The Witch Maker

Table of Contents

Cover

By Sally Spencer

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Epilogue

THE SALTON KILLINGS

MURDER AT SWANN'S LAKE

DEATH OF A CAVE DWELLER

THE DARK LADY

THE GOLDEN MILE TO MURDER

DEAD ON CUE

THE RED HERRING

DEATH OF AN INNOCENT

THE ENEMY WITHIN

A DEATH LEFT HANGING

THE WITCH MAKER

THE BUTCHER BEYOND

DYING IN THE DARK

STONE KILLER

A LONG TIME DEAD

SINS OF THE FATHERS

DANGEROUS GAMES

DEATH WATCH

A DYING FALL

FATAL QUEST

 

THE DEAD HAND OF HISTORY

THE RING OF DEATH

ECHOES OF THE DEAD

BACKLASH

LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER

A WALK WITH THE DEAD

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

First published in Great Britain and the USA 2004 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited.

Copyright © 2004 by Sally Spencer

The right of Sally Spencer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Spencer, Sally, 1949-

The witch maker. - (A Chief Inspector Woodend mystery)

1. Woodend, Charlie (Fictitious character) - Fiction

2. Police - England - Fiction

3. Rites and ceremonies - England - Fiction

4. Detective and mystery stories

I. Title

823.9'14[F]

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6070-5 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0104-1 (epub)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This eBook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

The Vale of Hallerton, Central Lancashire, March 1604

F
or three days and three nights the wind howled like a soul stretched beyond the point of endurance on the executioner's rack. It loosened slates and rattled doors. It snapped tender young saplings, and brought down mighty oaks which had stood unchallenged for generations.

Nor was the wind left to do its work alone. Like the Devil himself, it brought its minions with it. There was a thunder which could have been the roar of a wounded beast. There was a lightning which lit up the night sky as if it were hellish day. Rain flailed down on men, animals and buildings, with a ferocity that had never been known before. It seemed to the terrified villagers that it would never end.

And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone.

She could see them assembled on the village green, waving their hands in extravagant gestures and pointing towards her cottage. They were drunk. She knew that from the way they were swaying as they spoke. But it did not bother her. Men taken in drink often thought they had found courage, but it was usually no more than the courage to
talk
bravely. And though they might hate her – and many, if not all of them, undoubtedly
did
– it would lead to naught.

‘And
why
will it lead to naught, Graymalkin?' she asked the black cat crouching in a dark corner of the room. ‘Dost you know? Does thy small, clever brain hold the answer?'

The cat considered her words for a moment, then emitted a cry which was neither a purr nor a growl, but instead more closely resembled the wail of a distressed infant.

Meg Ramsden laughed delightedly. ‘Aye, thou art right, that
is
how they sound,' she said. ‘Like children. Like babes in arms. Because whether in the bed or in the book, I have control over them. And they know it.'

Several new men appeared on the scene. Four of them were carrying a heavy stone pillar on their shoulders, two others had spades in their hands.

‘Let them play their games, Graymalkin,' Meg Ramsden said. ‘Let them try to inflict on me the fear which clings to
them
like the morning mist. They will not succeed.'

She reached up to the shelf on the wall, pulled down a heavy, leather-bound ledger, and opened it out on the table. Though she'd had lessons from the parish priest while he shared her bed, she had never truly learned to read. But that mattered not a jot. All the
important
words were in her head, and the words on the page
,
which she now ran her slim fingers over, were no more to her than a magical symbol of her power. Still, she knew enough to recognize some of the spidery writing for what it would represent to others.

‘This be Edward Thwaites,' she said, pointing to two of the magic words. ‘And what be that next to his name? Why, it be figures, Graymalkin – figures which be burned on his soul like the devil's brand.'

A noise came from the distance. At first it sounded as if the thunder – much weakened by its previous rage – was about to return. Then Meg began to distinguish the individual parts of the noise, and realized that it was no more than the angry mutterings of the men.

‘So brave. So very brave!' she crooned softly. ‘But how far will such bravery take them? Will it stay with them as they cross the Green? Or will it, like water in a leaky pail, drain a little more away with every step they take, so that by the time they reach my door, they will be nothing be empty vessels? We know the answer, do we not, Graymalkin?'

There was a hammering on the door.

As if they thought that she was so afraid of them that she would bolt it to keep them out!

As if they thought they were the ones with the power!

‘Hast thee lost so much of thy spirit that thee needs to knock on thy own door, Harold Dimdyke?' Meg called out contemptuously.

There was a pause, then the latch was lifted and the door swung open. And suddenly the tiny kitchen was full of desperate worried men – men who, even now, were marvelling at their own resolution.

One man stepped clear of the pack. Harold Dimdyke. So nervous that he was twisting the rim of his hat – which he had instinctively removed – in his hands.

‘This was a storm the like of which we have never seen before,' he said, almost stumbling over his words.

‘It was longer than most,' Meg replied indifferently.

‘It was a sign,' muttered one of the other men – Jack Peters, the blacksmith.

‘A sign of what?' Meg asked.

‘A sign that evil is afoot.'

Meg threw back her head, and laughed. ‘Evil!' she repeated. ‘If it is a sign of anything, it is a sign that the men of this village are so frightened that they will jump at their own shadows.'

‘Milk has turned sour,' said a third man.

‘Milk has always turned sour during a thunder storm,' Meg countered.

‘A calf, born at the very height of the storm, had two heads,' claimed a fourth man.

And then a torrent of words – of accusations – was unleashed.

‘Maddy Brookes has a fever!'

‘Jethro Sykes has lost the sight in one eye!'

‘A wild dog the size of the lion that was killed by Samson in the Bible has been seen stalking the village!'

‘But even that is not the worst,' Harold Dimdyke said gravely.

‘Then tell me what is,' Meg responded – still calm, still amused.

‘The porch of the church was destroyed by the storm. The house of God has fallen to the forces of darkness.'

So that was where the stone pillar she had seen the men carrying earlier had come from, Meg thought. She might have known. It had lain there – felled by the storm – and they had simply taken it, like the scavengers they were.

‘So many signs!' Meg said. ‘So many portents!' She swept her hand through the air, as if to brush away all the ignorance and superstition which had flooded into the room. ‘You bring me no more than tales to frighten children with! Is that not so, my little Graymalkin?'

But, looking down, she saw that the cat, without her even noticing it, had somehow disappeared.

‘We must take our fate in our own hands,' Harold Dimdyke said, his voice steadier now.

‘And how wilt thee do that?' Meg wondered.

‘We must burn the witch!' said a voice at the back of the small mob.

And everyone else agreed – ‘Yes! Yes! We must burn the witch! Burn her! Burn her!'

And now, for the first time, Meg began to feel a little of her confidence ebb away. ‘I am no witch,' she said.

‘Then why dost thou have thy books, full of spells and incantations?' asked the blacksmith.

‘Thou knowest it is no book of spells, Jack Peters,' Meg said sharply. ‘Thou knowest exactly what it contains. For thou art in it!'

‘
How
can I know?' Peters countered. ‘For I am a poor man – a simple, honest man – and I cannot read.'

‘Then ask Roger Tollance,' Meg suggested. ‘For is it not he who made the marks? Is he not he who kept the records?'

She had expected them all to be answered by that. She had never expected – never would even have dreamed – that the mob would part, and Roger Tollance would advance to the centre of the room.

He stopped, not more than a foot from her, and her nostrils were filled with the stink of cheap ale and his bodily functions. She looked him up and down with the same contempt she had always shown him. He was a man who might have achieved much – a scholar by local standards – but now she owned his talents, buying them as cheaply as she could have bought the services of the lowest swineherd.

‘Tell them of my books, Roger Tollance,' she said. ‘Tell them what my books contain.'