It was mid-morning, and the weather was kind: a cloudless sky and a comforting sun once again. To the inquisitors, Huntingdonshire was an oasis of vitality, and around every bend was a new vista of lush, verdant wonderment.

  To Paulina, it was a prison, albeit a pleasant one; she missed the city and its culture. She too had grown up in London, as John and Margaret’s tenth and penultimate child. In fact, she was the Pepys’s second daughter named Paulina; her tragic younger namesake had only lived to the age of four, so they had never been acquainted.

  Hers was a life of servitude. When her elder brother, Samuel, invited her to live with him and his wife, Elizabeth, at Seething Lane, it was not as a guest but as his wife’s maid. (Previously, he had accused her of stealing scissors from Elizabeth and a book from his own maid!) She was not allowed to dine with them, and Samuel soon made it clear that he had grown tired of her presence.

  When the Brampton cottage became available, she was sent there to care for their elderly parents in situ. It was not what she had had in mind for her future.

  What she most desired in life was a husband who would remove her from this dreary existence, grant her some independence of thought and spirit, and love her for who she was. Samuel had meddled in her affairs far too often, suggesting ill-matched suitors. Among them, she recalled the upholsterer Philip Harman and Benjamin Gauden, son of a Navy victualler, both from London. Neither had proved suitable.

  Only last March, Samuel and her father had paired her with the Brampton landowner, Robert Endsum, whom she had found to be an ill-bred drunkard, uncultured in his ways. When she had told Samuel so, it had only encouraged his pursuit of the arrangement! Fortunately, Endsum had died.

  Paulina resented her brother’s overbearing manner and he, her truculence. He appeared to think as lowly of her as she did highly of herself.

  “Do you like it here in Brampton?” Abby asked Paulina, stopping briefly to pet a grazing cow.

  “Very much so,” Paulina replied, before returning to her introspection.

  As they walked, the inquisitors chatted, and Abby imparted some of the local history she had learned from her master. Oliver Cromwell, who ruled England with religious fervour until 1658, was born in Huntingdon, she explained. He had gathered troops there to join his New Model Army and fight as parliamentarians against the royalist forces of King Charles I.

  Cromwell’s iron fist was still fresh in both their minds, even though they were mere children during that turbulent period. Every English citizen’s life had been affected by the self-proclaimed Lord Protector, none more so than in the thriving metropolis of London, where soldiers roamed the streets and rules were less easily broken.

  As a Puritan, they were well aware, Cromwell believed that life should be lived with purity, according to the writings of the Bible. Entertainment devoid of piety had been frowned upon. Inns and theatres were closed down, and many sports were banned (although Oliver himself managed to enjoy a game of bowling… and to father an illegitimate child).

  Sunday became a day of church, rest and religious contemplation; Jacob remembered being chased by soldiers for the ‘crime’ of playing football. Profanity was punishable by a fine, while repeated profanity necessitated a custodial sentence. Make-up was banned, and they had seen soldiers scrubbing women’s faces in the street. Clothing in general became plain and muted.

  Christmas, which had developed into a day of joyful feasting, was returned to its religious significance: a celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ. Decorations were banned, and soldiers entered houses from which the aroma of roasting goose emanated, to confiscate the food.

  Master Pepys had admitted to Abby that he had been a strong advocate of the republic under the Lord Protector, and that when his successor, Charles II, came to the throne in 1660, he had switched his allegiance to the monarchy. Her Master Pepys was adept at supporting a winner, she was well aware.

  Agricultural fields backed by rows of houses greeted the trio’s arrival in Huntingdon. They passed a large enclosed bowling field. Abby had to dissuade an over-excited Jacob from dropping by for a game, reminding him of their duty to her master.

  He began to admonish himself, but his voice crackled, and he began to choke. His cough had been worsening, Abby had noticed, and told him so. He brushed her concerns aside.

  George Street took them into the heart of the town, past the George Inn and All Saints’ Church, towards the market square off the high street. Paulina was aware that her brother had attended the Free Grammar School ahead of them - no such education for her - and that Oliver Cromwell had done so before him.

  “Where shall we go?” asked Jacob, taking in the busy market, where vendors were hawking their wares and children darted about. A street musician could be heard playing the popular tune of the day, Flow My Tears, on a lute, and singing…

  Flow, my tears, fall from your springs!

  Exiled for ever, let me mourn;

  Where night’s black bird her sad infamy sings,

  There let me live forlorn.

  Paulina and the inquisitors agreed to ask after Sir Edward Mallory’s place of work at an inn, where they would take dinner. The life of an inquisitor, Abby and Jacob were coming to realise, often involved appeasing an empty stomach.

  So they retraced their steps to the George, a large coaching inn with a courtyard, which they entered via a timber-bolstered walkway. Before them, an external staircase led up and around the upper tier of guest rooms.

  Upon entering the tap-room, they were as shocked to see Anne Grimston as she was to see them. The unexpected encounter diverted their attention, so the usually eagle-eyed Jacob did not notice Will Farlow exit hastily through a back door, leaving a perplexed young woman at his table.

  “My!” Anne exclaimed, rising. A shaft of sunlight illuminated her tankard. “’Tis you pair! And young mistress Pepys! What brings you to these parts?”

  They exchanged tales. Anne, for her part, was dealing with the sorry aftermath of her husband’s death. Although Goody had been a successful farmer, enough to purchase his own fields, he had been a useless husband and father, she told them. “Clod drank all our money.”

  The parish priest, who had conducted Goody’s funeral service only that morning, had advised her to see a solicitor as soon as possible, to discuss her “dower rights”. She had never heard of such a thing, she said, and the solicitor she had just visited to discuss these “dower rights” had only confused her further.

  Anne opened her bag, allowing them a glimpse of thick paperwork. “Made my poor head twirl,” she told them, spinning her head in demonstration.

  “Your husband did not leave a Will?” Jacob asked.

  “Leave a Will?” Anne shrieked. “All he left me was his cold, dead body. And that’s now buried.” She crossed herself. “Lord have mercy upon his feckless soul.”

  They were glad when she left, since none relished Anne Grimston’s incessant chatter. Jacob ordered an eel pie, and its nourishment bolstered their spirits. Paulina kept glancing at him, then averting her eyes, he noticed. He wondered whether she had something on her mind.

  Abby asked Paulina about Helen Bennett and the grave injustice Goody Grimston had done to her.

  “The whole village knows,” Paulina replied, picking an eel bone from between her teeth.

  Of course they do! thought the inquisitors.

  Every autumn, Paulina explained, the Brampton Harvest Fair was held on the village green. Music, dance, craft and food stalls, sack races, archery… A celebration of village life and of a bountiful harvest.

  An artist from Huntingdon had hired a stall, displaying his paintings of local landscapes; he had also offered for sale sketches of people who would sit for him. One who had done so, Paulina recalled, was Helen Bennett. When the artwork was finished and Helen was admiring it, Goody Grimston appeared, skipping drunkenly.

  “Goody drew his own caricature of Helen, and waved it under her nose,” Paulina told the inquisitors. “She hated it! He made her look like a toad. Her shrieking gathered a crowd, which only made her worse. Then Bulstrode appeared and dragged Goody away by his collar. She took an age to calm, ranting about taking Goody to court, to clear her good name.

  “Nought came of her threats. Can you imagine Goody’s caricature being held up in a court of law as evidence?” Paulina giggled, her laughter a fleeting, bright moment among the trying times for the Pepys’s of Brampton.

  When the table fell silent, Paulina held Jacob’s gaze and said quietly, “There is something else…”

  He put a hand on her arm. “Pray tell, dear lady. You must know that any secret is safe with us.”

  Abby nodded.

  Paulina blinked and looked down. “I lied to you in front of my father. I did have congress with Will Farlow on the night of Goody’s death.”

  Jacob slapped the table; Abby did not react.

  “I dared not admit… with my father present…” Paulina stumbled over her words. “He would have…” She trailed off.

  Jacob asked, “How did he gain entry to your chamber without your father’s knowledge?”

  “I leave a ladder for him, and my window open. My parents’ hearing ails, and they are sorely weakened these days. Will departs before the sun rises.”

  Jacob pursed his lips. Just because Will Farlow told one awkward truth, it does not mean he is trustworthy, he thought.

  Abby, however, took out her suspect list and crossed out Farlow’s name.

  The George’s innkeeper knew of Sir Edward Mallory and directed them to the Senior Magistrate’s office in the Town Hall.

  They found the stone building on the market square. Inside, the hall was flooded with light, its floor paved with flagstones worn smooth by feet. Wooden beams supported the roof, and an unoccupied platform at the far end, laid out with high-backed chairs and a table, looked set for public proceedings.

  The space was busy with people - clerks, lawyers, merchants, members of the public - milling about, and Jacob pushed through them, followed by Abby and Paulina, in search of Sir Edward’s office. Voices echoed, combining to create a sense of importance.

  Among the rooms lined around the hall, Jacob finally came upon one with this sign on its door:

  Sir Edward Mallory

  Senior Magistrate for the County of Huntingdonshire

  Abby wished her master were with them. Here was a powerful man she would find intimidating.

  Inside, a clerk listened to Jacob’s nervily related tale, then bade them wait while he consulted with Sir Edward, and disappeared into an adjoining office.

  Jacob’s eyes darted around the room, taking in its rows of legal volumes, framed official documents and notices of local governance. “Will you speak with Sir Edward?” he asked Abby.

  “Nay!” she hissed back. “How can I…”

  A door creaked open, and Abby fell silent. The trio waited stiffly for the clerk to reach them.

  “Sir Edward has graciously consented to meet with you,” he said. “I request that you be mindful of that, and detain him only briefly.”

  Abby noticed that Jacob’s hands were shaking.

  Sir Edward Mallory’s office walls were covered with imposing, gilt-framed portraits of men in robes and wigs. One clearly depicted Sir Edward himself, his gaze stern and commanding. The others, his predecessors no doubt, looked no less unnerving. Their eyes seemed to bore into the visitors, silently questioning the audacity of their existence.

  The gentleman himself was seated upright behind a desk neatly stacked with papers. He wore a dark robe, a silk cravat, a curly grey periwig, and a gold signet ring on one finger. There was a lengthy scar across his forehead, which greatly perturbed Jacob, who suspected it was a memento of the Civil War.

  Mallory’s presence reminded Jacob all too vividly of his headmaster’s, in whose study he had been soundly beaten on so many occasions. Unnerved, he removed not just his hat, but his periwig as well, then wrung them in his hands. When the Senior Magistrate stared at him as if he were mad, he noticed the error and slapped them both back onto his head, where they remained, skewed, for the duration of the meeting.

  It was not a good start.

  Jacob managed to introduce the three of them and stammered out the reason for their presence. Mr Samuel Pepys’s inquisitors; Goody Grimston’s allegations of witchery; Rebecca and Paulina’s innocence…

  Mallory stopped him and addressed Paulina. “Are you a witch?” he asked bluntly.

  Paulina’s mouth opened and closed; Abby nudged her to no avail.

  Jacob had no choice but to speak on her behalf. “Nay, she is no witch, your honour. I can…”

  Mallory glared daggers at him. “Let the woman speak for herself!” he thundered.

  It shocked Paulina into action. “I am no witch, sir,” she confirmed timidly.

  “Your honour,” Jacob piped up, “Mr Bennett…”

  “I am aware of Mr Bennett’s involvement, Mr Standish!” Mallory bellowed. “My esteemed Brampton colleague wishes for your incarceration. Indeed, he did visit me this morning, and I duly signed for him a Letter of Marque, granting him the power to do so.”

  Paulina gasped. The inquisitors blinked incredulously.

  Sir Edward continued, “You have no authority here, yet you act like agents of the Crown itself. Let it be known that such behaviour is neither condoned nor welcomed in this jurisdiction.”

  “Your honour, we act on behalf of Mr Samuel Pepys, whose sister stands beside me,” Jacob protested meekly. “He is Clerk of the Acts to the…”

  “I know who Mr Pepys is!” Mallory thundered. “He a friend of Lord Fairfax himself. My point is that you possess no formal proof of your association with him!”

  Jacob suddenly developed a hacking cough and bent double, struggling for breath.

  Mallory leaned over his desk to address the inquisitor more directly. “Mr Standish, do you bring illness into my office?”

  “Nay, sir!” Jacob assured him between fits of choking. “It is a cold. Nought else.”

  Finally, Abby found her nerve. “Your honour, I implore you, a grave miscarriage of justice is taking place. Simon Hopkins rides…”

  Again, Sir Edward interrupted, preferring the sound of his own voice. “Simon Hopkins brings with him public scrutiny. In this matter, I am obliged to adhere strictly to the letter of the law.”

  Is he offering us a glimmer of hope? Abby wondered. “Sir, are you saying you may be able to intervene, if Hopkins transgresses the law in his methods?”

  Adjusting his cravat, Mallory ignored her question. “In order for you to continue your investigation, and to avoid incarceration, I would require a Special Commission of Inquiry, duly authorised by the Admiralty.”

  Abby, despite herself, persisted. “As to Simon Hopkins’s methods, your honour?”

  “If he does transgress the law, I may be able to intervene. Now, I insist that you leave. You have taken up enough of my time already.”

  Chapter twenty

  Hopkins Challenged

  Simon Hopkins did not have to seek out a Cambridge magistrate. A Cambridge magistrate came to him, having been summoned by Dorothy Kipling’s frantic husband, Walter. He woke Hopkins at The Blacksmith’s Inn, in the early hours of the morning following the witch, Prudence Sawyer’s confession.

  Having slept for barely eight hours in the last 72, the self-appointed witch-finder was necessarily befuddled as the door to his guest chamber was flung open by the man whose face he knew but could not, in that moment between sleep and wake, place.

  Gradually, his mists cleared. “Mr… Langton? Mr Edward Langton?” Hopkins asked, focusing with one bleary eye.

  Both men had attended Cambridge University together, though Langton had been finishing postgraduate studies in law as Hopkins entered its hallowed arches.

  They might never have been acquainted, had Langton not been handed a pamphlet Hopkins had printed, criticising the Church of England for its retention of elements of Catholicism, demanding they be reformed. Langton, a moderate Protestant, had taken umbrage. Heated words were exchanged, and the pamphlets were gathered up and destroyed.

  Moreover, Langton’s father was Sir William Langton, an influential member of parliament, known for his philanthropic endeavours and initiatives to help the poor and needy, in particular the Langton Almshouses.

  It did not bode well.

  “Simon Hopkins!” Langton replied cheerily. “Did I ever consider that we might meet again? And in circumstances of such intrigue!”

  Hopkins sat upright on his straw mattress and rubbed his sallow cheeks.

  Langton looked grander than ever. He removed his hat, revealing side-parted dark hair. His features were chiselled and he was clean-shaven.

  His clothing was immaculate, if understated: a navy-blue doublet with fine brass buttons and matching breeches, polished leather boots, and a dark velvet cloak. The white ruff around his neck suggested a link to the judiciary, and Hopkins found himself quickly waking.

  “Sir, you are…?” he began.

  “A magistrate, Mr Hopkins. Indeed. A Justice of the Peace. That is why I am here. For I hear the peace has been mightily shattered in this fine hamlet. By you, Mr Hopkins.”

  “My methods, sir, were laid down by King James himself, in the name of God and Jesus Christ. I would defend them with my last breath.”

  “Then we must hope it does not come to that. Must we not?”

  A chill descended that afternoon. The village hall was cold, such that steam rose off the crowds packed in to watch the interrogation of Simon Hopkins. How the tables had turned.

  The Blacksmith’s Inn’s landlord was there with his wife. As were Henry Drayton, whose wife, Lucy, had perished, and Hopkins’s watchers, Faith Jarvis and Hester Quill. Walter Kipling, Dorothy’s aged husband, stood at the front of the crowd, a gentle hand on his wife’s shoulder.

  The three accused women - Sarah and Prudence Sawyer, and Dorothy Kipling - sat centre-stage, their ashen, clammy skin a reminder of the nightmare they had endured, though each had changed into fresh woollens, neatly pressed and dignified.