They exchanged glances. “Mr Samuel Pepys? Was here?” asked Jacob.

  “Indeed. And so greatly troubled,” he replied, all mock sincerity.

  “Why, sir?” demanded Jacob.

  “Hast thou not heard? Last night his sister confessed to witchcraft, having summoned forth her foul imp.” Hopkins pointed at the cat.

  Young Eleanor Brooks dared to butt in. “He fetched it,” she said quietly. “She did not summon it.”

  The witch-finder raised his hand to strike her, and she cowered. “Silence, blasphemer! Would you join the other witch in jail?”

  Jacob advanced on Hopkins, who stood his ground. “Paulina Pepys is in jail?”

  Hopkins’s lips curled. “She is a witch, sir, and hath committed murder through her cursed demons. Where else would a witch be? Word hath been sent to Magistrate Bennett, who will arrive forthwith, and we shall set in motion her trial.”

  Jacob faced off against Hopkins. “Paulina Pepys is no witch. We have good reason to believe that Grimston was murdered by the magistrate himself, Bulstrode Bennett.”

  Hopkins roared with laughter, encouraging his watchers to join in, which they did half-heartedly. Only Abby and Jacob remained grim-faced.

  Abby stamped her foot angrily and spoke above the noise. “If you would listen…?”

  Jacob gripped her arm. “Where is Mr Pepys?”

  In an instant, the laughter stopped and they saw that the witch-finder’s attention was focused on the doorway. A young boy was standing there.

  “My messenger!” Hopkins announced. “Pray, where is Magistrate Bennett, boy? I didst order thou to fetch him!”

  The child held out a straw doll. “His corpse was found in his stable this morning, sir. His wife discovered this doll at the foot of their door. Magistrate Bennett is dead, sir.”

  Once they had recovered their composure, the inquisitors argued that Paulina could not possibly have been responsible for the magistrate’s death. After all, she would have been in jail at the time.

  The witch-finder was clearly flustered, having lost a powerful ally, and would hear none of it. He ranted about demons and imps, God and Jesus Christ. There was no counter-argument, bar that of common sense, which he would never hear.

  “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!” Hopkins exclaimed, raising his staff towards Heaven.

  The inquisitors had no choice but to return to The Bull, to plan.

  There, they discovered Samuel Pepys.

  Chapter thirty-one

  Near Hysteria

  Mr Pepys was in a sorry state, his finery soaked through by rain and his mood jittery. Abby had never seen her master so out of sorts.

  “Where have you been?” he wailed as they entered The Bull.

  He had ridden to Brampton overnight on a hired horse, he told them, his tone one of barely contained hysteria. It had taken him an age to wake anyone when he arrived at the inn in the early hours. (The inquisitors guiltily recalled their sound, ale-induced slumbers.)

  Eventually, he had woken Barty Nettlewood, who informed him of Paulina’s interrogation by the witch-finder in the village hall. Panicked, he rode straight there. Upon learning that his sister had been taken to jail by the Brampton constable, he confronted Hopkins.

  “Though I argued forcefully, exerting my will, it was to no avail,” said Pepys.

  In Hopkins’s mind, he discovered, the Clerk of the Acts to the Navy Board would always be trumped by God.

  Realising that his only option was to appeal to a higher legal authority, Pepys told them, he then rode to Huntingdon to seek Sir Edward Mallory’s counsel. Not wishing to wake him, he had to wait until the Senior Magistrate rose and granted him an audience.

  Mallory agreed, after some cajoling, to attend a meeting at the Brampton village hall that afternoon, where both sides could state their case. However, he warned Pepys that the Brampton magistrate held final authority in the village. Mallory could only intervene if the law were transgressed.

  “And here you do find me,” Pepys concluded, wringing his hands nervously, “desperate for some good news of your investigation.”

  Jacob spoke up, avoiding his mentor’s gaze. “The Brampton magistrate, Bulstrode Bennett, is dead, sir.”

  Pepys’s mouth fell open. “Dead? When did this occur?”

  “Early this morning.” Jacob’s face was burning. “Unfortunately, we did…”

  Abby cut in, “Sir, I have a few theories. What we dearly require is…”

  She was interrupted by a shrill wailing from the direction of the kitchen. It was Hatty Nettlewood, in great distress.

  The three of them rushed out back and found her pointing, horrified, towards a wooden shed. “‘E’s in there!” she wailed, covering her face with her apron.

  “Who’s in there, Hatty?” Abby asked, wrapping her arm around the distraught woman.

  “Rusty!” she exclaimed. “An’ e’s dead! Looks like ’e’s been there for days!”

  Abandoning the innkeeper’s wife, who dissolved into sobs, Abby dashed inside the shed. This, she hoped, might be the break she had been waiting for…

  Chapter thirty-two

  The Unravelling

  Word spread quickly around Brampton that something worth nosing into was taking place in the village hall. The space was crammed full when the inquisitors and Mr Pepys arrived. Constable Ward was guarding the door, barring late-comers from entry, but he stood aside when he saw Abby and Jacob, knowing too well their key role in the proceedings.

  When Pepys followed, Ward eyed the gentleman’s expensive yet bedraggled attire. “Pardon me, sir…” Then recognising the regular Brampton visitor, he exclaimed, “Mr Samuel Pepys! ’Tis a pleasure, sir, to…”

  Pepys barged past him, in no mood for pleasantries.

  The acoustics in the room were poor, creating a constant, loud rumble in the new arrivals’ ears. A semi-circle of mismatched stools had been placed in the centre of the hall; facing this was an ornate armchair, in which sat Sir Edward Mallory, the Senior Magistrate. Dressed in a fur-lined, royal-blue robe and freshly powdered, long grey periwig, he was eyeing the room, distaste curled upon his grey lips.

  In the semi-circle were seated: Archibald Bramwell, watchers Dorothy and Eleanor Brooks, and the accused woman, Paulina Pepys, which left two stools unoccupied. In the middle stood the witch-finder, Simon Hopkins, stern and defiant. Once he spotted Abby and Jacob pushing their way through the crowd, he did not take his eyes off them.

  Packed all around this scene were the villagers: a sea of dirty faces, in hats and coifs, bobbing as they craned to see.

  Mallory spotted the inquisitors too, and ordered them to take the two spare seats. When he noticed Pepys following, he motioned for him to stand behind them, then continually indicated for him to move further back. Only when Pepys was squeezed like an urchin up a chimney among the foul-smelling crowd, did Sir Edward appear happy.

  Pepys scowled, unaccustomed to occupying the periphery. His face softened when he caught his sister’s eye. Paulina, having been fed, had recovered some of her spirit and colour, although her ordeal remained etched upon her face.

  Jacob studied the room for familiar faces and spied the stablemaid, Alice Wilkins, standing behind Bramwell. A few rows behind her was Anne Grimston, partially blocked from his view by a man in an unnecessarily tall hat. He could see that she was arguing with the fellow; shortly, she swiped the hat away and flung it over the crowd’s heads.

  Towards the rear of the spectators, near the main door, Jacob noticed Barty Nettlewood wearing his omnipresent eye-patch, craning his neck to see, and waved to him. When Abby nudged him, he stopped. The innkeeper had not seen him anyway.

  Mallory held in his right hand a silver-topped cane, which he cracked into the flagstones three times, to gain everyone’s attention. When that had no effect, Hopkins slammed his wooden staff into the floor, and bellowed, “Silence!” Immediately, a hush descended, and all eyes were drawn to the witch-finder.

  Including Mallory’s. The Senior Magistrate fixed Hopkins with a stern gaze, and the crowd collectively held its breath.

  “Simon Hopkins, I am the Senior Magistrate of Huntingdonshire,” Mallory intoned firmly. (Most present noticed he had not addressed Hopkins as Mr, neatly establishing a hierarchy.) “The tragic demise of the Brampton magistrate, Bulstrode Bennett, does not grant you jurisdiction over these matters.”

  All eyes slid towards his adversary. “With all due respect, Sir Edward,” Hopkins replied, not rising to the bait, “it is not the law I answer to, but to The Almighty himself, who hath called upon me to root out the wicked and godless. Such is this foul witch before us, sir.” Hopkins pointed his staff at Paulina, who bowed her head, hiding herself away. Loud murmurs broke out.

  Mallory rose sharply, the scar on his forehead practically throbbing. “You shall answer to the law of this land, Simon Hopkins, and you shall answer to me!”

  Hopkins was not easily cowed. He could feel the spirit of his father flowing through him. “Sir, I would not need to take matters into mine own hands, had men of law the courage to confront evil where it hides. Thus, I fear, do witches thrive.”

  The Senior Magistrate’s cheek began to twitch. “If you continue to act as if you have unchecked authority, Simon Hopkins, you shall find yourself in a cell, with no one but the Almighty to answer to!” he roared.

  The witch-finder merely smiled. “The Lord's judgment is swift, Sir Edward. If thou doth oppose his will, thou shalt answer for it. For his power is far greater than the legal codes of this land.”

  A sizeable number of spectators broke into spontaneous applause.

  Jacob caught Abby’s eye and shook his head.

  Some distance behind them, Samuel Pepys was desperately holding his tongue.

  This legal to-and-fro continued, Mallory at boiling point, his adversary supernaturally calm. In the end, Sir Edward had no legal option but to allow Hopkins to state his case.

  And so the inquiry began.

  The witch-finder began by outlining his involvement: the visit from the Brampton magistrate; the witch’s curse on Goody Grimston; and the farmer’s subsequently ruined crops. (Both inquisitors noticed he was careful to exclude the name of Rebecca Thacker from his testimony.)

  Hopkins went on to recall how Goody had received a witch’s poppet, laid at his doorstep. Later, he stated, the farmer was subjected to a violent seizure - the witch’s curse incarnate - which killed him.

  The witch-finder placed his hands on Paulina’s shoulders, causing tears to flow down her cheeks.

  He continued, “This witch hath communed with the Devil himself, through her demon imp, Sugar, whom she did summon in mine presence, and in the presence of these two devout and righteous witnesses, Dorothy and Eleanor Brooks.”

  The overawed women could only nod.

  The village hall was filled with angry murmurs as the crowd swayed and jostled, some at the rear trying to break through to get to Paulina.

  In the midst of this uproar, Abby Harcourt stood up.

  Hopkins smirked at her, shaking his head as if she were a child. Jacob muttered a quick prayer.

  “SILENCE!” came the cry. It was Samuel Pepys himself.

  Shocked by his ferocity, incredibly, the rabble obeyed.

  Sir Edward spoke. “I am obliged to you, Mr Pepys. However, do, pray, rest assured that I am able to command my own inquiry.”

  Pepys nodded, chastened.

  The Senior Magistrate went on, “Now, Abigail Harcourt, inquisitor to the said Mr Pepys. We shall hear you speak.”

  Abby looked around the room at the wretched and eager faces and wondered: How did I end up here?

  With a quick glance at Jacob, she began. “Sir Edward, ’tis my belief, and the belief of my fellow inquisitor, Mr Jacob Standish, that Goody Grimston was not the victim of a witch’s curse.”

  A gasp rose in the hall. Hopkins muttered something to himself.

  “Goody Grimston was poisoned, sir.”

  All hell broke loose.

  When the commotion finally ceased, she continued, “I have recently examined The Bull inn’s dog, sir, which went missing the morning after Goody passed away. The poor creature had hidden itself behind barrels, where it had died with wild eyes and a foaming mouth. The same fate that befell the farmer. They were both poisoned with belladonna, sir. Deadly nightshade.”

  A voice called out, “Then who poisoned them?”

  “Goody Grimston’s last words were, ‘The b…’. Magistrate Bennett, who was complicit in the crime…” Abby had to allow another wave of catcalls and outrage to subside. “Magistrate Bennett, who was complicit in the crime, declared that Grimston was trying to say, ‘The Brampton witches’. We, my fellow inquisitor and I, believed he was trying to say, ‘The beer’, which we considered had been poisoned.

  “Sir, we were all wrong.”

  The tension was palpable as he crowd held its communal, fetid breath.

  “Who killed him?” yelled someone.

  “Aye!” agreed many others. “Who killed him?”

  Abby rolled her shoulders. “Goody Grimston was trying to say, ‘The bread’. Barty Nettlewood provides it for every customer, and Goody and his wife were partaking of it that night. Goody noticed the bitterness of the poison in his, but sadly too late. After the shock of his death, the uneaten leftovers were thrown out, where the inn’s dog, poor Rusty, scavenged them and died.”

  Simon Hopkins removed his hat and ran his fingers through his black hair. “She endeavours to deny the Lord his vengeance and will burn in the fires of Hell! The evidence of witchcraft is plain for all to see!”

  Sir Edward ignored him and leaned forward in his chair. “Pray explain, Abigail Harcourt, who did bake this poisoned bread?”

  “We’d smelled her baking that very afternoon,” Abby replied, amid utter silence. “She substituted her poisoned bread for Hatty’s, on Goody’s plate, when he was distracted. No doubt while he was drunkenly confronting Jacob. She barters her baked goods for beer at The Bull, so it would have gone unnoticed. The murderer, Sir Edward, is…”

  “Anne Grimston!” shrieked Helen Bennett, crashing through the door into the hall, causing everyone’s heads to turn. She was waving a sheet of parchment in the air. “Anne Grimston, the conniving whore, has conspired with my gullible-fool husband to change his Will. He leaves all his money and land to her!” With a loud gasp, she promptly and ostentatiously fainted.

  Goody’s wife was dragged forward to face the Senior Magistrate.

  “What do you say for yourself, Anne Grimston?” Sir Edward demanded.

  Hopkins stepped in front of her and raised his voice. “Thou overstep thine bounds, Sir Edward! Witchcraft is no ordinary crime. Thou hast no authority over God's judgment!”

  “If you have evidence, then present it, Hopkins.”

  The witch-finder raised a gloved hand. “Sir, if thou wouldst allow me…?” Scrabbling through his coat pockets and finding nothing, he began hunting beneath the stools.

  Anne Grimston’s arms were pinned behind her back, her blonde plait had become unravelled and there were scratches on her face. She spat on the ground and glared at Helen Bennett, who had been carried forward by four men, and was recovering on the floor at Sir Edward’s feet. “He loathed you and sought solace in me,” she rasped, struggling to get free.

  Somehow instantly revived, Helen went for her and was pulled back by locals. “I thank God you killed him, harlot!” she exclaimed. “But you will never have his money. I earned that, living with the pig!”

  Before their exchange could escalate, Simon Hopkins appeared between them. Walking in a tight circle, he held aloft a tool recovered from his bag: a witch-pricking needle.

  Despite this overwrought display, many in the crowd paid him no heed, forcing him to shout to be heard. “Sir, this is a craven miscarriage of God’s justice! Pray allow me this one test for witchcraft, that I might prove the Pepys woman to be a witch once and for all!”

  “Your tests are outdated, Hopkins,” Sir Edward told him, with obvious relish. “They belong to another age.”

  People began jeering and a chant built: “Prick the witch! Prick the witch!”

  Wretched Paulina Pepys had been forgotten amid the drama. Still seated while all around her were standing, she looked up to find all eyes - some angry, some pitying - on her. Overwhelmed, she buried her head in her hands.

  When someone pulled her to her feet, her brother suddenly appeared and wrenched away the assailant’s grip. Paulina and Samuel caught each other’s gaze, and she fell into his arms.

  However, the Senior Magistrate was swayed by the crowd’s mood to allow Hopkins his final, desperate throw of the dice. And so the scene was set.

  Paulina stood, bare-backed, her hands splayed against a wall, before the expectant crowd. The inquisitors found themselves at the front of the throng, alongside Mr Pepys and Sir Edward.

  Simon Hopkins paced up and down behind Paulina, head bowed, muttering prayers to his Lord. To Abby, he was pure theatre. Finally, Hopkins faced the crowd.

  “Witness!” he proclaimed. “I shall prick this woman. If she is a witch, she will not bleed!”

  Hopkins turned, the wooden handle of the needle wrapped in his gloved hand, and pushed the point slowly, slowly, into Paulina’s back. She appeared to register no pain as the full length of the six-inch needle disappeared into her flesh.

  When the witch-finder retracted the point, there was no mark to be seen.

  Onlookers crowded in closer, and those nearer the back craned their necks to see.

  Hopkins repeated the process. Again, no mark.

  Whispered, shocked chatter broke out.

  Hopkins turned, eyes heavenward, fists clenched, triumphant. “The Lord is on my side! This devil is indeed a witch!”

  Jacob leapt forward and wrenched the witch-pricker from Hopkins’s grasp, before he could react. Holding his hands aloft so all could see, he pushed the needle into his palm, then again, and again, and again. No wound appeared, and no blood seeped out.