Last Rites (16 page)

As we headed towards the college building, Katie said, ‘Do you know what's funny? No one talks to me now. But I'm not the one that was killed, and I'm not the one who has disappeared. I pray nothing bad has happened to Sarah, but I want things to be normal again. I've assignments to complete. I found this tragedy, but I'm not part of it, and I want my life to go back to normal; there's a lot of it left.’

‘I can understand that,’ I responded. ‘Maybe once Sarah is found, you'll move on properly.’

‘What about you?’ she asked.

I was confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What does the story mean to you?’

I smiled and sighed. ‘I'm a reporter. I write the story, I get paid, and then I move on to another one.’

‘So this means everything to me, but as far as you're concerned, I'm just a small part of a story you'll soon forget.’

‘That's life,’ I said, ‘and I don't see how I can apologise for that.’

‘It's no wonder that reporters don't have a good reputation.’

‘I'm doing what I've always wanted to do. I've got plenty of free time, and I don't worry about what people think of me.’

‘Do you really not care what other people think of you?’ Katie asked.

I shook my head. ‘I'm a freelance reporter who lives in a little hillside cottage, and I'm happy with that.’

‘And Laura?’

I flinched at that. ‘What about Laura?’ I asked.

She stopped and looked at me. ‘Do you think you'll get married?’

I laughed too loudly. ‘That's too far ahead for us to think about,’ I said, and then wondered about her interest. ‘Did something happen this morning, between Laura and you?’

Katie smiled. ‘Just girl talk,’ she said, and then headed into college, holding the door open for me.

When we got into the college library it was smaller than I expected, just a room on the top floor with views over Blackley. Desks ran along the window, separated by partitions, and the college books were stacked in dark aisles. It seemed much different from my own university, where the library had occupied a whole building, with views through latticed windows. This was bright and modern, but it seemed like an afterthought, a space they had to find when the college grew.

Katie handed me a piece of paper. ‘I scanned in the letter that arrived last night, before I took it to the police. You take that, and I'll take the first two. Let's see what we can find.’

As Katie set off down one of the aisles, I wondered
about her theory. If there was a link, Sarah might be sending messages, but it was too damn cryptic.

I set my coat down at a desk and walked to the same area of the library as Katie. There was a section devoted to local history, with books on the industrial revolution and religious strife. But there was a shelf devoted to witchcraft, and most books focused on the Pendle witch trials: perspectives on the trials, transcripts of evidence, studies of the reasons and the theories behind the reasons.

I returned to the desk with a few useful-looking tomes, including a verbatim account of the trials, or at least as verbatim as you could get before the days of stenography, and two books on the characters and personalities of the trials. I couldn't see Katie when I returned to our table, so I ploughed through the books on my own.

I reached into my pocket and put Sarah's letter on the table. I read it again:

I sighed. I wondered whether Katie had tried too hard to find a reason behind what Sarah did. But I remembered the name of Sarah's ancestor: Anne Whittle. At least I had a starting point.

The books were tough going and I found myself drifting as I read. I thought about Sarah's parents, no doubt wondering what Sarah was doing at that moment, as I sat huddled over dusty pages reflecting on events of four hundred years earlier. And I wondered what DCI Carson would say if he knew what I was doing.

I'd heard of the Pendle witch story, and I knew some of the names – Bulcock, Alice Nutter – but as I read, I realised that the story was more complex than just the trial of a few local women. The Pendle witches were just like any others accused of witchcraft: they were poor, uneducated, and regarded as outsiders. There were two families involved, the Southerns and the Whittles, each headed by two bitter rivals, Old Demdike and Old Chattox, who for years had sought to outdo the other in their outlandish claims of witchcraft and spell-casting. But when Demdike's granddaughter, Alison Device, was accused of causing the death of a passing peddler by witchcraft, the local Magistrate became involved, and that started it, the chain of blame. Alison herself blamed witchcraft, foolishly hoping it would excuse her, and then she accused others of witchcraft too, and so the accusations spread.

I began to flick, racing through transcript after transcript, page after page, my eyes glazing, and I was on the verge of giving up when I was stopped dead by words that seemed to leap out at me.

It was just a phrase I recognised. I had been making my way through the documents when I spotted words that rang familiar. I turned again to Sarah's letter and
read the last part of it, my hands fumbling with the paper:

I looked now at the text in front of me and felt a rush of adrenalin. It was virtually the same. I had been scanning page after page of accusations when I came across it: the judgement in Anne Whittle's case, Sarah's ancestor. I spotted a familiar phrase:

I looked up and saw that nothing had changed, that students were still sitting around, making notes or just reading. But it seemed noisy to me, the excitement of a good story unfolding in front of me, making me want to thump the desk or shout out. And it confirmed that Katie had guessed right: the Pendle witch connection was not a coincidence. The letter from Sarah had paraphrased part of the judgement, the finding of guilt.

I returned to the books in front of me. I could feel my breath begin to shorten as my fingers turned pages quickly, looking for more words and phrases that might leap out at me, my eyes racing over the text.

I raised my head and saw Katie pass an aisle, engrossed in a book. I returned to my own study, wondering whether she had found something, and just as my mind began to speculate and wander again, I saw another familiar phrase. It was from the same passage. I'd gone past it first time around.

I almost shouted out this time. I was getting somewhere, I knew it, although I wasn't sure where. Page after page rushed past my eyes as I looked for more signs, and the more I looked, the more I saw. Some from the letter I had, some from the first two, the ones Katie had. I scribbled fast, made notes, flicked page after page over until I thought they would rip and tear in front of me.

I grabbed my papers and went to Katie, rushing through the library. I found her with a look of shock on her face. I wondered if she had found the same.

‘We need to go,’ I whispered urgently into her ear, and I was pleased to see her grab her papers and follow me out.

Laura looked up when the door opened, knowing that Carson would have complained; after all, she had stood over the boss of the murder squad as he took a piss. She expected her sergeant, maybe higher, but when the door opened she saw that it was someone else from the murder squad, the guy who had smiled at her, the one in the polo shirt and the crew cut.

Pete looked up, and then said, ‘How you doing, Joe?’

‘You know him?’ she asked.

‘Everyone knows Joe Kinsella.’

‘I don't.’

Pete smiled, and then he gestured with his hand towards the other man. ‘Laura, this is Joe. He cut his teeth in Blackley before he hit the big time and moved to headquarters. Too groovy for us.’ Pete gestured towards Laura. ‘Joe, this is Laura McGanity She's from London, but I've forgiven her for that.’

Joe smiled, and then said, ‘It's Laura I've come to see.’

‘Are you the forward party?’ she asked. ‘Come here to soften me up before Carson comes down.’

He shook his head. ‘It's not like that,’ he said, and
then he sat down on a chair next to Laura's desk, which was cluttered with papers: the statements from the case and her handwritten account of the police interview.

Laura looked at him. He was around thirty, slim and toned, his body hidden by black clothing, with just the occasional grey hair, his eyes deep brown and dreamy. ‘What is it like then?’ she asked.

‘I've come to say sorry,’ he said, and when he spoke, he sounded measured, comforting.

Laura paused at that, her face suspicious. ‘Why?’

‘For what my team did, the adventure with Jack, the trip to the moors.’

‘Isn't it Jack you should be apologising to?’

Joe nodded. ‘You're right, and I will, if I get the chance. It might not mean anything, because I wasn't there, and Carson won't say sorry, but someone should say it.’

‘So why are you bothering?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘Because it was wrong, and I'm on that team,’ he said. ‘And because I wanted to speak to you.’

Laura was confused. ‘Why me?’

He smiled. ‘I heard what you did to Carson, giving him a dressing-down in the toilet. But his problem is that he doesn't complain, he just gets even. He's got enough yes-men to help him out, so you won't win, and from what I've heard, you deserve better than that.’

‘What have you heard?’ she asked.

‘Just your reputation for being a good detective, that people respect you. Don't get dragged into a battle with Carson. We'll be back at headquarters soon, and none of this will matter.’

‘You don't sound like you fit in,’ said Laura.

He laughed. ‘I don't, and that's why Carson likes me. He likes the yes-men around him, but he is a good enough copper to realise that he needs a different opinion sometimes. Carson is a prick, I know that, but he is good at what he does.’

Laura smiled ruefully. ‘Thanks for the tip.’

‘There'll be no complaint from Carson,’ said Joe, ‘but watch your back,’ and then he turned to leave.

When he'd gone, Pete chuckled to himself. ‘He has that effect,’ he said.

‘What effect?’

‘Blushing,’ said Pete, pointing at her. ‘He makes women blush.’

Laura shuffled her papers together, flustered. ‘It's not that,’ she said. She checked her watch. She knew she had to speak to the CPS before she could charge the prisoner, but the Court Welfare meeting was fast approaching. ‘Will you go to the CPS with this for me? I've got to be somewhere else pretty soon.’

Pete held out his hand, grinning, and as she left the room, Laura felt in a better mood. The sun had come out and the day seemed unseasonably warm for the end of October. She checked her watch. Time to get home to make sure that it was all tidy, so that it looked like a good home for Bobby.

When Laura jumped into her car, she saw something on the passenger seat. An envelope. She looked around. Who had been in her car? It had been locked, she was sure of that.

Laura reached for the envelope and opened it slowly. There were photographs inside, A4, colour. The top one
was of two people in a doorway, close to each other. It was dark, and so they were indistinct, but Laura could see that it was a man and a woman, and the woman was reaching out to the man, her hand on his cheek. She went to the next one, and her stomach turned over, a sob welling up in her throat.

It was Jack, and she recognised Katie, reaching out to him, stroking his cheek.

Laura looked around, trying to see who had put it there. As she looked towards the back door of the station, she saw Karl Carson. He waved, just to make sure she had seen him, and then he turned to go inside.

She threw the envelope onto the seat next to her, angry. With Jack, with her situation, but also with herself, because she realised that she'd made a powerful enemy.

She took a deep breath and tried to compose herself, remembering the Court Welfare visit. She had the most important battle of all to come: to keep Bobby with her.

We ended up in a fast walk through Blackley. My mind was still racing, and I didn't want to speak until I had assembled all I'd found into something real.

‘Why the rush?’ asked Katie, trotting to keep up.

I stopped and looked at her. ‘You were right,’ I said. ‘The Pendle witch connection is no coincidence.’ I was breathless, almost shouting, the words coming out in a rush.

‘What do you mean?’ Katie asked, although I could tell it wasn't a simple question. She said it quietly, watching me intently.

I looked around and saw a fast-food restaurant. Not my preference, but the lights were bright and the tables large. I pulled her towards it, and once we'd seated ourselves in a large alcove, Katie asked, ‘What is it, Jack?’

I wondered how to approach it, but then I realised that directly was the only route. I spread my papers over the table, photocopies of Sarah's letters.

‘I found this first,’ I said, and I jabbed my finger at the line about the blood of children. ‘Now look at this,’ and I pulled out a photocopy of the textbook page, my
highlighter pen making the passage bright orange. ‘See how close they are. The spellings are modernised in Sarah's letter to you, but the words used are too alike to be just coincidence. Same phrase.’

Katie looked dolefully at me, not showing the excitement I was feeling.

‘Do you know where this is from?’ I asked. When Katie shook her head, I said, ‘Anne Whittle's trial. Sarah's ancestor. The same words.’

Katie didn't say anything, so I picked up another photocopy of a textbook, adding more highlighter pen. ‘So next,’ I continued, speaking quickly, ‘I carried on going through the volumes, and I found something else from Anne Whittle's case.’ I paused for breath. ‘The phrases from Sarah's letter are taken from the trial of Anne Whittle, just twisted and given a different meaning. Look at this sentence from Sarah's letter,’ and I pointed at the page.
‘There is no one alive more unwilling to pronounce this woeful and heavy judgement than myself.’
I pushed the photocopied sheet across the table at her. ‘And now look at this quote from the trial,’ I said excitedly, jabbing at the page with my finger.
‘There is no man aliue more vnwilling to pronounce this wofull and heauy Iudgement against you, then my selfe.’
I smiled at Katie in triumph as she read. ‘Can you see?’ I asked her. ‘They are almost the same.’

I paused to look at Katie. She looked serious.

‘That quote is from Anne Whittle's trial,’ I repeated, ‘the witch Anne Whittle, back in 1612. It was the judgement in the case, finding her guilty of witchcraft. There is a slight difference though. In 1612 it was the
judge who was racked with unwillingness. In the letter, it is Sarah Goode who pronounces the judgement against herself. She has turned it around, but it's near enough to be more than just coincidence.’

Katie looked unsure. ‘Maybe the police have already worked it out,’ she said.

‘Perhaps,’ I replied, ‘but that wouldn't change anything.’ I pointed down at the paper. ‘This is the sign of a troubled mind. Sarah has turned the original finding of guilt into a confession. “
Cruelly and barbarously you haue murdered
” into “
cruelly and barbarously I have murdered
”.’

Katie didn't look pleased.

‘What's wrong?’ I asked. ‘I thought you would have been pleased. You know, we're starting to make progress.’

‘I know I said that, but it was just a daft idea,’ she answered softly. ‘Now that we have discovered a link, it seems scarier somehow, that if there is a connection with the Pendle witch trials, for Christ knows what reason, then something is seriously wrong.’ She let out a deep breath and looked upwards. I thought I saw her blink back some tears. ‘I just want all of this to be over,’ she continued. ‘Before today it all looked like a moment of madness. I could deal with that. We all feel passion. We do things we regret, bad things. I can deal with that, can empathise, but what I can't deal with is talk of witches and ancient trials and executions. This is not a witch hunt. This is Lancashire in the twenty-first century.’

‘I'm sorry,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I've got a little carried away with myself. But tell me this: why aren't you dismissing
it out of hand? If it bothers you, it must be because you believe there might be something in it.’

Katie didn't say anything. Something was wrong.

‘What did you find, Katie?’ I asked, although I knew that it was the same as me.

She looked at me. ‘I found the same as you,’ she said quietly. ‘Just the same.’

I struggled to contain my excitement. ‘Show me.’

She delved into her bag and passed her notes over. ‘I found it all straight away. I just didn't know what it meant.’

I looked at them, the photocopies used by Katie covered in arrows and underlines, her handwriting turning into scribbles as she found things, as if she was trying to get it all down as quickly as possible before the chance slipped away. I felt my eyes widen as I read.

‘This is no coincidence,’ I said in astonishment.

Katie looked at me with sadness. ‘I knew it meant trouble. When you came over I hoped you'd found something different. I was wrong.’

‘But Katie, this gives a direction.’

‘No,’ Katie said in protest. ‘For you, it makes a story, that's all.’

I couldn't respond to that. Instead, I said, ‘Let's look at what you found.’

I looked at Sarah's first letter:

Then she passed me a photocopy of a page from a textbook, yellow highlighter over one passage:

I felt that same cold shiver, that same rush. Something was going on here, something revealing, important.

I looked at Katie. ‘Where is this from?’ I asked.

She looked up solemnly. ‘The arraignment against Anne Whittle.’

‘What, the accusation itself?’ I asked.

Katie nodded. ‘The arraignment outlined the actual allegation and what each witness would say.’

‘So,’ I said, trying to follow the path, ‘in sending these letters, Sarah, for the wording of the first letter, uses the beginnings of the legal proceedings against Anne Whittle. She twists the words, but it's unmistakably the same. Am I right?’

Katie nodded. ‘That's how it appears.’

I pulled on my lip. ‘What about the second letter?’ I asked.

Katie leaned over and pulled out a piece of paper from the middle of the pile. ‘Here it is.’

I looked first at Sarah's letter.

Then I looked at a quote Katie had found.

I whistled. ‘Where's that from?’

‘It's from the arraignment of Ann Redfern,’ Katie said.

‘Not Anne Whittle?’

Katie shook her head. ‘Ann Redfern was Anne Whittle's daughter.’

‘And a witch too?’

‘It was a family dispute in reality,’ Katie answered. ‘It was bound to drag the children in.’

‘And if Anne Whittle was Sarah's ancestor,’ I said, ‘then so was Ann Redfern. The connection with Sarah is still there.’

I was deep in thought, my mind turning over solutions and possibilities, when Katie spoke. ‘I wonder what it all means?’ she said, almost to herself.

‘Does it have to mean anything?’

‘Of course it does,’ she said. ‘There are so many questions, but perhaps the first should be why were those particular sentences chosen?’

I looked at the notes and scratched my head. ‘There is a path,’ I said, ‘some logic.’

Katie looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

I leafed through the papers again. ‘Think about it,’ I said, reading them again. ‘The letters have gone full circle, through the whole legal process.’ I pulled out the copy of the first letter written by Sarah. ‘This letter starts with the description of what the case will be against Anne Whittle. The next letter is the same, but against her daughter. Both are ancestors of Sarah. Then go on to the last letter, the one I looked up,’ and I pulled out the copy of the letter, the one I'd been working on. ‘We move straight on to a twisting of the judgement in the case, the conclusion of the judge. We are in the next stage of proceedings.’

‘Except,’ Katie said, understanding my thread, ‘Sarah confesses rather than there being a judgement against her.’

I nodded grimly. ‘Maybe that's why the letters were sent in the first place, to confess. She sends a letter to point to the allegation and evidence against her, perhaps in the early stages of her decline, the early signs of paranoia, of self-blame. Not yet ready to confess, she just wants to blame herself. Then the decline hits a lower level, and so she seeks absolution in confession.’

Katie looked upset. I could see her becoming distant, looking scared.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

‘I'm worried,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘Because look at what she has written, and look where she sent them. Why is she writing to me?’

I looked her in the eye, saw the fear, the worry.

‘I don't know,’ was all I could say.

Katie just looked at the table.

I dipped my head so that I was able to catch her eyes, and I smiled. I was pleased to see her smile back.

‘She won't hurt you,’ I said, trying to reassure her. ‘She's asking for your help. Do you believe me?’

Katie nodded silently and smiled again.

‘C'mon,’ I said, ‘we've both got things to do. You've got college, and I've got a story to write.’

As I collected my things, Katie asked, ‘If the letters follow the witch trials, the accusations and then the judgement, how did they end?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Judgements of guilt are not the end of the trial,’ she said. ‘There is the sentence as well. That's the end of the case. If the letters follow the witch trials, then what came next?’

‘You know what happened to them,’ I said.

‘They went to the gallows,’ she said quietly. ‘Anne and her daughter.’

I nodded. ‘And quite a few others.’

Katie collected her papers together, her expression grim. ‘Sarah's going to die, isn't she?’ she said.

I remembered the Facebook entry for 31st October.
I die.

‘If we don't find her and stop her,’ I replied grimly, ‘then my guess is that she will.’