Morning of Monday, 12 February
Last Quarter
AND WHAT DELIGHTS do you have in store for us next, Sergeant?’ Detective Inspector Hobson rubs the palms of his hands together.
‘You’re sounding unusually bright and cheerful for a Monday morning, sir.’
‘Am I? There are times when life seems to be on my side. My team won on Saturday, five three, my mother-in-law went back to Sheffield yesterday, and I’ve just heard that the Greek broker we had up for money-laundering got sent down this morning for a two-year stretch. Now, that’s not a bad start to the week, is it?’
‘Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp pencil.’ Shaw flips through a file before placing it on Hobson’s desk.
‘Ah, the house fire at Hallowfield. You got my message then? You managed to get hold of him?’
‘Yes, he’s here now. But I didn’t think we had anything else on him?’
‘No, we don’t. Fire service have closed their books on it. But I’m not happy with that, not happy at all. Got an itchy feeling about this one. So, I thought we’d have him in and tell him the good news in person. Press a few of his buttons, see what pops up.’
‘Well, he looks like a man with a lot on his mind.’ Shaw grins.
‘OK, let him stew for another five minutes, then you can show him in.’
The five minutes seem like fifty to Ayden. They’ve plastered No Smoking signs all over the place, which doesn’t help. Bloody Big Brother government, they’ll be telling us when to take a piss next. How long are they going to keep him hanging about? He’s got a business to run. Not that customers are queuing up at the door. Still, they’re not to know that. What the hell do they want him for now, anyway? The bloke who phoned said it was about the fire, but it could be, well…‘Christ, I’d kill for a cigarette,’ he realizes he’s muttering the words out loud. He cringes, wiping his hand down his face. Probably got hidden microphones and cameras in here. Thank God he’d had that drink before he came. Just the one to steady his nerves.
The door opens. ‘Inspector Hobson will see you now, sir, if you wouldn’t mind coming through to his office.’ Shaw is being overly polite. Ayden catches the smear of sarcasm in his voice.
‘Ah, Mr Drayton, do come in.’
The man who enters looks around the room, his gaze darting in all directions as if expecting to see more than is there. He looks rough, thinks Hobson, gone a long way downhill since we last interviewed him. What, a week ago? Looks like he hasn’t slept since then. ‘Please take a seat.’
Ayden sits down as directed and fishes his cigarette packet out of his pocket.
‘Ah, sorry sir, no smoking area, I’m afraid.’ He’s aware of Drayton’s glance shifting to the filing cabinet where there’s an ashtray overflowing with half-smoked butts.
‘So, what’s this about then? What’s happened now?’ Ayden watches Hobson shuffle through a folder of typed forms. He seems to be taking his time. ‘Should I get a solicitor?’
‘And why would you need a solicitor, Mr Drayton?’ Hobson looks directly at him, faking a broad smile.
‘Nothing. I just thought, with me having to come in here…’
‘Ah, didn’t Shaw here explain when you arrived? Sorry about that. It’s simply that we’re bit snowed under at the moment. Seems you’ve been causing a member of the public some undue stress, Sergeant.’
‘Oh, dear. My apologies, sir.’ Shaw is sitting behind, by the door, so Drayton can’t see the smirk flicker across his face.
‘Anyway, I thought I ought to bring you up to date with the situation as regards your house fire. I received a report—ah, here it is—from the fire department. Lot of technical jargon that I won’t bother you with. What it boils down to is that, even though it was an unusually fierce fire, they couldn’t find anything out of order. They’re satisfied, in the absence of any further evidence, that it was probably started by the accidental dropping of a cigarette. Therefore we’re now able to close the file on this one.’
Ayden sags back in his chair, eyes closed, as waves of relief wash over him. He takes several breaths before he tries to speak again. ‘So that means the insurance company will have to pay out?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t know about that, sir, not part of our jurisdiction. Insurance companies, eh Shaw?’
‘Look, they sent me this letter.’ Ayden rummages in his inside pocket for a folded sheet of paper and hands it to Hobson. It’s dated last Thursday, but is already creased and grubby. ‘See what it says? They’re withholding a decision pending results of official investigations by the police and fire services. So you need to tell them it’s all been cleared up now. Tell them they can go ahead and pay out what I’m due.’
‘Well, I can’t instruct your insurers as to how to handle their claims, Mr Drayton. Naturally I shall be sending them a copy of my report, as will the chief fire officer, but I have no influence on whatever action they decide to take. It’s all down to the assessors, although I’m aware they were expressing concerns—’
‘Yeah, well they would express concerns, wouldn’t they? Ready enough to take your money off you, but when it comes to paying out it’s a different matter.’
‘You can see their point, though, can’t you? Very expensive car written off with no cover, court case pending, probably a hefty fine, at the very least—’
‘You don’t think I’ll get a gaol sentence, do you?’
Hobson shrugs. ‘Then there was that coincidental increase in the premium. And now it transpires that your wife has left you. Expensive business, separation, or will it be a divorce? The solicitor’s fees alone…Still, I expect your business is doing well. Lot of money in computers, I understand? Anyway, I mustn’t keep you from your work any longer. The sergeant here will show you out.’
Sergeant Shaw walks with Ayden all the way, grinning as he ushers him through the main entrance. He’s still grinning as he turns and heads back towards the reception desk where a moment ago Constable Farrow was talking to the duty sergeant. Now, though, Farrow’s attention is on the glass swing-door through which Drayton has just left.
‘What’s he doing here? That bloke who was with you?’
‘What? Drayton? Inspector Hobson wanted to see him. Why, do you know him?’
‘Yes, I do. As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m here. I saw him in church yesterday and I need to put in a report about it.’
‘What? About you going to church on Sunday? Proper little choirboy, aren’t we?’ Shaw winks at the officer behind the desk. ‘You’ll be telling us you’re in the Boy Scouts next, eh?’
‘Look, it’s all part of community relations, keeping in touch—’
‘Oh, yeah, yeah.’
‘Who was in church yesterday?’ No one had heard Inspector Hobson walk up behind them.
‘I was, sir, and so was that chap who was with you. Drayton, isn’t it? Ayden Drayton. Right pantomime it was, too—big ding-dong between the vicar and his wife.’
‘Sounds better than Coronation Street.’
‘All right, Shaw, that’ll do. Now, what’s this about Drayton?’
‘Well, this row they were having, it involved him. Mrs Cunningham—she’s the vicar’s wife—she seemed to think there was some sort of incident on New Year’s Eve between Drayton and his wife. But that didn’t tally with what they’d told me.’
‘And why should they be discussing their marital differences with you, Constable?’
‘It was following the Ruth Clifton murder. I did some of the routine interviews with people who were at the disco. Drayton and his wife claimed they both left early, which was confirmed by witnesses. Went home for a bit of New Year’s nooky, or so they said.’
‘But not according to the vicar’s wife?’
‘From what she was on about yesterday, there may have been a serious incident of domestic violence between them. Unreported—I already checked that first thing this morning.’
‘Domestic violence? How serious?’
‘Mrs Cunningham reckoned he nearly killed her.’
‘And this was the same night Ruth Clifton was murdered? They were at the same disco?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right, Constable, you’d better go through to the office and make a full report. Shaw, get onto someone on Rankin’s team. Tell them Constable Farrow might have something for them.’
Sally runs towards the shop door, expecting the Closed sign to be turned around at any moment. Wrenching the handle, she tumbles through, out of breath and laughing at the startled look on Fran’s face.
‘I was just about to shut up shop. How come you always turn up just as I close the till? I think you do it on purpose.’
‘No, it’s OK, I don’t want anything. Thought I’d see how your first day went. New business and everything.’
‘Been rushed off our feet. Word’s got round the village like radioactive fallout. Naturally they’re more interested in the loss of a husband than the change of ownership. Still, as long as it keeps the turnover turning over I can live with that.’
‘The village is certainly buzzing with it. My phone’s been ringing all day, and on the way round here every other person stopped me on the street. That’s why I’m so late.’ Sally is sorting through some special offers. ‘These any good?’
‘No, they’re rubbish. Old stock. Why do you think we’re practically giving them away?’ Fran points her towards another shelf. ‘And what are people saying? All about me, I hope.’
‘Oh, yes. All about you. No mention of Naomi or witchcraft—you were absolutely right about that. I must say, people seem to be very supportive of you. Not much sympathy for Edward, I’m afraid, but that might be because they were talking to me. The way we all left together it must be obvious whose side I’m on. I’ll have some of these tomatoes.’
‘Yes, they’re freshly picked. Help yourself, pay me tomorrow.’
‘Apparently there was one hell of a row between Abbie and George last night.’
‘About yesterday, no doubt? Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’
‘I think she’s very upset, though I’ve hardly managed to speak with her today. Says she’s tied up with some visitors. And how about you? How did you find being on your own last night?’
‘Very strange. First night alone since we came to Hallowfield. What, eighteen years? But I’m very conscious of Ruth—it’s as if she’s watching over me. I think she’d approve.’
‘Of course she would.’ Claire comes in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘Hello, Sally.’
‘Hi, you’re not usually here this late.’
‘Full-time now. Got to pull my weight. I’ve had to give up the job at the nursery, too, which is a shame. Still, there’s a bit of garden out the back here, so I might grow some herbs to sell. Naomi’s quite an expert on that. I’ll get her to help me.’
‘How is Naomi?’
A slight frown clouds Claire’s expression. ‘Well, she’s much happier now she knows I’m not about to leave the country or whatever it was she thought Fran and I were up to. But I’m convinced there’s something else still troubling her, though she won’t talk about it. And it’s starting to get to me too now, a sort of uneasiness. I believe it’s got something to do with what’s happening to Ayden.’
‘According to the village grapevine, he’s been sleeping rough at the shop,’ says Fran. ‘He looked a right mess yesterday, didn’t he? The neighbours seem to think he started going downhill long before the house fire. Coming and going at all hours, drinking heavily. Was that usual, Claire?’
‘The drinking? Oh, he could put it away all right, that’s when he got…when he was…But it would start off as a social thing, like on New Year’s Eve.’
‘Sounds like he’s been drinking steadily.’ Sally frowns. ‘It could be developing into an actual drinking problem.’
‘Like alcoholism, you mean?’
‘Possible.’
Claire looks at her, thoughtful for a moment. ‘You’re not happy about this either, are you, Sally?’
‘No, I don’t think I am. Justice for Ruth, that’s what it was about. I thought it would feel good to see him suffering. And in a way it is, but…but something’s not right.’
‘Well, I think the bastard deserves everything we can throw at him.’ Fran is quite indignant. ‘Sometimes I wish I believed in Hell. I love the thought of him burning in it.’
‘Yes, I agree he deserves everything that’s happened and more,’ says Sally. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m still convinced we did the right thing, including the ritual. But it feels like it’s all getting out of control, somehow.’
‘I’d go along with that,’ says Claire. ‘It’s as if something else is affecting things. That would account for some of us feeling unsettled.’ She closes her eyes for a moment and listens, as if to an inner voice. Whatever it’s saying causes her expression to shift from puzzlement to surprise. ‘In fact,’ she looks directly at Sally, ‘I think there are things we’ve not been telling each other.’
Sally looks away. ‘Yes, you’re right. We need to talk. All of us.’
‘Yes. And the sooner the better. What do you think, Fran?’
Fran shrugs her shoulders. ‘Whatever you say.’
‘How about tonight, then? Could we meet at your place, Sally? It would be good to be near the pool. Could you contact Abbie? I’ll make sure Naomi’s there.’
Another half an hour goes by before Claire manages to leave. The door is locked, the blind down, so she uses the side gate. It’s almost dark now and the light from the neon strips in the shop flood out across the pavement. She pauses to look at the arrangement in the window. Oh dear, what a mess. A mishmash of unrelated items and bargain offers that looks more like a jumble sale than a retail outlet. Must do something about that tomorrow. Perhaps a theme of some sort? Stocks of Easter eggs are starting to arrive. It might be fun to do some sort of display, get some fluffy bunnies, something to attract the kids. A celebration of Ostara. ‘Only don’t tell Edward Cunningham,’ she giggles quietly to herself. ‘And there are plenty of daffodils—’
A cold knife runs through her. She can feel the finest hairs on the nape of her neck begin to rise. Claire knows she’s being watched.
She turns her head first, slowly, allowing her body to follow, until she’s looking across at the village pond towards the ancient oak tree. She recognizes the van, of course, parked at the kerb on the far side of the green, but there doesn’t appear to be anyone in the driver’s seat. Her eyes are full of the glare of the shop light and so it is another moment before she discerns the dark shadow beneath the lower branches. She doesn’t move; can’t move. And yet the accustomed fear is something that stands slightly apart from her, as if she has stepped aside from it.
It’s that time of day when the street is empty, only the occasional dog walker and a few passing cars. She watches as a bright red spark appears to jump away from him. Taken up smoking again, have you, Ayden? The space between them diminishes as he skirts the edge of the water. She buries her hands in her pockets, tenses her shoulders. He’s now standing on the edge of the pavement with only the roadway between them. His face is grey and stubbled. Another car roars past, momentarily blocking her image of him, as if she has blinked. But she daren’t blink.
‘That’s near enough, Ayden. Don’t come any closer.’
‘How are you?’ His voice cracks with a cough. He looks smaller, somehow, shrunken into himself.
‘Say whatever you came to say.’
‘We need to talk. It’s about the house, the insurance.’
‘That’s nothing to do with me. I want no part of any insurance claim.’
‘The police have been on to me again, hanging round the shop, asking about the stock and how much money I’ve been taking. They called me into the station this morning. It’s all a bloody conspiracy with the insurance company. They’re trying to find a way of not paying out.’
‘Why are you telling me?’
‘That bastard Hobson’s going to have me in gaol over this. You’ve got to help me.’
‘What do you expect me to do about it?’
‘You’ve got to come back, put everything right between us. Convince them it’s all been a mistake. They might believe you. For fuck’s sake, Claire, it’s your home as well as mine.’
‘No. It was never mine. Nothing was ever mine.’ Something’s stirring within her, like a tiny creature, barely aware of itself.
‘She’s at the bottom of it, isn’t she? Her and those other bloody women. They’re making it happen, aren’t they?’ He moves towards her.
‘Stop there! You put one foot on that road and I’ll scream so loudly every house in the village will hear.’ Anger, that’s what it is. Waking, stirring…
‘All right, all right.’ He backs off. ‘I won’t touch you. But you’ve got to make them stop. I’ll stay away from you if you get them off my back.’
Claire laughs. Not at him, but at herself. At all the times she could have screamed and didn’t dare.
‘That’s right, go on, laugh at what those bitches have done to me. You’re one of them, aren’t you? A witch like all the rest. I should have killed you when I had the chance.’
‘Like you killed Ruth?’
Ayden raises his hand as if he will strike her. But he senses she’s beyond his reach now and it’s not only the width of the road that separates them.
‘Yes, we know, Ayden. All of us know what happened to Ruth.’ Her voice is calm, lilting. ‘It only needs one of us go to the police. Any one of us could tell them.’ She looks straight at him, her gaze meeting his, until he lowers his head.
He breathes heavily, as if gathering his words before he speaks. ‘You’ve got to help me, Claire.’ His voice is breaking. ‘They’ll lock me away.’
‘I’m going home now. And if you try to follow me, I’ll make certain they lock you away.’
Claire takes a step backward, then another, turns her body. Her eyes are still fixed on him and a smile, a small flicker of victory, moves on her mouth as she speaks. ‘You know what, Ayden? You’re right. I am one of them. Yes, we are all in it together. The house, the car, everything, we did it. So why don’t you try explaining that to the police? And if they don’t believe you, well, you can always plead insanity.’
Philip Hunter-Gordon
15 February 2007
I’ve spent this morning with Dad and—guess what?—the old man’s come up trumps!!!
I’ve been trying to find some hard evidence to back up the stories of these women, and particularly their connection with our family. There’s only the written court record that refers to Wheatstone House. Nothing in the graveyard to hint of the burials, though I suspect their bodies would not be permitted on church property. I did try going back to the university records, but they shed no further light on the situation. No action seems to have been taken by authorities against those who were responsible for the hangings. There is only the story passed down by the locals about six women, including Sarah and Abigail, who were all hanged on some unspecified date in 1648.
No help from our vicar now, either. He’s gone off the whole subject all of a sudden. Apparently there was some incident in the church last weekend, something to do with his wife. Besides that, or maybe as a result of it, he’s gone a bit overboard about the witchcraft business. What he’s saying isn’t very rational either.
However, I should have thought of it as soon as I realized that Abigail Marchant was related to our family and, at one time, had lived in our house. Dad, being a solicitor, has all the records of our property going way, way back. But unfortunately nothing as far back as 1648, and certainly no mention of Abigail or witches. At first I thought we’d drawn a blank. Then we discovered it.
In 1853 one of the women who lived at Wheatcroft House, she was my great-great-whatever-grandmother, arranged for six bodies to be moved. They were all buried outside the churchyard wall in an unmarked grave. She had them dug up, though they only amounted to a tangled heap of bones. That was strange enough in itself and God knows how she knew where to dig.
But then she had them all placed in one very expensive coffin and interred in our family plot. Apparently the vicar at the time agreed to do this provided the new grave was also eft unmarked.
Were these the bodies of the six women accused of witchcraft? And if they were, why are they now buried with my family?