In early November, Allied troops captured San Salvo on their way to Rome; the Americans landed in the Solomons; Russians took the City of Kiev and an RCN destroyer was badly damaged off the coast of Spain.
On the home front, old-age pensions were raised from twenty-three to twenty-eight dollars a month. With this extra money, the seniors of Fort York could buy leather windbreakers for $11.95, a full-length ladies’ muskrat coat for $244 or used cars—overhauled and refinished —for as little as $75.
“The FY Tagger Football Club plays Navy tomorrow”; “Maple Leafs tied Detroit Red Wings yesterday”, and “Irving Berlin’s This is the Army, starring men of the armed forces, including Lt. Ronald Reagan, flicked across the silver screen”.
All these important and not-so-important items appeared in the FY Expositor, Friday, November 5th.
“Guy Fawke’s Day, Addie.” Jake was reading the paper.
“Today?” Addie asked. “That’s right. ‘Please to remember, the fifth of November’…”
“‘Gunpowder, treason and plot’,” Tretheway finished, waking from his light evening doze in the parlour.
“At least we won’t have to worry about the thirteenth this month, “Jake said.
“That’s right.” Addie lowered her section of the paper. “I can’t get Zoë Plunkitt out of my mind. And why she did, you know, what she did.”
“Revenge,” Tretheway said.
“Addie.” Tretheway straightened up in his easy chair. “Look at the facts. 1692. Salem Village. Horatio Increase Beezul, a direct ancestor of our Geoffrey was appointed Judge. During the witch scare. He sentenced one Phadrea Plunkitt, a direct ancestor of Zoë, to the water test. She drowned. Zoë stumbled across this on one of her many trips to New England.”
“I thought she went to a place called Danvers,” Addie said.
“She did, Addie,” Jake explained. “Salem Village was just outside the city of Salem. After the trials and the great recantation, the elders changed the name of the village to — guess what?”
Addie stared at Jake.
“Danvers,” Jake said. “It’s called that today.”
Addie’s lips formed a silent oh.
“Remember she took Luke there once,” Tretheway said. “For some sort of meeting.”
“Sabbat,” Jake said.
“Well anyway, with a bunch of witches.”
“Coven, “Jake said.
“You want to tell the story?”
Jake shook his head.
“What’ll happen to her now?” Addie interrupted. “And Luke.”
“There’s no doubt about their guilt,” Tretheway said. “But I doubt either will hang.”
Addie frowned.
“They’ll put Zoë away.” Jake looked at Addie. “Like in a hospital. And probably the same thing for Luke.”
“With bars on the window,” Tretheway said.
“Tell me,” Addie asked, “how did he get Beezul to drive him to the golf club?”
“Threatened him,” Tretheway said. “Must’ve scared the life out of Beezul popping up in the back seat like that. Remember when his car swerved at Dundurn?”
Jake nodded.
“I’m glad Geoffrey’s all right,” Addie said.
“He’s remarkably fit after all he went through,” Jake agreed.
“The henbane helped,” Tretheway said.
“That’s right,” Jake said. “Doesn’t remember much. Said he had a headache for days.”
“But let’s go back to Zoë Plunkitt,” Tretheway continued. “After she found out about her wronged ancestor and Judge Horatio Beezul, she started spying on Geoffrey. And how better to do that than work with him? Or sail for him. Then she carefully made her plans. And we all know where that led.”
“But what I still don’t understand,” Addie persisted, “is why she went to all that trouble? The Hickory Island thing. The rabbit. The belladonna. The bonfire. Why did she pretend to be a witch?”
No one said anything for about thirty seconds.
“Addie,” Jake said, “wild as it might seem, Zoë believed that she was a witch.”
Another short silence punctuated the conversation.
“I’ll go you one better,” Tretheway said. “Zoë Plunkitt is a witch.”
The fire crackled. Fat Rollo sighed in his dream and blew a small whirlwind of ashes across the hearth. Addie folded up her newspaper and stood up. “Bedtime for me.” She left the parlour.
Tretheway went back to his paper. Jake left his seat to fiddle with the radio. After ten minutes of trying to get the eleven o’clock war news from London and receiving nothing but shrill whistles and static on the short wave band, he gave up and switched it off.
“Bad night” he said. “Guess I’ll hit the sack.”
“Good night, Jake,” Tretheway said.
Jake opened the sliding doors and stopped. He looked back at his boss. “This witchcraft business,” he started.
“Hm?” Tretheway put down his paper.
“You don’t really believe Zoë Plunkitt’s a witch?” Jake paused. Tretheway’s expression didn’t change. “I mean, everything that they say — about casting spells, brewing up a storm, withering crops, making milk sour, turning into animals, flying across the sky. That’s all Wizard of Oz kid stuff. Old wives’ tales. B movie scripts. Right?”
A hint of a smile crossed Tretheway’s face. “Jake. You, Jonathan Small, B.A., man of letters, honours grad. You’re asking me? A simple traffic policeman. About the secrets of the mystic universe? Really.”
“Yeh. I know.” Jake looked sheepish. “It was a dumb question.”
“There’s nothing to worry about.” Tretheway smiled. “We’ll all sleep tight.”
“I know.”
“But I don’t step on any spiders.”
Jake’s frown returned as he slid the doors shut.
Tretheway grinned broadly. He leaned back in his big chair and quietly blew smoke rings for a while. Finally he pushed himself up and tossed the wet cigar butt into the dying fire. He nudged the cat’s stomach with his foot. Fat Rollo opened one eye and hissed.
Tretheway drank a quick quart of ale while making his rounds on the ground floor. He left the empty beside the ice box on his way upstairs. Just before climbing into bed he automatically checked his desk clock. Both hands pointed at twelve. He pulled the blind up on his tall bedroom window and opened the sash. The bracing November air whisked into the room. Tretheway looked into the night. Enough leaves still clung to the hard maple trees to rustle pleasantly but not enough to obscure the pale yellow orb of a full moon. An owl hooted distinctly three times.