Cauldron of Fear (38 page)

'Maybe so,'
Hannah conceded, 'but then again, maybe not. Some of it did make a
sort of sense, if you picked your way through careful, like. One
thing's for sure, she never got out of that church crypt by
herself, not in the state she's in.'

'But who
helped her?' James demanded. 'And what was all that about another
girl and going through a place full of bodies?'

Hannah smiled
grimly. 'My guess is that she was talkin' about the Grayling
mausoleum. Not many people would know it, but I happen to know for
certain that it used to be connected to the church crypt by a
tunnel. Whoever brought Matilda out, they brought her that way, I
reckon.

'Not only
that,' she continued, 'but I reckon they've left someone else in
Matilda's place, maybe so Crawley won't realise she's gone
straightaway. That's what she was on about when she was trying to
say about the other girl.'

'Yes, but
why?
' James asked. 'Why bother to rescue her in the first place,
too? Who would care for Matilda enough to do that?'

'Well, that's
a good question, young James,' Hannah replied slowly, 'but it might
not be the right one to ask. I'm not so sure that whoever is behind
all this did it for Matilda's sake.'

'Oh? Well, if
not for Matilda's sake, then whose?'

Hannah
shrugged and looked up at the stars. 'That, my lad,' she answered
quietly, 'is a damned good question.'

Jane Handiwell slipped out of the private entrance at the rear
of the
Black Drum
,
paused in the shadow of the building, her eyes accustoming to the
gloom once more and then, satisfied that there was no one to
observe her, she quickly crossed the yard towards the stable
buildings and made her way directly to the smaller
structure.

Inside a
single lantern burned in the concourse between the two rows of
stalls, and two horses looked out over the lower halves of their
doors, turning their heads towards her expectantly as she walked
towards them. She patted each of their muzzles as she passed, but
did not stop until she reached the final stall on the right, the
door of which stood wide open.

As Jane turned
into it the shadowy figure rose from the straw and came towards
her, and the two women embraced in the darkness without speaking
for several seconds.

'Is it done?'
Ellen Grayling said, at last.

Jane nodded.
'Yes, the bitch is safely in the crypt. You saw Crawley?'

'Yes, a little
while back, at the hour you said. He accepted the money.'

'Of course he
did.' Jane's white teeth glinted in the near darkness. 'And of
course, he agreed. I've just heard him inside, in the taproom,
recruiting his witnesses. No shortage of volunteers.'

'What happens
if he removes that mask before he hangs her?'

'I doubt he'll
bother,' Jane replied. 'I twisted the knots in such a way that
he'll have to cut the laces to get them undone, but even if he
does, one bald woman looks much like another in the dark. Crawley's
like any other man - he won't see much further than her tits and
neither will the rest of those oafs. The only one who'll realise
will be my dear father. He so moons after her, it's sickening.'

'And your
father?' Ellen said. 'He's not likely to interfere?'

'He probably
would, if he were here,' Jane retorted sourly, 'but he and that
foppish captain have ridden off to Portsmouth. He's still more
interested in looking for Harriet in your woods. I can't wait to
see his face on the morrow when he sees his dearly beloved,
precious Harriet Merridew dangling from that tree with her pretty
little neck snapped in two.'

'The shock may
be more than he can bear,' Ellen said quietly.

Jane let out a
derisory little snort. 'Unfortunately,' she said, 'I doubt that.
And now,' she continued, her tone brighter, 'we have a little while
before Master Crawley deals with our problems for us.' She grasped
Ellen by the shoulders, stooped and kissed her on the mouth. 'You
seem a little warm, my darling friend,' she whispered. 'Why don't
you let me help you out of those stifling clothes?'

Jacob Crawley
hung the lantern from the iron bracket just inside the door and
stood, staring down at the huddled figure in the far corner. Noting
that she wore the heavy scold's bridle again, he smiled to himself.
Evidently Silas Grout had decided he wanted Matilda silent for her
last hours and replaced the rusting device.

Grout was a
strange one, that was for sure, Crawley thought. On the one hand
the man made meticulous preparations to ensure the swift and
merciful despatch of his victims, but on the other, until the final
moment arrived, he seemed capable of inflicting almost any form of
torture on them.

Crawley shook
his head and began removing his cloak. He had long since despaired
of trying to work out human nature, as he had also long since
ceased questioning his own motives and darker desires. After all,
he reasoned, why should he show compassion to people who allowed
themselves to remain in ignorance the way most of them did? They
deserved everything they got, in his opinion, even if half of them
weren't witches.

There was no
gratitude, no understanding - Crawley had come to realise that many
years since. Once he had felt a calling, known that God needed him
to help purge this terrible world of all its evil and he had thrown
himself into that vocation with all the energy and dedication a man
could offer. And he had been successful, too. Over half the
kingdom, as it had then been, people trembled at the mere mention
of his name and everywhere he went there had been awe and
respect.

Of course, his
name then had not been Jacob Crawley; he had been forced to adopt
another identity when some of the Church he served so diligently
turned on him. Vile accusations had been muttered, falsehoods of
the most heinous kinds, rumours, whisperings, machinations by those
who had started to fear him and to be jealous of his
reputation.

Thankfully, he
still had friends and the warnings came in time. He managed to fade
into obscurity, travelling to France for a year and a half and only
returning when his own carefully seeded rumours convinced his
enemies that he was no more.

The war
between Parliament and the King had come opportunely for the now
Jacob Crawley. Men died in battles, were hanged, were thrown into
the Tower and a dozen other prisons, where they rotted and died or
simply went mad. Much of what was past became quickly forgotten,
much of the so-called 'enlightenment' that had so very nearly
proved his undoing, was buried in an avalanche of civil
upheaval.

As Crawley, he
found it easy and safe enough to travel the countryside and, as
Crawley, he could continue the work he had once found so
spiritually rewarding, even if now his zeal was directed primarily
to looking after his own needs. The end result, he told himself,
was near enough the same.

He cast his
cloak aside and knelt to remove his boots, placing them carefully
together and then proceeded to unbuckle his belt. A few moments
later, when his breeches, neatly folded, had been laid upon his
boots, he stood again, naked from the waist down.

He stooped
over the unmoving girl and prodded her in the side with one foot,
rocking her roughly until she began to stir. She raised her head
and he saw her eyes were wide open, fear shining in them, to be
replaced by pain as she tried to speak and the iron prong bit into
her tongue.

'Not long now,
Matilda Pennywise,' he said softly. 'Another hour and you'll be out
of this black hole forever. But first,' he continued, with a harsh
chuckle, 'I have a use for you. Come - up on your feet, wench.
You'll go on your way with something to remember me by, or my name
ain't Matthew Hopkins!'

To be
continued...

Before anyone
starts writing to me to say that Matthew Hopkins died when and
whenever, I should say that I, too, have read various accounts of
his death, but that the point is that they do vary, even to the
country in which he is supposed to have died, and that none have
ever been verified, nor is there any record, or marker, of where
his body was finally disposed of.

I appreciate,
also, that the 'long drop' method of hanging victims was not
introduced officially into England and Wales until nearly two
centuries after the time of this story, but there exist accounts of
various executioners experimenting with the process long before
that, particularly in some regions of Italy and Germany, and there
is no reason to suppose that certain individuals might not have
brought the idea to England as early as this.

A certain
degree of artistic licence should be permitted in the telling of
any fictional tale, so I trust you will suspend your sense of
disbelief wherever necessary. In any case, the only people who can
say for sure who is right and who is wrong are now long dead,
including Matthew Hopkins, alias Jacob Crawley.

So, if you want to find out just how
I
imagine he might have met his end,
you'll have to buy the concluding volume in this saga -
The Devil's Surrogate
...

He fumbled
with the buckle of his belt. 'Now that most of the devil's work has
been scourged from you, it's time again to at least welcome your
physical body back into the fold.' He drew the front of his
breeches apart and Harriet saw that his shaft was already growing
erect. To her horrified astonishment, she saw also that it appeared
to be inordinately long, making it appear thinner than she might
have expected, like the neck of a rearing serpent. 'Let's see if
you still have the strength to wriggle as you did before,' he
challenged, leering...

Witchfinder
Jacob Crawley has the countryside around the Hampshire village of
Fetworth held in a grip of terror, as rural superstition and fear
flies in the face of emergent 17th century urban reason.

Hooded, gagged
and bound, beautiful Harriet Merridew lies in the church vault,
substituted for the unfortunate Matilda Pennywise, whom Crawley is
shortly to execute for witchcraft, whilst her bitter rival, Jane
Handiwell, leader of a gang of nocturnal highwaywomen, revels in
her plight and in the pending fate of Harriet's cousin Sarah, now
sold by Jane to Roderick Grayling, son of the local Lord of the
Manor to become just another statistic in his white slavery
operation.

Only Thomas
Handiwell, Jane's innkeeper father and Harriet's would-be suitor,
and a handful of troopers supposedly commanded by an inexperienced
and convalescent young officer, stand between further murder and
extortion and any chance of a return to sanity.

-oOo-

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