Witch Hunt

Chapter Six




The offices of Portillion Publishing were on level six of the larger umbrella company’s head office. The sleek glassy building had won several architectural awards for innovation and was set in the financial heart of London. I use the term ‘heart’ loosely: it was at the centre of the complex of roads and warrens that calls itself the City of London. I’d never felt comfortable about being in that place, with all those bankers. The lack of vegetation, the inhuman scale of the buildings, the overriding predominance of grey, the uniform of suits, the set pace of walking, all combined to give the impression that when you got off the train at Fenchurch Street, you entered a mechanised world set up purely to produce money. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t have a problem with the individuals as such – some of my best friends worked in the City – but en masse, the whole set-up was overwhelming.

As I walked towards the river, I had the sense of being swallowed up or, perhaps, it was more like joining in. Whatever, I was almost relieved as I went through the revolving doors of Cutt’s castle.

Portillion Publishing was originally situated in Mayfair, but when the mogul acquired it, the outfit was ‘streamlined’. Accusations of asset stripping and general nastiness were flung around but faded once the concern was relocated to this nerve centre. It was enormous, shaped like a glimmering spire: a cathedral to Capitalism.

The offices came off an inner courtyard that had the full height of the thirty-five-storey structure. Large glass elevators reached skywards to the ceiling where a crystal pyramid capped the top. Chrome fittings and mirrored pillars amplified the light. The effect was dazzling.

A tall, willowy PA in a black designer suit collected me from the reception area. Her chic asymmetric bob and red lipstick were so impressive I felt immediately underdressed in my beloved vintage dress and boots. To cover up my nerves I tried to make small talk as we walked towards the lifts.

‘This is a fantastic building,’ I gestured upwards. ‘So much light.’

Delphine, as she introduced herself, sniffed. ‘Yes. It’s a great place to work.’ Her voice dragged with vague ennui.

‘Is Cutt based here?’ I asked, following the tap-tapping of her kitten heels across the marble floor.

‘Mr Cutt’s office is there,’ she indicated a large tinted glass window that covered the whole of one side of the first floor.

‘All of it?’

Delphine managed to crack a smile. ‘It’s an expansive concern.’

His office directly faced the entrance, security checks and reception. ‘He gets a good view of everybody coming in

and out that way, I suppose.’

‘Oh, Mr Cutt is an extremely energetic man. Not one to drop the ball. Robert likes to keep his eye on things.’

‘Quite literally,’ I said and stitched on a chuckle. ‘He can more or less see everyone from that vantage point.’

She didn’t reply.

The short journey upwards was uncomfortable. We stood either side of the lift doors staring out of the glass sheets. Delphine didn’t speak and I didn’t bother to try any more conversation. She was one tough nut to crack, I thought silently, tension creeping along my shoulders as I contemplated the kind of fella this Felix Knight might be. His email had an old-fashioned jauntiness to it that had me picturing a white-haired man in his fifties, in a sort of geography teacher get-up – leather-elbowed tweed jacket and cords. But after the intimidating pillar of reserve that was his secretary, I was beginning to think he was probably more of a reptilian guy. To command authority over Delphine, he’d surely have to be older, wiser and far, far colder.

Both my visions were wrong. Felix Knight turned out to be a phenomenally friendly sort. My age, or possibly younger. He had fantastically clear skin that gave the impression he was fresh out of the shower. Despite an impeccable tailor, the rest of him was a little unkempt; his hair was a mass of carefree brown curly waves, week-old stubble was spread across a firm jaw. I wasn’t surprised he hadn’t shaved – you could cut yourself on those cheekbones. He had a very very wide smile that wrinkled up the sides of his eyes. Out of the context of the publishing house and out of that suit, he could easily have been an actor or an academic, or, because his build was tall and fairly broad across the shoulders, maybe a young farmer. There was a slap-happy aura about him that immediately put me at ease.

And he was rather attractive too.

We shook hands. His was a firm super-confident grip, his eyes incredibly sparkly.

‘Do come in, Miss Asquith.’ He pulled a chair out and helped me into it. Well-spoken but not intimidating, his body language communicated both bonhomie and impeccable manners. He thanked Delphine and asked her to fetch some coffee, ‘if it is no trouble. Otherwise,’ he said, ‘I’ll hit the canteen.’ Delphine assented with a nod and so Felix slipped round to the other side of his desk and plopped into a high-backed chair. I saw him steal a glance that swept over me from the top of my head downwards, taking in bust size, hips, and legs. For a nanosecond he lost his self-possession, as if surprised by some aspect – I didn’t know what. Was it the vintage dress? Knee-high boots? Leather jacket? Perhaps he’d expected me to rock up in a suit. Well, tough, I thought, that ain’t ever gonna happen. Anyway, it was fleeting: Felix Knight mastered himself so quickly the blunder was barely perceptible.

‘Well,’ he said brightly. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you at

last.’

At last! He only introduced himself yesterday. But then again, the handover from Emma had probably occurred a couple of weeks ago. It was only I, the author, who had learned of Portillion’s plans twenty-four hours ago.

I told him I too was pleased to make his acquaintance and made myself comfortable in a jazzy chrome and leather chair.

The offices of Portillion Publishing were kitted out with an array of gizmos and screens, all carefully selected to compliment the vast oak bookshelves displaying some of Portillion’s top-selling authors.

‘I’m sorry that Emma had to take off so quickly,’ he said once he was seated back behind his desk. I watched him casually cross his legs, his large right hand smoothing over a wrinkle of fabric around the kneecap. He coughed and smiled. ‘These things tend to move rapidly once decided. However let me assure you I am very impressed by your proposal and can’t wait to read the first instalment.’ I liked the way his tongue lingered over the ‘r’s in a breathy maybe Irish, though more likely American style. Unlike other media types I’d encountered who aped the linguistic idiosyncrasies of the Super Power to evoke a cool cosmopolitan image, Felix’s accent sounded genuine. I guessed he was well travelled.

‘That’s great, thanks, Mr Knight.’ I nodded vigorously to match his level of enthusiasm.

He swung his chair and placed his hands on the desk. ‘Oh please,’ he said, lowering eyes and voice simultaneously. ‘It’s Felix.’

Bloody hell – was he flirting? No. Couldn’t be. Not on a first date. I noted my Freudian slip and corrected ‘date’ to ‘meeting’. It must just be that old public school charm offensive.

‘And actually, my friends call me Sadie,’ I said, and squeezed in a little self-conscious grin.

He stroked the skin behind his jaw and regarded me with a grin. ‘So, formalities over – how have you been, Sadie?’

It threw me a little. Was this publishing getting-to-know-you-speak? Or had he heard about my recent loss?

‘Well,’ I squigged myself forwards onto the edge of my seat, so that I could sit up straight and suck in my stomach. ‘I’m very pleased about the publishing deal. It’s come at a good time. You see, my mother passed away a couple of weeks ago …’

‘Oh I’m sorry,’ he said and assumed a concerned bearing; eyes down, head cocked to one side. I’d seen it before. It’s what people did. Felix went a step further and clasped his hands, his eyebrows pointed towards his nose. It was a sincere expression. ‘Was it sudden or … ?’

‘She’d been ill. But well, you’re never prepared for it, are you, no matter how expected?’

He glanced away and back again quickly. ‘Condolences to you and your family. That can’t have been easy …’

‘Thank you, I said and moved on. I wasn’t comfortable with this. I didn’t want to start my new career with negativity. ‘So, as you see, I’m ready to get on with the book right away.’

‘And I am certainly not going to stop you,’ he said, and his face began to shine again. ‘Shall we clear up the formalities and head off for a bite to eat? I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.’ He sat back and touched his stomach. It looked as hard as a board.

‘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 why 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.