Abby grew to wondering who the figures were that Rebecca had seen entering the abandoned gardener’s cottage. Were they villagers already under scrutiny by herself and Jacob, or others as yet unknown to them? Were new characters destined to enter their investigation? She groaned to herself at the thought; this case was troubling enough as it was.

  If, as she hoped, these two people did indeed have connections to their case, then what were those connections? While she had pieced together a few theories, there was nothing yet solid enough to share with her fellow inquisitor.

  If only I were free! she thought to herself. I could visit the gardener’s cottage on the estate and search for clues.

  Bulstrode Bennett had much to answer for.

  Several dreary and uncomfortable hours later - presumably supper time, Jacob hoped - the constable’s key turned again in its lock and the door creaked open. He had never been so hungry in his life. Oddly, despite his current deprivations, in such terrible conditions, his cough had eased and his chest felt lighter. He was beginning to think that jail may not be as unhealthy as people made it out to be, until he realised how ridiculous that sounded.

  Hunched and morose, Abby was whisked from her introspection. She could hear two male voices, she realised, and neither of them was Jacob’s. One was Ward’s, but the other…

  A face appeared at her barred window, illuminated from below by a hand-held oil lamp, outlined by long raven-black hair and a beard, topped with a broad-brimmed hat. The eyes were lost in shadows. In the visitor’s gloved hand was a long wooden staff, and Abby could see that he was wearing a cape.

  A sneer crossed his cold lips.

  She knew who he was.

  Simon Hopkins had arrived.

  “The witches’ servant girl!” the witch-finder announced theatrically. “God will judge you also, mark my words, Abigail Harcourt. You shall not escape his earthly vengeance.”

  How would she react? Abby had wondered this from the moment she knew of Hopkins’s involvement in the witchcraft at Brampton. This was the son of the man who had effectively signed her father, the kind and progressive Ambrose Harcourt’s, death warrant.

  She had read Matthew Hopkins’s book and remembered the engraving in its frontispiece. Simon, standing before her now, was dressed in his father’s image. She knew where she stood. But… it troubled her: could a son be blamed for his father’s actions?

  Abby pushed herself to her feet and curtsied, her features inscrutable. She would not be pushed around by this man, since that is what he wanted. Equally, she knew, she would be wise not to antagonise him. The battle of wits would be won only over time.

  “I’ve been looking forward to making your acquaintance, Simon Hopkins.” She spoke his name loudly, to alert the others.

  It worked. She heard shuffling in the other cells, and Rebecca appeared at her window, riven with awe and fear.

  Jacob’s voice came: “You have no authority to practice your charlatan trade here, Simon Hopkins.”

  The witch-finder’s head turned to face him, smiling arrogantly. “Charlatan trade! I applaud thee, Jacob Standish. However, I hath in my possession a Commission for the Discovery of Witchcraft in Brampton, signed by the magistrate himself, Bulstrode Bennett. Pray, where is thine commission?” He paused for effect. “Mr Standish?”

  The title of Hopkins’s Commission, so close to that of his father’s infamous Discovery of Witches, thought Abby. It was no coincidence.

  Jacob, meanwhile, was babbling. “’Tis true that… That we do not possess…”

  Hopkins pressed a black-gloved finger to his lips. “Hush, Mr Standish. I will speak with the witch now.”

  The witch-finder turned towards Rebecca, who began whimpering. His eyes widened at her menacingly; she was frozen in terror.

  “Speak, witch!” Hopkins commanded.

  She could not.

  Abby was no longer able to hold her tongue. “Can’t you see that she’s terrified?” she called out. “Rebecca Thacker is no witch, yon monster!”

  “The Lord God Almighty shall be her judge!” Hopkins exclaimed. Then he twisted suddenly, his features contorted with rage. Pointing his staff at her, he roared, “NOT YOU, ABIGAIL HARCOURT!”

  She fell backwards, such was the force of his words, and lay sprawled on the hard, wet, filthy floor, her fingertips keenly aware of grit.

  “Bring the witch, Mr Ward,” she heard him order, and a key turning in Rebecca’s door.

  “She shall join her fellow sorceress, Paulina Pepys,” said Hopkins. “And soon we shall hear their confession.”

  Abby sprang up and pressed her face against the bars. “You have Paulina?”

  The witch-finder smiled.

  The door closed, and she was enveloped in gloom.

  Chapter twenty-four

  A Seal Broken

  The inquisitors spent another miserable day cooped up in damp, stale air. Their minds were fraught with images of Paulina and Rebecca quailing at the mercy of Simon Hopkins, and they cursed their inability to act.

  Jacob at least noticed that his troubling cough, which had become persistent, had completely ceased. He felt better than he had done in several days, although his stomach rumbled terribly, echoing around his tiny cell, which only made his hunger worse.

  Abby barely slept. She was chilled to the marrow, wracked with guilt and angry. Angry at herself for being outwitted by Bennett and Hopkins, but more, far more, she was angry at those two men. Men who abused their power in the name of God and the greater good.

  Around late afternoon, a heated exchange reached Abby’s ears from outside the lock-up. The next thing she knew, a key was turning in the lock on Jacob’s door. Constable Ward’s face appeared at her window, then disappeared as he bent down to unlock her door.

  In a daze, she urged her aching limbs into action and half-stumbled out of her jail cell. The main door to the lock-up was open, and she inhaled deeply the outside air, savouring its goodness afresh.

  A man was standing with Ward, dressed in sturdy leather and wearing a waxed cape. In his hand, he held a furled sheet of parchment and a wax-sealed letter that he handed to Jacob. “I came as soon as I could, sir,” he said.

  The letter was addressed to: Mr Jacob Standish, The Bull Inn, Brampton.

  Jacob broke the wax seal and read aloud.

  “Sir, As you did request, I have dispatched with your messenger the Special Commission of Enquiry, duly signed by the Lord High Admiral of England, James Stuart, Duke of York. It does authorise your continued investigations throughout Huntingdonshire, and woe betide any man who stands in your way.

  I am much troubled by the gravity of your situation. Unfortunately, I am presently engaged in Navy business of the utmost urgency. The moment my duties are concluded, I shall make haste to Brampton. I endeavour to arrive before the witch-finder Hopkins. Until that time, the safety of my sister, Paulina, rests in your hands. I pray you repay my trust in you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Samuel Pepys

  Clerk of the Acts.”

  Jacob looked at Abby. Her grey woollen prison attire was matted and saggy, her face pallid and drained, and her hands were filthy - but her turquoise eyes, he saw, blazed with fervour.

  “Where is Hopkins?” she demanded of Constable Ward.

  The jailer looked all out of pomp. “I… I heard he has the women held in the village hall,” he stammered.

  Despite being cold, wet, hungry and tired, the inquisitors thought only of Paulina and Rebecca. They knew where the village hall was, having passed it on the way to the Bennetts’s house.

  As they walked free into the crisp Brampton afternoon, the Church of St Mary Magdalen rose silhouetted above them. Jacob offered up a quick prayer for their successful endeavours. To Abby, it was a sign, that theirs alone was the path of righteousness.

  When Jacob tried the door to the village hall, he found it locked. He shook the handle and barged the heavy, studded oak, to no avail.

  “We’ll not gain entry by brute force, Jacob,” Abby told him, heading towards the side of the building.

  Cupping her hands against a leaded window pane, shielding her eyes from the light, she peered into the hall and stiffened. Urgently, she beckoned Jacob. “Look!” she said.

  Inside, he made out Paulina Pepys and Rebecca Thacker, seated opposite one another in the middle of the hall. The witch-finder was standing between them, banging his staff into the floor repeatedly, haranguing the women. Paulina’s head was bowed, and her shoulders were shaking uncontrollably. Rebecca’s eyes were red-rimmed, and she was staring straight ahead, transfixed by unseen demons.

  Jacob banged on the window and shouted, “Set those women free!”

  The inquisitors saw him drop his staff in shock on seeing them, then hasten towards the front door. They rushed around the building to accost him.

  Hopkins was locking the door behind him, when they reached him.

  “How did you escape?” he demanded. “I shall call for the magistrate.”

  Jacob handed him their Commission.

  Hopkins scanned it, rolled it up and handed it back. “Thou hast friends in high places,” he said, arching an eyebrow.

  The victory felt good, although it proved to be short-lived.

  “Then you will show me your proof that these women are not witches?” Hopkins added, interweaving his gloved fingers.

  When neither inquisitor replied, he produced from inside his coat a straw doll, and held it up before them, its lavender scent wafting in the breeze. “Wouldst thou explain this?” he asked innocently.

  “’Tis a poppet, as well you know,” replied Abby. “It was discovered at the door of Goody Grimston’s house.”

  Hopkins shook his head, smiling. “Unfortunately, nay, Abigail Harcourt. Grimston’s poppet hath a pin in its heart. This was pierced in the head.”

  Jacob looked incredulously at Abby, who tried to remain calm despite her pounding temples.

  Hopkins was revelling in their discomfort. “You were not aware, am I to believe, that a second victim of the witches was discovered last night in Brampton?”

  “You know we were not, Mr Hopkins,” Abby replied. “Who is this victim?” Her hands were shaking, and she willed them still.

  “His name was Owen Turner, God rest his soul. Thou knowest of him?”

  Their blank expressions told Hopkins all he needed.

  An unknown character had indeed entered the investigation.

  Jacob recovered enough to speak. “How did this fellow Turner die?”

  “Of the witches’ curse, Mr Standish,” Hopkins replied, as if that were the only possible answer. “It provided for me ample reason to apprehend the witch Pepys.”

  Abby spoke up, “Was Rebecca incarcerated with us at the time of his death?”

  “The time of Mr Turner’s death is uncertain. His body was cold when the Devil-doll was discovered at his door.” Hopkins dropped to his knees and clasped his hands in prayer. “Lord, grant me the wisdom that I may cleanse your lands of these foul demons, that they shall receive their due punishment. I beseech thee, protect me on this path, for it fills me with fear, though I shall not deviate from it.”

  Chapter twenty-five

  By Starlight

  Night had fallen by the time Abby and Jacob reached the Pepys’s home. An owl could be heard hooting from way across the fields, and the sky was so clear that the heavens were a vista of glinting pinpricks of starlight.

  Although they were both desperate to investigate the gardener’s cottage on the Ravenscourt estate, more pressing was their need to rest and recuperate after their ordeal in jail. Not to do so would prove counter-productive, they agreed - and they needed their wits about them.

  Additionally, as Jacob pointed out, “Tomorrow is the Sabbath. Hopkins, a devout Puritan, will be compelled to rest and pray.”

  It gave them a full day to operate, while he could not.

  Since Paulina’s parents lived so close to the inn, the inquisitors decided to check on them since their incarcerated daughter could not. Jacob wondered whether they were doing so out of generosity of spirit, or guilt that they had not managed to clear her name.

  The door to the Pepys’s home was unlocked, so they let themselves in and were shocked to find Paulina’s parents sitting at their dining table, feasting on roast beef and vegetables.

  John Pepys rose with a concerned expression. “What news of our dear Paulina?” he asked.

  “We heard the witch-finder has arrived,” Margaret added, pushing away her half-eaten supper. “Where is Paulina?”

  Jacob eyed her remaining dinner greedily. “You are fully recovered?” he asked, his tone almost one of disbelief.

  Colour had returned to the Pepys’s cheeks; their eyes were brighter and their voices were clearer. There was life in their bones.

  The inquisitors explained Paulina’s situation and the reason they appeared so bedraggled, softening certain awkward details. John stood behind his wife and hugged her as they listened.

  “Can you help clear her of these false charges?” he asked.

  “We are your son’s personal inquisitors, sir,” Jacob replied. “We shall not fail.” He hoped he had sufficiently disguised his waning confidence.

  “Aye,” Abby agreed, hoping the same.

  Jacob could not get over John and Margaret’s recovery. Only recently had they both looked close to death’s door.

  “I consider it a miracle, Mr Standish,” John told him, raising his eyes towards Heaven.

  “Are you hungry?” asked Margaret.

  Jacob had thought she would never ask.

  As Mrs Pepys retired to her kitchen, a thought occurred to Abby. “Mr Pepys,” she said. “Are you familiar with Owen Turner?”

  “I am. Why do you ask?”

  Not wishing to concern him any more than necessary, she replied, “No great matter, his name was mentioned to us.”

  “He is a legal clerk who works in Huntingdon, but lives here in the village. A loudmouth young fellow with a reputation for drunkenness.” John explained. “You may see him staggering to his office each morning.”

  Not any longer, you will not, thought Jacob.

  When Margaret returned with the inquisitors’ dinner, John explained how he had begun to feel better even the morning after they had taken to their beds. The pain in his chest, the coughing fits, the cold clamminess of his hands and feet - all had dissipated until he felt well enough to rise. To his great surprise, when he had checked on Margaret, he said, she too was out of bed and noticeably improved.

  When Jacob remarked that he too had felt unwell recently, and that his symptoms sounded remarkably similar to theirs, he did not notice Abby’s eyes light up.

  Chapter twenty-six

  A New Threat

  Abby was up before dawn and banging on Jacob’s door. “Jacob, wake up, we have a great deal to do!” She felt rested, and her tone was ebullient.

  Both changed into fresh clothing. Jacob’s original outfit, the one he had travelled in from London, had been laundered and pressed by the innkeeper’s wife. It felt wonderful on his skin after the sodden harshness of his prison attire.

  The previous night, on their way back to The Bull from the Pepys’s, they had stopped at Rebecca Thacker’s house at Abby’s behest. Jacob waited obediently while she went inside. When she emerged, he noticed that her satchel looked heavier. When he asked her about it, she remained tight-lipped. She had a hunch, she told him, nothing more; she would need corroboration before raising his hopes.

  The inquisitors breakfasted on local sausages with bread and honey. Jacob’s plate was clean even before Hatty Nettlewood returned to her kitchen. Abby could not finish her last sausage and looked around for the inn’s dog, Rusty, whom she had become accustomed to feeding scraps. When she could not see him, she called for Hatty.

  The innkeeper’s wife bustled towards them. “Abby, Abby, I’m at my wits’ end,” she declared, licking stray honey from her finger. “That naughty dog, we ain’t seen in five days now. ‘T’ain’t like him. He’s gone off before, but never so long.”

  Jacob waited impatiently outside The Bull while Abby returned to her room. When she joined him, he noticed she was carrying a rectangular item wrapped in cloth, which appeared to be a book. He asked her about it.

  “Time is short, Jacob,” she replied, ignoring his query. “We head to Ravenscourt Manor, where we’ll each take different paths. I, on an errand, while you seek out the gardener’s cottage and hunt for clues to the identity of Rebecca’s mysterious figures.”

  Jacob adjusted his periwig. “Will you not assist me?” he asked.

  “I have full faith in you,” she replied, squeezing his arm. “You are proving to be a fine inquisitor, just as my master expected. Your eye for a clue surpasses mine. If there’s one to be found, I fully trust you will find it.”

  Jacob looked unconvinced. “I would be more…”

  “Come,” she said, heading towards the manor house.

  He stood there for a while, watching her steadfast form recede. If only I had half her wits, he thought to himself.

  Eventually, he shook his head and loped after her.

  On passing through the estate gatehouse, the inquisitors could make out the lugubrious features of the servant, Edgar, glaring at them through a vast stained-glass window. Jacob suggested they bypass the main door, “Since we are known now and our business is authorised,” to which Abby readily agreed.

  Passing the ornamental gardens, they reached the rear wing of the house where Archibald Bramwell resided. According to Rebecca, the gardener’s cottage would be found nestled among young oak trees, facing the physician’s wing.

  And so it proved. The cottage was a single-storey dwelling with a steeply pitched, thatched roof, its windows shuttered, some 200 yards up a gravel pathway bisecting a lawn. They had noticed it on their previous visit, they realised; if only they had been aware of its significance.