Hiding From the Light (38 page)

The old herb beds were still there under the weeds. Emma stopped to rest her back, the fork thrust into the dark rich earth. Near her the robin watched from its perch on a lump of flint. She groaned softly. Her head was thumping. Two cups of coffee had done nothing to push away the effect of the sleeping pills and she felt drugged, ill and exhausted. She surveyed the ground in front of her. The herb garden had been laid out in two sections. This area consisted of six narrow parallel beds, presumably stock beds. She had found old leggy plants of hyssop and lavender, sage and rosemary and, almost throttled by the weeds, old springy cushions of threadbare thyme. Then there was the more ornamental, central garden which must until fairly recently have contained a wide variety of more unusual herbs. Some were still growing strongly and could be rescued from the sea of grass and weeds. Others had long ago been overwhelmed and would have to be replaced. There was a third area, a bit behind the rest of the garden, where she had found the most unusual herbs of all: monkshood, henbane, deadly nightshade, cinquefoil, hemlock. Witch’s herbs.

You want to cut those back hard. Liza would have
.

The voice was tetchy, clearly irritated by her tentative efforts.

Emma shook her head. She glanced round. There was no one there. ‘Go away!’ She knew she was going mad. She had to be.

The fork fell sideways into the mud and Emma jumped. She put her hand to her head.

We got better things to do than work in the garden
.

The voice in Emma’s head was strong. Determined. Emma closed her eyes.

We know what we’ve got to do, don’t we, Em!

Emma put her muddy hands to her face. ‘Stop it!’

Oh, come on. You and I’ve got things to do. Someone to see
.

‘No.’ Emma was shaking her head from side to side. The robin watched her curiously from bright eyes, ready to fly at any moment. There was no sign of the cats.

You know where we’ve got to go. What we’ve got to do!

It was the sleeping pills. They must have made her psychotic. She was having an episode. Her mouth was dry, her lips sore, her eyes red and gritty. Either the tablets or the lack of sleep was depriving her of her reason.

We know where he lives, don’t we, Em?
The voice was confidential now.
We can find him easily. He thought he had escaped
. The voice was laughing quietly.
But I told him I’d find him. And you’re going to
help me!

Suddenly the robin took flight, crying its alarm. Emma looked up. Min had appeared between the hedges at the top of the garden. She sat down, watching Emma with great intensity. Behind her, in the dark shady places at the edge of the narrow strip of woodland, the scarlet berries of cuckoo pint stood out like lamps.

Emma shoved her hands into her pockets with a shiver, staring round. The garden was empty; the voice in her head had gone. To her dismay she found there were tears trickling down her cheeks. Suddenly remembering, she groped for the piece of card with the rector’s prayer. She couldn’t find it and realised in dismay that it was in her other jacket.

You’ve got friends, haven’t you? She remembered Piers’s words as she walked into the kitchen and kicked off her boots. Did she? Were they real friends or had she been here such a short time they didn’t count? Not when it came down to it. They had been kind, Mike and Alex, but that was just because they were nice people. Paula didn’t seem to like her at all. And Lyndsey? Was Lyndsey a friend? She wasn’t sure. Washing the mud off her hands, she sniffed and, tearing a piece of kitchen towel from the roll on the wall, blew her nose, trying to stop her tears. She stared at the white pot of sleeping pills on the worktop near the empty milk pan. Last night she had made herself the warm milky drink prescribed by the doctor, taken the pills and gone upstairs to bed. She had gone to sleep at once, but the dreams had returned with renewed force. Muddled. Violent. By three o’clock she was awake, befuddled by the drugs, wrapped in her dressing gown, sitting at the kitchen table with another mug of milk in front of her. At about half past four she had fallen asleep again where she sat, her head cradled in her arms, to be awoken as it grew light with Sarah’s insistent voice in her head.

Emma, get ready. We have to find him, Emma. The time is right.
He’s here
.

Emma sniffed. Picking up the saucepan, which had been standing on the side since the early hours, she put it into the sink and ran some water in on top of the skim of scorched milk.

Emma!
The voice was peevish.
Why won’t you listen to me, Emma?

‘Go away!’ Emma turned off the tap. She reached across to the radio sitting on the window sill next to the pots of herbs and moved it to the table, turning it on. A woman was talking, her voice carefully modulated, interested. An interviewer cut in with a question, the woman paused, rephrased her words, carried on. Emma didn’t have a clue what they were talking about.

Emma!

‘No!’ She took a deep breath and reached for the phone. A bland message greeted her, followed by a beep.

‘Alex? It’s Emma. I’m sorry to bother you –’ She broke off, trying to steady her voice. ‘Look, I wonder, if you’re there, if you could come over? Please. I need to talk to you.’ To someone. The tears threatened to take over and she hung up, embarrassed. Stupid. What would he think? If only Flora had rung back when she had asked her to come again and stay this time. But she had gone away on a course somewhere and wouldn’t be back for two weeks. And Piers. Piers hadn’t rung back either and she wasn’t going to ring him again. And it would be ages before her mother came home. Miserably, she wandered over and surveyed the view from the kitchen window. The sky was clouding over. Rags of windblown cloud were piling in from the west. The apple trees were whipping disconsolately around, leaves scattering amongst wasp-eaten windfalls. She didn’t want to go out again. But she had to go somewhere. Where Sarah would leave her alone.

Without giving herself time to think any more, she reached for her car keys and headed for the door.

Driving through the town, she noticed the door to Barker’s shop open. Two men were carrying something inside and she recognised one of them as Colin. She found a parking place and walked back. ‘Hi!’ Their van was parked with two wheels on the pavement and Joe was lifting out a betacam as she stopped beside him. ‘Hi!’ His grin was friendly. ‘Come for tea and cakes?’

She managed to laugh. ‘Is it that obvious? OK, you’ve twisted my arm, but only if you let me go and fetch them this time.’

‘You’re on. Mark’s upstairs.’

The scene upstairs was even more chaotic than usual. A mass of cables were being linked into a network covering every part of the room. Emma set down the food on top of a box containing cartons of soap powder. They were still working around the shop’s stock. ‘So, how are you all?’ She hoped she didn’t look too white and pathetic. She had seen Joe glancing at her surreptitiously as she put down the cardboard box she was using as a tray.

‘OK!’ Mark paused in his work and set down the clipboard he had been scrutinising. ‘You don’t happen to know where Mike Sinclair has gone, do you?’

Emma shrugged. ‘Isn’t he at the rectory?’

‘Apparently not. I want him in on this.’

‘Does he approve?’ She glanced round uncomfortably. Something had changed in the atmosphere of the room.

‘Nope. He thinks we’re asking for trouble.’

‘Which we are.’ Colin’s comment was not quite sotto voce enough.

Mark raised an eyebrow. ‘Trouble is what we’re looking for, but only in a sense. I’m unhappy with some of this myself but I’m a journalist and I’m looking for good TV. We can’t let the chance go by just because we might upset a ghost.’

‘You’re upsetting more than a ghost, Mark.’ Emma shook her head. ‘The whole place has changed. Can’t you feel it?’

He stood still, his eyes on the ceiling as if listening intently. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘I can.’ Colin grimaced. He helped himself to a cake out of her box.

‘Have you seen our ghost?’ Joe came and perched on the carton near her. ‘Have a look on the screen there. Col? Show her.’

Emma found herself watching a small loop of film. It showed the shadowy staircase, then clearly a face.

‘Liza!’ Emma’s mouth went dry. ‘Oh, God, it’s Liza!’ She squatted down in front of the small screen, watching as the flickering sequence ran again and again.

‘How do you know that, girl?’ Colin’s cake was suspended on its way to his mouth. He stared at her.

Emma shrugged. ‘I just know.’ She stared at the screen, seeing the fear, the pain, in that shadowy ill-defined hint, then she glanced towards the top of the stairs where the figure must have been standing. ‘He tortured her here in this room and her ghost is still screaming, hundreds of years later.’

And we are going to punish him!

The voice in her head was so loud she was sure the others must have heard it.

You and I, Emma, are going to send his soul to the torments of the
damned
.

‘Emma? Are you OK?’ Joe switched off the loop. She was staring sightlessly at the screen, her face chalk-white and strained.

We know where to find him, Emma. We know where he is hiding
.

She put her hands to her ears. ‘Leave me alone!’

‘Emma? What’s wrong?’ Worried, Mark came over to her. He put his hand on her shoulder.

She jumped as if he had slapped her. ‘I’m sorry.’ Closing her eyes for a moment she tried to pull herself together. ‘Migraine.’

‘Really?’ He did not sound as though he believed her.

She stood up miserably. ‘I think I’d better go home.’

‘Would you like me to drive you back?’ Mark was genuinely concerned.

She shook her head. ‘I’m fine. I just need some fresh air.’

‘Are you sure?’

She nodded. ‘Good luck with the filming.’

Mark grinned. ‘I was about to ask you if you’d like to say something for us. That little spiel just now would be good on camera. We thought maybe the face was Hopkins. You say it was one of the witches. Just as good. Just as interesting.’ He paused, eyeing her carefully. ‘Especially if you tell us how you can be so sure.’

She stared at him blankly, then slowly she shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, Mark. I’m sorry.’

She had to get out of the shop. She had to get into the fresh air and she realised as she ran down the stairs that she had to see Mike Sinclair.

She only realised how much when she drove up to the rectory and saw that his car was missing. Three times she rang the bell. There was no answer and it was only then she remembered what Mark had said. Mike wasn’t there. But, of course, she had the number of his mobile.

Piers was sitting on the sofa listening to the chink of plates coming from his kitchen. Playing hooky for the afternoon, he had just listened to his messages. Glancing towards the door he hesitated, then, reassured that no one could hear, he dialled Emma’s number, frowning. There was no reply so, after a moment’s thought, he dialled another, this time in London. Paula was still in her office.

She listened intently. ‘It sounds as though she’s missing you,’ she said at last after he had described to her Emma’s tearful message about the dead kitten she and Lyndsey had found.

‘It’s because she knows I’ll understand how she feels about cats. Any cats.’ He gave a wry grin.

‘It’s more than that, Piers.’ Paula became suddenly very intense. ‘There are things going on down there which are getting to us all. Lyndsey is not good news, Piers. If Emma has made friends with her you must warn her off. I tried. This woman is a really bad influence. Evil. A Devil worshipper!’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Piers could not contain his cynical amusement.

‘You may laugh, but I am serious. Emma would be better well away from Mistley, for her own sake. See if you can’t persuade her to come back to London, Piers, please.’

There was a short pause. ‘Are you sure there isn’t something else worrying you, Paula?’ His voice was dry suddenly. ‘An attractive woman down there in the country not a stone’s throw away and with whom your husband seems to have formed a close relationship, for instance?’

‘Don’t be silly!’ Paula snapped. ‘That’s nonsense.’

Piers glanced towards the door to the kitchen. He sighed. Fond though he still was of Emma, always would be, he assured himself silently, there were other women in the world. Women who came without hang-ups, complications and Essex herb nurseries!

‘I was only joking, Paula, I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘Look, I’ll keep trying to get hold of Emma and check she’s OK, but if you and Alex get a chance to keep an eye on her I would be grateful. She’d never admit in a million years that she was lonely or worried, but I get the feeling something might be wrong and I’m afraid I can’t just drop everything and drive all that way. She’s got to learn to move on and manage without me. Her choice.’

As he put the phone down he felt a twinge of guilt but it soon passed. There was after all nothing he could do, whatever her problem was. Not from so far away.

Standing up, he wandered towards the kitchen and pushed open the door. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ he asked. The phone call was forgotten.

Mike had dumped his bag on the bed of the B&B and headed straight back out. The house where he had found his overnight accommodation was in a small side road just off the main Aldeburgh street. It was a tiny cottage with, he suspected, only two or possibly three bedrooms at most. His, though small, was comfortable, attractive in a nautical sea-faring motif sort of way and very quiet.

He had often headed for this lovely part of the Suffolk coast in the past when he needed to clear his head or work something through to ease his soul. He would walk for miles, breathing the cold clean air, listening to the crash of the sea on the shingle, watching the opaque sandy swell on the horizon, or, turning inland follow the river up towards Snape where the endless beds of reeds rustled timelessly in the wind off the sea. It was strange, he realised, as he walked down onto the beach, how he never seemed to come here in the summer. Crowded beaches, blue seas and quietly moving tides did not appeal to him. He loved the elemental challenge of autumnal gales and winter storms, or the biting east winds of the spring. He looked north up the beach to where the brooding menace of the Sizewell nuclear power station lurked in the distance, a constant reminder of man’s ability to threaten and compromise his environment, and resolutely he turned away from it and walked slowly southwards down the beach. He hadn’t come to think this time. He had come to cleanse body and mind in the fresh salt wind, to exhaust himself and to sleep.

His walk took him several miles in a wide loop which brought him back to the B&B as it grew dark. There was no sign of his hostess, who had given him a key and a list of the best places nearby to dine, so he luxuriated in a hot bath and at half past seven wandered up the road to the pub where he ordered a half-bottle of wine and some of the best fish pie he had ever tasted.

It was still early when he made his way back to the cottage, which lay in total darkness. Letting himself in he switched on the lights and glanced round. It had finally dawned on him that not only was he the only guest, but that his hostess must live elsewhere. This place was just for tenants, which was why she had offered him the use of the kitchen. She would, she had promised, be there to cook him breakfast and they had agreed on nine o’clock. After that she had left and he was on his own.

He walked into the kitchen, wondering whether to make himself a hot drink, decided he was too tired and turning off the lights climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

He had left his mobile on the table near the window. Glancing at it, he felt a pang of guilt. It had been switched off for most of the day. Supposing someone had tried to get hold of him? The guilt did not last long. He would check his messages in the morning. There was nothing he could do till then, anyway.

Amongst other things he should have contacted Bill. The shock of the monitor exploding had put the thought completely out of his head, and of course the old man wasn’t on the phone. He bit his lip, worried. But in moments the worry was gone. What could he do from here? He had to hope that Bill would cope on his own. Almost certainly he could.

As he climbed into bed and reached to turn off the bedside lamp, he was aware that he could hear the rhythmic rattle of the waves on the beach in the distance. It was his last waking thought. Too tired even to pray, he was asleep in seconds.

‘The date of the assize is fixed. There will be ten women facing charges of witchcraft. Your evidence will condemn them all.’ John Stearne was standing over him as he sat at his table writing. ‘We will make good money from ridding the world of these women, Matthew.’

Matthew looked up wearily and nodded. ‘But always there are more. The Devil’s battalions appear to be infinite, John.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And Sarah Paxman is next. The Devil values her. She learned well from old Liza and she is dangerous, John. She is rich. She has connections who will query her involvement with Satan. Who will speak for her.’ He coughed violently, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief. It was already stained with blood. ‘And it is Sarah Paxman who pursues me with evil spirits.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I thought that the bear with bloodied claws and jaws that drool foul poisons was sent by the other women. Elizabeth Gooding. Anne Leech. But they are gone and still it comes after me. She has sent it to pursue me, John. It comes from her.’ He coughed again.

‘You must look to your health, Matthew.’ Stearne frowned. ‘Do you have medicine?’

Hopkins nodded. ‘Apothecary Buxton in Colchester has given me a distillation to soothe the cough. I will be well again soon.’ He glanced up and smiled coldly. ‘There is a pleasing irony in the fact that it was old Liza’s syrup which soothed me best. I trust she has left her receipt with some God-fearing person who can make it as she did. I would watch her hang with more pleasure if I could be sure of that.’

Stearne grimaced. ‘The physicians would take issue with you, Matthew. Their mixtures are the more powerful and do not involve the use of spells.’

Both men looked down at the notebook on the table. Hopkins stabbed the page with his finger. ‘Sarah Paxman is next, John. We must take her up without delay. I can feel her familiars watching me.’ He shuddered. ‘She is evil beyond measure. Worse than the others.’ He glanced up at his companion. ‘The woman haunts my dreams, John. She does not let me sleep …’ 

Mike awoke suddenly and lay still, staring up at the ceiling. His heart was thudding unsteadily and his throat was sore. He had been dreaming again. He knew the symptoms. But the dream had gone, evaporating into the ether without so much as an echo. He sat up, staring towards the window. He could still hear the sea, but the sound of the waves was gentler now. More distant. The tide must have turned. Desperately he started to pray.