Mr Pepys Sr wore a trimmed goatee. His attire was sharp, as one would have expected of a former tailor: well-cut doublet jacket over a linen shirt with wide collar, silk stockings and brass-buckled leather shoes that had been diligently waxed.

  Mrs Pepys looked similarly elegant in an understated way. She wore a linen smock beneath a lace-trimmed gown, featuring fitted bodice and billowing skirt. It had detachable sleeves. A kerchief was draped around her shoulders and tied at the neck. Her leather shoes, similarly waxed, were laced.

  Charmingly, if somewhat eccentrically, their outfits were colour-coordinated. Both wore ochre outer garments, a bright yellow undergarment and tan leather shoes.

  But their worn and lined features told a less glamorous story. Their faces were pallid with sunken cheeks and their dark-rimmed, watery eyes squinted to see.

  “Mr Standish,” said John, bowing slightly. “We are most indebted to you. And to you, dear Abby.”

  Abby shot Paulina a look and the Pepys woman scowled back.

  “Sam speaks highly of you both, and we pray you conclude this lamentable matter swiftly,” John continued. He motioned for them all to be seated at a large table in the centre of the room. “Thus we must turn our attentions to the Grimston oaf and his ungodly, baseless aspersions.”

  “Wicked man!” exclaimed his wife. The words stuck in her throat, she coughed, and John gently patted her back.

  The walls and timber-beamed ceiling were plastered and whitewashed. A portrait of Samuel gazing proudly hung from one wall.

  Leaded windows, three abreast, allowed wide shafts of September sunlight in. The large brick-and-timber fireplace would not require lighting until the evening.

  The inquisitors repeated the facts of the story as they understood them. Paulina, pointedly addressing Jacob whenever she replied, confirmed that Goody Grimston had indeed been drunk when he had wrecked their market stall, and that it was true, she and Rebecca had threatened him - but of course they were empty threats, uttered in the heat of the moment.

  The young woman was barely holding it together. “Mr Standish, you must believe me, I am no witch,” she pleaded. “Grimston is well known for his falsehoods and takes perverse delight in the misery of others.”

  John slammed his fist down on the table. “Goody Grimston is a fabricator and a simpleton, sir!”

  His poorly wife became seized by a coughing fit.

  Jacob did not know where to look.

  Abby addressed Paulina. “Why do you think Goody singled out you and Rebecca?”

  Ignoring the question, Paulina sighed impatiently and looked to her father.

  “Paulina, if Sam places his trust in Abby then we are bound to do the same,” he told her gently.

  His daughter huffed petulantly.

  Abby straightened. “When is Simon Hopkins’s arrival expected?” she asked innocently.

  Her mention of the witch-finder had the desired effect. Paulina’s face crumpled and she began sobbing. As Margaret moved in to comfort her, Abby blushed.

  John put his head in his hands. “Oh, this is a grave matter. If the young Hopkins is anything like his father, we must brace ourselves for dark and sinister dealings.”

  This only heightened his daughter’s anguish and she ran from the room followed, hobbling, by her mother. Their footsteps were heard heading upstairs, then clomping across the ceiling above.

  When all fell silent, Abby asked again why Goody chose to single out Paulina and Rebecca, of all the women in Brampton. John Pepys confessed that he was at a loss. Half the village had cause to avenge the wayward farmer’s slights and misdemeanours, he said, for which Goody might then seek retribution. But why his daughter?

  “I dearly wish I knew,” he confessed, “for it might help us to refute the foul slander.” Then suddenly a spark came into his eyes. “Hold! I recall now… When Grimston first cast this slander, it was Paulina alone whom he accused. Only on the following day did he also name Rebecca Thacker. That I found curious indeed.”

  “Mr Pepys?” asked Jacob.

  The old man cocked his head.

  “I do greatly admire your attire, sir,” said Jacob.

  Abby shot him an incredulous look.

  Fortunately, like his son, Pepys Sr was not immune to flattery. “I am obliged to you for your kind words, Jacob. Our garments were commissioned from Mistress Thacker this past summer. We have donned them continually since, as they are greatly admired among the villagers. The cut is excellent and the colours matched with some skill. However - I beseech you, sir, speak nought of this to her, for she is quick to take umbrage - I believe the girl did charge me overmuch.”

  Jacob opened his mouth to speak, but the old man had not finished.

  “I would have taken needle to fabric myself,” John said, then sighed. “Alas, my eyesight fails me.”

  "Indeed, sir, I am in dire need of fresh attire and was curious as to who had crafted yours,” Jacob explained.

  John chuckled. “I see, Jacob. I have no doubt that Mistress Thacker can accommodate your needs. She is most adept, even for gentlemen of your tall stature."

  Before leaving, Abby asked John Pepys whether they could have a final word with his daughter. More than anything, she wanted to see Paulina’s living quarters.

  There were three rooms on the ground floor - hall, kitchen, parlour - and three bedrooms upstairs, one for each occupant. The old man directed them towards the furthest door.

  Abby let Jacob knock. This time he stooped to enter.

  The scents that greeted them - rosemary, lavender, sage, thyme, mint, too many mingling for the nose to single out any particular one - sent them almost giddy.

  Dried bunches of herbs hung from the wooden beams, others grew in pots on window sills. Labelled jars on shelving and in cabinets occupied one wall, and there was a work bench beneath the window, ranged with tools that glinted in the sunlight.

  A small library of books was shelved on another wall and an oak bed sat in a corner, with a bedside table. A tapestry depicting the four seasons hung above the bed.

  It was a tidy space, filled with homeliness and personality.

  Abby was quietly impressed. “You’re a herbalist,” she said.

  Paulina’s face was expressionless. “What of it?”

  “All these jars of herbs and potions. A witch might be said to live here,” Abby pointed out.

  “She has lavender hanging there,” said Jacob. “Such as was used to make the poppet that hung on Goody Grimston’s door.”

  Paulina buried her face in her hands. “What are you implying? Do you also accuse me of witchcraft? My brother’s inquisitors?”

  Abby felt a pang of sympathy for the wronged woman. “Nay, Paulina! Only that your work may fuel Simon Hopkins’s flights of fancy, and that we must proceed with great caution.”

  Chapter six

  Rebecca Thacker

  Paulina’s friend and business colleague, Rebecca, lived at the other end of the row of dwellings on which the Pepys’s lived. It made sense to pay her a visit first, although questioning Goody Grimston was clearly urgent.

  Rebecca’s house was smaller than the Pepys’s and had a sign hanging outside:

  Rebecca Thacker - Clothier

  Before they knocked on her door, Abby stopped and signalled for Jacob to do the same. The sun was high in the sky and the gnats were biting. They seemed to be going for Jacob more, probably because he smelled worse.

  “Jacob,” Abby said. “You told me it was of the utmost importance that you personally succeeded in our investigation.”

  He nodded.

  “Then you must stop becoming distracted! When Mr Pepys tells us important information, please do not reply, ‘I greatly admire your attire’!” She couldn’t help giggling.

  Jacob tugged on his periwig. “The gnats are biting me,” he said sulkily.

  Rebecca Thacker, beaded in sweat, looked as pleased to see Jacob as Paulina had been, although she stopped short of hugging him. “Come in,” she urged, beckoning. “Please, come in.” She, too, had been expecting them.

  Once again, the scents of herbs and herbal concoctions were overpowering (and made Jacob realise he ought to buy a few plants for his own house, to mask some of his more manly odours).

  Her lower floor comprised split areas: one half workshop; one half living area.

  Rebecca, however, was nowhere near as tidy as her business partner. The workspace was covered in piled rolls of material and crumpled remnants of cloth, in so many different colours. Scissors, measuring tape, pins in pin-cushions, needles and so much more were scattered across a work bench. Finished garments hung from pegs on the walls.

  Pots and jars and brushes were strewn about the floor, and a large circle of blue - presumably dye - had stained the wooden floorboards. A dressmaker’s dummy, clad in the beginnings of a green doublet, had fallen over by the window, and an iron was heating over a fire in the hearth. The room was rather too warm.

  The living area fared little better, with pots and pans piled on a table, and dirty plates poking from a ceramic wash-bowl.

  Rebecca noticed the inquisitors surveying the room with barely disguised horror and laughed. “There are scarce enough hours in the day,” she explained. “Would that I had a husband to help tidy.”

  “But you don’t?” Abby asked.

  “’Tis a small village, Brampton. The choice of men is dire,” she laughed ruefully. “There was once a gentleman… But he died in the war.” She clapped her hands together as if that were that.

  “Paulina is unmarried also?” asked Abby, though her master had already told her as much.

  “She courts Will Farlow, a clerk from Huntingdon. They’re due to be married,” replied Rebecca.

  “When?” asked Abby.

  “At the end of this month. The date was moved forward at Paulina’s request, after the witchcraft allegations were made, in case…,” the clothier trailed off.

  “Is this Will Farlow a gentleman?” asked Jacob.

  Rebecca’s laugh was heavy with irony.

  “You don’t approve?” Abby asked.

  “What’s it matter if I approve?”

  The inquisitors regarded her questioningly.

  The clothier shrugged. “It appears to me that he covets the name Pepys more than he does her. But she will not hear of it.”

  Rebecca Thacker had the air of a woman who worked hard and broached no nonsense. She was barefooted and her hands and apron were stained with dyes of various colours. Her fingertips, Jacob noticed, were covered in tiny wounds from all the needlework.

  Asked about her craft, Rebecca told the inquisitors that she made clothing for patrons as far afield as Cambridge, such was her growing reputation. The fabrics, she bought in from local cloth merchants, then created, cut and sewed her own designs. She had been experimenting with blends of dyes to formulate new colours of clothing that she hoped would become fashionable among her wealthier clients.

  Her reputation had, of course, taken a tumble since Goody Grimston’s accusations, and orders had fallen off significantly. People did not wish to be associated with a witch.

  The question remained as to why Goody had singled her out. Abby mentioned the incident at the market stall: the altercation and the threats.

  “It was Paulina who ranted at him and called him names,” Rebecca claimed. “If anybody should be accused of witchcraft, it is her, not I.”

  “You blame Paulina?” Jacob exclaimed.

  “I do,” she replied firmly. “And when Simon Hopkins comes, I shall tell him so.”

  The inquisitors shared a glance.

  “Mistress Thacker, I believe it best to act together to fight these baseless accusations,” Abby told her. “To divide would be to give Hopkins the upper hand.”

  “I tell it as it is,” Rebecca replied, folding her arms.

  “What may we do to affirm her innocence?” asked Jacob.

  Abby had to stop herself from congratulating him on his new-found directness of questioning.

  Rebecca threw her arms in the air. “Goody Grimston’s crop was laid low by hailstones, not by witches!” she exclaimed.

  Yet a significant number of locals believed Grimston, Abby pointed out, including the influential magistrate, Bulstrode Bennett. How on earth were they to disprove it? An act of God versus an act of the Devil?

  Before they left, Jacob brought up his need for fresh clothing. Rebecca told him she had a few items that might fit him, a gentleman of a similar size having recently cancelled an order. So while Abby perused the jars on Rebecca’s shelving, Jacob sifted through her stock, gratefully picking out a linen shirt and breeches, and a pair of plain wool stockings.

  Keen to divest himself of his grimy old outfit, he disappeared upstairs to put them on. When he returned, Abby burst out laughing.

  “You chose the same colour undergarment as Mr and Mrs Pepys!” she pointed out. “You’re trying to flatter them!”

  Jacob reddened, yet he did not deny it. “The shirt is a tad tight,” he replied.

  “I’ll still want paying, Mr Standish!” insisted the clothier. “For the three garments my price is two pounds and ten shillings.”

  Jacob furrowed his brow. “Dear lady, I envisaged the amount would be less than a pound!”

  “Take it or leave it,” she replied firmly. “My garments are the finest in the county.”

  “Little wonder Mr Pepys said you charged him overmuch!” Jacob blurted out, instantly recalling that John had urged him not to mention that particular bone of contention.

  Abby regarded him askance.

  “Mr Pepys said what?” Rebecca demanded, glaring.

  Chapter seven

  Goody Grimston

  Abby and Jacob took dinner back at The Bull, where they collected their thoughts over plates of fish pie, filled with pike and perch taken from the nearby River Ouse.

  “We can’t prove that hailstones weren’t summoned by witches,” Abby said. “But we could prove that Goody Grimston concocted his allegations. If that is true - and we must trust that it is, for my master’s sake - then the question is: why? In revenge for some trivial matter, we are told.”

  “Their rantings after he drunkenly damaged their wares at market,” Jacob pointed out.

  “Yet Rebecca claims it was Paulina who ranted and that she’s the witch. ’Tis troublesome.”

  He nodded pensively.

  “Our path is clear,” declared Abby. “We must speak with Goody himself, as a matter of urgency.”

  The innkeeper’s wife, Hatty, directed them to a smallholding on the outskirts of the village and warned them, “Beware that Goody Grimston - ’e’s touched in the head.”

  A pathway heading in the opposite direction to the Pepys’s dwelling led them past rows of thatched cottages. As usual, Abby had to double-time to keep up with Jacob’s lengthy strides.

  When bystanders spotted them, they would confer conspiratorially, as if Mr Pepys’s inquisitors were known and distrusted throughout Brampton. It gave them a general sense of unease.

  Still, the sky was cloudless, the sun was high, and the gnats seemed to trouble Jacob less since he had changed his clothing. The terrain was generally flat, and boggy in places. The sprawling Nuns’ Meadow lay to their left, and to their right, the larger Portholme Meadow. Both were dotted all over with colourful wild flowers. Sheep and cattle grazed there, and the sails of windmills could be seen turning in the breeze. Maids were out in the fields, milking the cows.

  Ahead in the distance, they could make out a grand manor house set among ornamental gardens.

  “That’ll be Ravenscourt Manor,” said Abby. “Where Lord Fairfax lives with his wife, Lady Eleanor. We may need to speak with him, since he holds sway over all these lands.”

  “Speak with Lord Fairfax?” exclaimed Jacob. “He would never countenance such a thing!”

  “We’re Master Pepys’s personal inquisitors. He and Lord Fairfax are firm friends.” She tapped the side of her nose. “It matters not what you know, but more who you know.”

  Jacob harrumphed and looked appalled.

  They turned left at the stile beneath the oak tree, as instructed. It took them down a dry mud track beside a stone wall. Ahead was a farmhouse surrounded by crop fields bound by hedgerows. Distant figures were working in one field, harvesting. Sheaves of hay were piled in another field, and beyond that, what looked like an orchard. Far away, on the horizon, lay clustered woodland.

  The Grimston farmhouse was a single-storey stone building with a thatched roof. Its window frames had oiled fabric stretched over them. These people cannot afford glass, Jacob thought to himself.

  Before he could knock on the interestingly warped front door, it opened. Jacob stumbled backwards in shock. A woman stood before them, and they caught the distinctive odour of baking bread coming from inside.

  “You must be the so-called inquisitors who’re the talk of the village,” said the woman. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m Anne. Goody’s wife. For my sins.”

  “Is he in?” asked Jacob.

  She was a striking-looking woman, he noticed, beneath her evident poverty. She had piercing blue eyes and plaited blonde hair, pinned at the back of her head. Although her dress had been mended in several places and her apron was covered in flour, he sensed a fierce, dignified spirit.

  Stepping past Anne and into the farmhouse, he saw an oven and loaves on a table by a fire; shelving was lined with jars of ingredients and herbs hung from rafters. One section of flooring was covered in straw and neatly piled blankets - a makeshift sleeping area, Jacob surmised. It was a humble, well-tended space that commanded his respect; hardly the domain of a heathen, which he had expected. The tantalising aromas of cooking made his stomach rumble.

  Suddenly, he felt himself tugged back by the farmers wife, with a ferocity that took him by surprise. These farming folk possess an unnatural strength, he thought to himself. Even the women.