Last Rites (19 page)

As we checked that Bobby wasn't listening, I sat down at the table, my bag next to me.

‘That's why I was late,’ I said to Laura. ‘I was researching the Pendle witches.’

Laura didn't look pleased by that. ‘You were late for the Court Welfare meeting because you were looking at some local history? You said it was about your story.’

‘No, I was late for the meeting because I was researching the Sarah Goode story. It's just that it's all about the Pendle witches.’

Laura started to smile. ‘What, she's got herself a pointy hat?’

I smiled back, my eyebrows raised. ‘It's much more interesting than that,’ I said. I checked Bobby again. He had eyes and ears only for the screen,
SpongeBob
keeping him quiet. ‘Sarah is descended from one of the Pendle witches.’

Laura waggled her fingers and made her eyes wide, tried to cackle like the Wicked Witch of the West.

‘It's true,’ I said, laughing. ‘Anne Whittle. She was one
of the witches, one of the main ones. Sarah is a direct descendant.’

‘So that's the angle of your story: murderer has witch blood?’ she said, sighing. ‘It's a bit
Sunday Sport,
isn't it? You're better than that.’

‘Do you remember the letters?’

Laura nodded.

‘The wording is taken from the witch trials,’ I continued. ‘Made more modern, but undeniably the same.’

Laura tugged at her lip. I went to the bag I had put on the table and pulled out some papers. I held them up. ‘Look at the language,’ I said. ‘Sarah Goode is sending confessions to murder, and using the words spoken four hundred years earlier by her direct ancestor.’

Laura cast her eye over the letters. I pointed out the similarities to her, the ones I'd discovered with Katie earlier in the day.

Laura wasn't smiling any more.

‘And Sarah isn't the first descendant of Anne Whittle to suffer tragedy,’ I continued. ‘There were two more that I know of.’

‘Who?’ Laura still didn't look convinced, although I wasn't sure if it was at the truth of what I was saying, or at her willingness to be dragged into the story.

‘Two more women have died,’ I said. ‘Both descendants of Anne Whittle.’

‘You said the story was four hundred years old. There are bound to be other deaths.’

‘These were in the last ten years.’

Laura looked interested now.

‘The first one was called Mather,’ I continued. ‘April Mather. She killed herself ten years ago. A suicide. Hanging. The second one was Rebecca Nurse. She was killed and found dumped near a stream around eight years ago, just at the base of the hill.’

Laura thought about that for a moment, but then she said, ‘The list of descendants will be huge. Four hundred years is a lot of generations. Of family-tree branches. They will have spread out like veins across your back. It could just be a coincidence?’

I shook my head. ‘The family tree I saw wasn't that big.’

‘Where was it?’

‘At the home of Sarah's parents. And you know what: at the top it had some strange kind of symbol, maybe a symbol for the family, like a screaming face. Sarah had the same symbol on her wall, framed and prominent.’

Laura looked intrigued. She went to the window and looked along the valley, towards Pendle Hill. I didn't interrupt her. Laura was strong-willed, and so I had to let her decide herself that it was an interesting story.

‘Who were these witches?’ she said eventually, turning to face me.

‘Four hundred years ago, eleven of them went to the gallows for witchcraft, and one died in prison,’ I said. ‘All local women, and it was all to do with King James and a quarrel between two local families.’

‘What, the Gunpowder Plot King James? The Bible King James?’

‘Witches sound silly to us, I know that, but not to King James,’ I said. ‘He didn't like them. No, more than
that, he thought they were a source of evil. He published a rant about witches even before he came to the throne, blamed them for some shipwreck. This was a man who had a downer on witches, and what do people do when their king doesn't like something? The answer is that they don't like it either.’

‘Emperor's new clothes?’

‘Something like that,’ I said. ‘So those people who wanted to impress the new king turned on witches to do so. Even Shakespeare.’

‘The
Macbeth
thing?’

I nodded. ‘He wrote
Macbeth
just after King James came to the throne. From what I've read this afternoon, it was written as a tribute to the king. Banquo was an ancestor of King James, and in one of the scenes there is a parade of kings, like a chance to salute James and all of the great kings that went before him.’

Laura sighed. ‘I don't know too much about Shakespeare, but I never took him for a royal toady?’

‘You pander to your crowd, I suppose,’ I replied. ‘The witches in
Macbeth
were the villains of the play, and so Shakespeare was just playing to the king's favourite subject. And do you think the people up here were any different to the people in the south? The local bigwigs could make a name for themselves by rooting out witches, gain a bit of local power.’

‘And that is what happened around here?’

‘Pretty much so,’ I said, nodding. ‘There were just four at the start, but then the two families got together to sort out a truce, to get their loved ones back, maybe even exact some revenge, the infamous Good Friday
gathering at Malkin Tower. Unfortunately for them, the local Magistrate found out about the meeting and had them locked up as well. Four months later, they were all tried at Lancaster Castle. Most of them were found guilty, and most of them were executed.’

‘And the local Magistrate was made to look good before the king,’ Laura said, guessing the subtext.

‘That's about the size of it.’

Laura rubbed her eyes. ‘I've had a stressful day, and this is too much.’ She sighed, ‘Go on, tell me where Sarah Goode fits into all of this?

‘That's what got me thinking.’

‘Uh oh,’ said Laura. ‘This is where I get worried.’

‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘maybe not, but the Pendle witches tie in somewhere because of the letters. Perhaps the witch connection sent her crazy, and so she killed Luke.’

‘Or maybe she is pretending it did, getting in her insanity defence early,’ replied Laura.

‘You are a cynic, Laura McGanity,’ I said. I didn't tell her that I had already talked about the same thing with Sam Nixon.

She smiled at that. ‘I've seen too many things to make me anything but one.’

‘There is, of course, another possibility,’ I said.

‘Go on.’

‘Maybe Sarah Goode is somehow a victim, not a killer.’

Laura looked surprised. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘Just a hunch, because no one has said she was crazy, and if she isn't crazy, why is she writing letters based on the witch trials? And if you think about it, she is either a killer or she isn't; there is no middle ground. And if
she isn't a killer, she must be a victim in some way, and it must tie in with the witches because of the letters.’

‘But remember that one of the dead descendants was a suicide,’ said Laura.

‘I know that, but it's a story that is getting stranger, and I need to look further into it.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow’, I said. ‘I'm going back to where it all started: Pendle Hill.’

The police station was quiet when Rod went in. There had been a report of a disturbance in the street, some kind of road-rage incident, so all the new officers had headed out, hoping to bag the arrest.

Rod checked his diary. He had a meeting with a residents' committee in an hour, everyone concerned about kids hanging around and causing damage. Kids have been hanging around and worrying older generations for decades, thought Rod, but that view never went down well. Nods of understanding and the occasional visit by the police van usually placated neighbourhood nerves.

His phone rang. When he picked it up, he was told that Emily Marsden was on the line.

‘Put her through,’ he said, and after a pause, ‘Hello Emily.’

‘Hello Inspector,’ said a soft voice, the one Rod recognised from the day before. ‘You asked me to call you if I heard anything.’

‘That's right, Emily. And have you?’

Rod could hear the nervousness on the other end of the line, as Emily fought her betrayal. ‘My mum told
me this morning that she wouldn't be around this evening,’ she said eventually. ‘She said that she's got a craft group meeting.’

‘Do you know where?’

‘Not really, but she said she was setting off soon to pick up Abigail.’

Rod smiled to himself. ‘Thank you very much, Emily,’ he said. ‘You've been a great help. I'll make sure your mother stays safe.’

As he put down the phone, he reached for his diary, to get the number of the residents' committee. The meeting would have to be rescheduled, and the neighbourhood kids would get a few more days' grace to hang around on street corners.

The sun shone through the gaps in the branches as I drove towards Pendle Hill. Summer had stayed late, so that most of the leaves were still on the trees, but the sun was low and the road was dappled by shadows.

The landscape changed as I got nearer to the hill. The houses around Turners Fold were built for the cotton industry, stone-built terraces for workers near the mills, and grand Victorian town-houses further away, suitable accommodation for their bosses. The houses around Pendle Hill were different, built before the Industrial Revolution, stone cottages with tiny windows, the stones uneven, the gaps filled with lime mortar, so that the houses looked like they had tumbled straight out of the hill.

I headed to Newchurch, a small village at the foot of the hill. I knew from my research the night before that
it was at the heart of the witch story. I wound my way along tight country roads and then suddenly a wide valley appeared in front of me. I could see Newchurch ahead, a cluster of grey stone and whitewashed cottages on a steep hill out of the valley, using Pendle Hill as shelter from the north winds.

The hill overshadowed everything though. Even though the sun was shining, I could see clouds gathering at the top, the hill pulling them in like a magnet. As I climbed out of my car, I saw how the houses matched the greyness of the clouds, and a sharp breeze made me button my coat to my chin; it seemed colder in the shadow of the hill.

I looked around for a suitable starting point, and I saw a shop further along, hidden by white-painted lattice windows, just an ice-cream placard outside giving it away.

As I walked, I felt self-conscious, just a feeling that I was being watched. I turned to look and I thought I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, but maybe it was just my imagination getting the better of me.

A bell tinkled as I went into the shop. I had to duck to go inside, and I squinted when I got there. The shop was dark, shelves filled with bread and tins, and the only source of brightness was a refrigerated unit against the wall. There were two women talking, just local gossip, the lady behind the counter joining in.

She turned to me, the talk stopping for a moment.

I tried a smile and then said, ‘I hope you don't mind, but I'm a reporter, and I'm researching some deaths that occurred here a few years ago.’ I thumbed through my
notes. ‘April Mather and Rebecca Nurse. Do you remember them?’

I saw an immediate change in her. The trace of a smile disappeared and she glanced at her friends. ‘I'm sorry,’ she said, too quickly. ‘Those names don't sound familiar.’

I wasn't convinced by the answer. ‘Do you know anyone who could help?’ I asked, probing a bit more.

She shook her head. I looked at the other two women in the shop, but they just stared at me. I held up my hand. ‘Okay, thanks, but if anyone remembers anything, give me a call,’ and I left my business card on the counter.

No one said anything as I left the shop, with just the sound of the bell disturbing the silence, and when I got back onto the street I felt that anxiety again, the sensation that I was being watched. I turned round to look back towards the shop, and I was sure someone had just ducked away from the window.

I walked down the hill, just to see what else there was in the village, and I saw a church. It was old, with a square bell tower and graves lined up in the yard. Something occurred to me: the women who had died were local people, and so maybe they were buried there. As I crossed the road, my footsteps were loud clicks on the tarmac that turned into soft crunches as I went onto the gravel path in the church yard, the tall metal gate creaking loudly, announcing my arrival.

The church yard was surrounded by trees, allowing just glimpses along the valley. The graves were clustered tightly together, stone headstones mostly, old and worn, but there were some grander ones too, more like small
monuments. I saw the sunlight break through and reflect back off the modern ones at the bottom of the yard, the moss-covered slabs giving way to shiny black granite.

I walked slowly among the graves, and I started to notice the same names repeated, generations laid under through the years, but I couldn't see the names I'd written down.

I looked around, tried to spot something familiar, and then I thought I heard something, a quick rustling noise. I turned, but there was no one there.

I started to walk again, tried to make my footfall silent so that I could listen out for movement. I could hear the creak of branches as they were blown gently by the breeze. The autumn leaves blew along the path, just scratching sounds against the gravel. I turned as I walked, and I thought I saw something again. Or maybe it was just the light flickering through the trees, making the shadows move. The headstones were high and were right against the path, so that I was tensed, waiting for someone to appear from behind them. I looked up towards the church at the top of the path, and all I could do was keep walking.

Once I'd done the full circuit, I took a deep breath. I knew I wasn't alone. I took some pictures and then turned to go, anxious to get out, when I noticed a grave against the church wall, a large slab of stone lying flat. I stopped, curious.

The lettering on it was hard to make out, the grooves washed away by the rain through the years, but I saw the name emblazoned across the top.
Nutter.
Names were listed underneath. And the years. Seventeenth century,
but I couldn't make out much else. I recognised the name from my research though. Alice Nutter had been one of the Pendle witches. Was this her grave?

Then I saw it. A symbol at the top. A screaming face, just in crude outline, with hollow eyes and open mouth. The same as on Sarah's family tree.

I heard something behind me, a crunch on the gravel. I whirled around. It was a man, standing, watching me. He was dressed in a black suit, a scarf around his neck, with dark hair and a black goatee, grey strips at his temples and in his beard.

‘That one always makes people look,’ he said, his voice quiet, precise. ‘People come here to see it.’

He started to walk towards me, and just as I was about to back away, the scarf slipped and I saw the dog collar underneath.

‘So this is all yours,’ I said, casting my hand around me.

He tapped at his collar, his eyes watching me all the time, ice blue over the dark clothes. ‘A bit of a giveaway,’ he said. Then he looked towards the gravestone and said, ‘It's not what you think it is.’

‘How do you know what I'm thinking?’

He smiled at that, but it didn't thaw the icy look, his thin lips showing through his beard.

‘Most people who come here do so because of the witches,’ he said. ‘If it wasn't for them, this would be just another small Lancashire village. And that gravestone always brings a crowd.’

‘It says
Nutter
on it,’ I said. ‘Alice Nutter was one of the Pendle witches. Is there any connection to her?’

‘Alice Nutter was hanged at Lancaster Castle for being
a witch,’ he said. ‘Witchcraft is heresy. Do you really think she would be buried in consecrated ground?’

‘“Was” heresy, you mean? Not “is”.’

He watched me for a moment, and his eyes narrowed. His hands were clasped in front of him. ‘This is the Nutter family grave,’ he said, his voice even. ‘They were a wealthy family back then, but Alice isn't one of them down there. She married into the family, and then her husband hit bad times.’

‘There's an emblem at the top,’ I said, watching his expression. ‘It's like a screaming face. Is that normal?’

He didn't look down, didn't need to. ‘It's to ward off evil spirits,’ he answered.

‘That isn't normal on graves.’

He smiled again. ‘This isn't a normal valley,’ he said. Before I could answer, he continued, ‘Perhaps the family felt they needed more than being next to the church wall. That was a family with a past. Look at the dates. 1651 is the earliest. The people in there lived through the witch trials. And look at the church tower.’

As I looked, I shrugged. ‘I see a clock.’

‘Go round to the other side.’

I didn't move at first, curious as to why he was taking such an interest, but then I remembered that if I was going to write the story, I had to follow it first.

As I moved round to the next face of the tower, the vicar pointed upwards.

‘Do you see that?’ he asked.

‘Another clock,’ I said, nonplussed.

He turned to look at me, his eyes boring into me.
‘The Eye of God. Are you telling me that you can't see it?’

‘Can't see what?’

The vicar pointed again at the church tower. ‘That oval set into the stone, below the clock. The Eye of God, keeping a watch over the village.’

Halfway up the church tower, there was an oval with a painted black centre. It did look like an eye, I had to agree, but I wasn't convinced.

‘That tower was built not long after the second witch trials,’ he said, still looking upwards.

‘Second witch trials?’

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘There was a meeting of witches at Hoarstones, just twenty years after the first trial, over that hill,’ and he pointed away from the village. ‘The Nutters were involved again. More trials, more infamy, more guilty verdicts.’ As I looked around and wondered what it must have been like back then, he added, ‘Think how small these villages are, how tiny the population must have been back then, and then think how many people were lost to witchcraft. The village needed someone to look after them.’

I looked around again, tried to get a feel for the church yard. I felt the hairs on my arms prickle.

‘The witch stories are nothing new around here,’ he said. He stepped closer. ‘How are you going to write them up?’

I was puzzled by that, and uncomfortable with his presence. ‘I don't remember telling you that I was a reporter,’ I said, my voice wary.

His cheeks glowed a little redder, but then he pointed
towards my camera. ‘You have a voice recorder in your hand and a camera dangling from your wrist. I made an educated guess.’

I didn't respond, but I wasn't convinced by his answer.

‘So, to the local people back then, the witchcraft thing was more than just a family fall-out that ended up in the courts?’ I asked.

A half-smile played on his lips. ‘In those days, witchcraft was a crime against God.’

‘And now?’

He thought about that for a few seconds. ‘It depends on who you ask. To some, witchcraft is the black arts, Satanism in its earthly form.’

‘And to others?’

‘Some people see it as harmless, just a haven for hippies to follow a religion that isn't proscribed.’

‘And what do you think?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘If a faith doesn't worship God, it must be ungodly. There is but one God, not two or more.’

‘You talk like there is still witchcraft around,’ I said, watching for how he answered.

‘Even valleys like this have dark corners,’ he replied, his glare piercing. Then he changed the subject. ‘What are you looking for?’

I told him that I was looking into two deaths. He blinked when I said the names. He paused as he thought, although I got the impression that his decision was whether or not he
should
help me, not whether or not he could.

‘Follow me,’ he said eventually, and then he turned
and walked through the church yard. He was small, but he walked quickly, his steps fast along the path, kicking the leaves as he went. I tried to work out where he was heading. I'd gone through the recent graves and I hadn't seen any of the ones I was looking for.

He came to a halt by a hawthorn tree overlooking the valley. I could see the fields rolling away from me, broken by stone walls, twisting jaggedly towards the horizon.

‘Here she is,’ he said. ‘April Mather.’

I saw that he wasn't pointing at a headstone, but at a small granite plaque, the lettering in gold and topped with white lilies.
Treasured memories of April, our dear daughter, and mother to our precious grandson, Tom.
It was separate from the graves, at the other side of the path, on a verge at the edge of the church grounds.

‘No grave?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘Her husband didn't want that. He had April cremated, but her parents were churchgoers and so they put the plaque there, so that it was looking out over the countryside she loved.’

‘I asked about Rebecca Nurse as well,’ I said. ‘The girl found dead by a stream. Is she buried here?’

The vicar thought for a moment. ‘The girl by Sabden Brook,’ he said. ‘I do remember her, and her family too, but I think they fell out with God when Rebecca was killed. She was cremated too.’