fondly. ‘Recorded everything in his notes did Uncle. Fastidious.’

The clock on the wall struck five-thirty.

‘His notes?’ I said.

‘Oh yes,’ Anne said brightly. ‘There’s reams. All stacked up in chronological order. We never got rid of them.’

‘Seemed disrespectful to the old man,’ said Harry. ‘You might want to see them. I haven’t looked at them all properly. Keep meaning to but somehow never find the time. You should read the early stuff; I think that there’s a transcript of the diaries in there somewhere. Can’t be authenticated, though. Just his notes. Worthless now really.’

I doubted that; if they could give me more information as to what Mum had been looking for then they could be priceless. And there might be additional information in there for my book. At the very least, I could plunder some of the phrases for quotes.

‘Sadie,’ Anne said looking at the clock, ‘why don’t you join us for supper?’

I thanked them for their generosity but said I’d really like to see the transcripts, if that was possible. If they said no, I’d consider taking them up on their offer and trying again later. I wasn’t going anywhere without seeing those pages.

‘Of course, have a look and let us know. There’s rather a lot of them. You might have to come back tomorrow.’

I was delighted and nodded vigorously at Harry who stood up. ‘Here, let me show you where they’re kept.’

He led me through the snuffling dogginess of the snug into the large hallway. I watched him walk with his chin up, almost as if it was a gesture of defiance against the older parts of the building that whistled and shrieked. Harry trudged along a wide gallery, then held aside an old tapestry that concealed a narrow hallway. At the end of this he opened a door.

‘The study,’ he said. ‘This is where the fire broke out. Don’t worry, it’s all fixed up now.’

‘Gosh,’ I said, taking in the room as Harry flicked on the lights. ‘Thank you.’

It was smallish, with a large window at the far end draped in heavy red velvet curtains. The wall opposite me was lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. In between the gaps were dozens of framed pictures; some were certificates, others miniatures, sketches and ancient documents. In the middle was an oak writing desk, its legs labouring under the weight of a huge, borderline-antique, computer. The Phelps were obviously not technically minded. There was a leather writing square, with a blotter on one side and over that, a reading light.

‘What a lovely reading room. Is the transcript in here?’

Harry nodded, picked up a pair of spectacles that lay on the corner of the desk and went to a section of the bookshelves over by the window.

‘The Braybrook diaries come in at volume seventeen,’ he said and put the glasses on to read the spines. ‘He indexed everything.’ He selected several leather notebooks and carried them over to me, putting the pile on one side of the desk. Then he switched on the reading light, picked up the first volume. Opening it on the desk, he fingered a number of pages, and pointed to a section.

‘Start here, if you want.’ Then he quietly switched off the main lights and exited the room.

I sat in the chair and stared at the book, illuminated in a circle of white.

With a tingle in my fingertips I began to read.