Witch Finder Read online

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Rosa, but Fred’s not here.’

  ‘Not here? What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s broken his arm and collarbone, miss. Set upon by footpads.’

  ‘Footpads!’ Rosa almost laughed, it sounded so melodramatic. Then she recollected herself. It wasn’t as though footpads were unheard of in London. Why, Alexis had been set upon and beaten crossing the Heath one night. It was only a swift (and extremely illegal) spell which had saved his purse and probably his life. And Fred would have had no such resources to fall back on. ‘I’m very sorry. Poor Fred. Will he be all right?’

  ‘I dare say, Miss Rosa.’ Ellen tossed her head, and Rosa remembered that Ellen was said to be sweet on Fred, and that they walked out together sometimes on Ellen’s afternoon off. ‘But he can’t manage the horses until the bones have set.’

  ‘So – so what will happen?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ellen said, and for all her worry about Fred, there was something a little pleasurable in the way she said it, relishing the drama. ‘I’m sure I don’t know. Fred says he has a cousin who wants to be a stableboy or something – some lad from Spitalfields, I heard tell. We’ll all be murdered in our beds, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Ellen!’ Rosa snorted. She unpinned her hair and began to brush out the plaits. ‘Don’t be so melodramatic. Nobody will be murdered. Spitalfields or not, I’m sure his cousin will be a thoroughly nice boy and look after the horses very well. And as long as he’s kind to Cherry and can put on a side-saddle, I really don’t care where he was born.’

  ‘I’ll have the law on you!’

  A man, red with anger, burst into the forge. His arm was bound up in a sling. The door banged against the wall with a sound like a gunshot as he entered and William looked up, his face drenched with sweat from the fire.

  ‘Are you Luke Lexton?’ the man demanded.

  ‘No, I’m his uncle.’ William set the hammer to one side and nodded at Luke, where he stood working the bellows, the sweat running down the hollows of his chest and pooling at the waistband of his shirt. ‘That’s him. Luke, leave the bellows be for a moment and come here.’

  Luke stopped pumping and wiped his arm across his forehead.

  ‘So you’re Luke Lexton?’ The red-faced man looked Luke up and down, sizing him up, and seemed to subside a little. Luke was not a fighter, but he’d been hammering metal and pumping the bellows since the age of twelve, and he had the muscles of one. He also had a good eight or ten inches on the red-faced man.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘What of it?’

  ‘I’ll have the law on you,’ the red-faced man said stubbornly. ‘He never said nothing about breaking it for real. Nothing was said about that.’

  ‘Oh for gawd’s sakes, man,’ William spoke impatiently. ‘What did you think they’d do? Did you think your mistress would take your word for it that you felt a little poorly and send you off with calf’s foot jelly and her good wishes on your word as a gentleman? Don’t be soft! Of course they had to break it – you can’t fake a broken arm, nor a mugging neither. But here, I’ve got your purse.’ And he flung a shabby purse of money across the smithy. The man caught it awkwardly with his good hand.

  ‘I shall count it!’ he said defiantly. ‘I shall count every last penny and if there’s but one missing—’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’ll have the law on us,’ William finished testily. ‘Listen, lad, you were paid well for this. What did you think our six guineas was buying? And John Leadingham could’ve broken your arm without your leave – and where would you have been then? Still out of a job for the time being and not one guinea the better for it.’

  Six guineas? Luke felt almost sick as the man opened the purse and peered inside, picking over the coins. Six guineas! That was – that was more money than he’d make in a month of Sundays, as an apprentice. Enough to feed Minna and her whole family for a year. How had they got such a sum? He thought of the good Brothers of the Malleus, pinching and scraping, and the weight of it pressed down on him until he felt near faint with it.

  The man pulled out a coin and bit it. Then he closed the purse with a snap.

  ‘It’s my good word’ll get your man in there,’ he said sulkily. ‘And I could still withhold it.’

  ‘You do that,’ William said dangerously, ‘and you’ll find that other arm broken, and maybe your legs too, and there will be no money to pay for either. Understood?’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Luke asked, looking from the purse to William, and then back to the little man.

  ‘What? Doesn’t he know?’ the man said, jerking his head at Luke. He began to laugh. ‘What kind of a green ’un are you sending in there?’

  ‘He knows enough,’ William said. ‘More than you do, which is not to say much.’

  ‘Oi, you, I’ll have none of that. Not when I’ve had my arm broken for your precious nephew’s convenience. I’m Fred Welling. I am – I was – groom for the Greenwoods. No more, thanks to you and your mates. Six guineas they promised me, “You’ll be laid off for a month,” they said, “That’s all it’ll take,” they said. “We’ll arrange everything, all expenses paid. All you need do is recommend our man, no questions asked.” Nothing was said about breaking arms.’

  ‘It’ll heal,’ William grunted. He began hammering again, the blows ringing out like clear chimes in the evening air.

  ‘What if it heals crooked? Or short?’

  ‘It was a clean break and it’s only an arm,’ William said shortly between blows. ‘It won’t stop you riding or tending the horses.’

  ‘How many horses?’ Luke asked. Something shivered inside him. Was it fear? Or excitement that at last his task was to begin?

  ‘Four,’ the man said grumpily. Then he seemed to soften. ‘Two hacks for the carriage, fit mostly for cats’ meat. A nice Arab for Mr Alexis, name of Brimstone. And a pretty little strawberry roan called Cherry. She belongs to the daughter, Miss Rosamund – Rosa, they call her.’

  Rosamund Greenwood. He shut his eyes, picturing her: a spoilt society bitch, one who’d never found a thing that couldn’t be bought by money or magic, or some combination of the two.

  ‘What’s she like?’ His voice was hoarse, almost to the point of being inaudible, and he swallowed and repeated. ‘The girl, what’s she like?’

  ‘Pretty. A redhead, like her horse.’ Welling gave a grin. ‘Aye, she’s a pretty lass.’

  ‘Pretty? Do you know what she is?’ Luke asked incredulously. A small spark of fury kindled in his chest and he felt anger begin to smoulder there.

  ‘Leave it.’ His uncle’s voice came across the forge. ‘Leave it, Luke.’

  ‘What she is?’ Welling looked from one to another as if he’d suddenly divined something was going on under the surface. ‘What do you mean, what she is? I thought you was casing the place for a robbery or something. What’s really going on?’

  ‘Never you mind.’ William was across the forge in three strides. ‘You’ve made a mistake by coming here. The agreement was we sent the purse, not that you come for it. Get out.’

  The man didn’t move, he just stood, looking from one to the other. Then, as William raised his hammer, he shrugged and sauntered across the yard. At the door he stopped, spat on the ground and left.

  As his footsteps faded down the lane, Luke felt all the anger go out of him and he let out a great shuddering breath.

  ‘Idiot,’ William grunted. ‘Coming here, whining about his arm.’

  ‘They broke his arm?’ Luke said. ‘Who?’

  ‘Who d’you think? One of the Brothers. Hey—!’ He held up a hand. ‘Don’t give me that look, Luke. He was well paid, and whatever he thought was going on, he must have known you don’t earn six guineas just by taking the odd sick day. It’s half a year’s wages for him. It had to look real, it had to be real, for his sake and you
rs.’

  ‘Six guineas.’ Luke felt the sickness rise in him again as he thought of the enormous responsibility of that sum. ‘Where did they get money like that?’

  ‘Never you mind. That’s for John to worry about.’

  ‘And so, what – I’ve got a position as a groom?’

  ‘Yes. You’re Luke Welling, Fred Welling’s cousin. You live in Spitalfields, son to a drayman. We thought it best to keep it as close to the truth as possible, less chance of a slip that way. They know you’ve got no experience as a groom, but the story is that you know your way around horses and you’re prepared to fill in for your cousin for no pay for a month, while his arm heals.’

  ‘No pay?’ Luke felt his lip twist. ‘So they’ve laid their own groom off and they’d rather have an untrained lad for free than pay someone who knows his business?’

  ‘Apparently, yes,’ William said drily. ‘You come with Fred’s recommendation, don’t forget. He’s told them what we said to pass on – that you’re wanting a position as a groom and hope to get some experience and a good reference from this, and that’s pay enough.’

  ‘They must be soft. For all they know I’ll steal the silver and leave their horses lame and full of foot-rot.’

  ‘God willing, you’ll leave them with worse than that. But this is not going to be easy, Luke. I can’t pretend it is. You’ll have to be very, very sharp. It must be quick and clean, no way for them to fight back. Understood?’

  ‘Understood,’ Luke said. He returned to the bellows, watching as the forge roared louder, and the metal in its heart grew white and hot. And the thought came to him, that he was like that metal, about to be plunged into a fire hotter and more savage than any in nature, one that would test and temper him beyond anything he’d known.

  They were waiting for him in the kitchen as he came down the stairs the next day, bag in hand, muffler pulled high.

  ‘Luke, lad!’ John Leadingham clapped him on the back, a buffet that made Luke stagger and grin.

  ‘Watch out! You’ll have me over.’

  ‘It’d take more than that to knock you down, young Luke. I’ve seen brick outhouses built less sturdy than you.’ John Leadingham’s face wrinkled in a grin that made him look like a boy and Luke found himself grinning back, in spite of the nerves that griped at his guts. So. This was it. The beginning.

  ‘Got the tools of the trade?’ John asked intently. Luke nodded.

  ‘Wrapped in paper under me clothes.’

  ‘Good luck, boy,’ Benjamin West said. He pushed his glasses up his nose, peering short-sightedly at Luke through the misty lenses. ‘Take care of yeself.’

  ‘Luke . . .’ was all William said. He shook his head, as if the words were there, but stuck in his throat. ‘Luke.’

  ‘Goodbye, Uncle.’

  ‘You take care, hear me?’ He gripped Luke’s shoulders, looking at him, his grip so hard it was all Luke could do not to wince away from it. ‘Hear me?’

  ‘I hear you. I’ll take care of myself, I promise. I’ll be back within the full moon.’

  ‘And don’t underestimate her. She may look like just a girl, but she’s not just a girl, remember?’

  ‘I’ll remember.’

  Of course he’d remember. How could he forget?

  He looked around the little room, at the faces of the men he’d known all his life, good men, with hands and faces marked by hard work and hard lives, hands that’d sliced meat and hammered metal and carved wood, but hands too that had curved around a tankard in the warmth of an inn, held a woman, dandled a baby and wiped away tears. And hands that had killed a witch – each of them, every man in the room. Suddenly he wanted, desperately, to ask how it had been for them – was the witch old or young, man or woman? Had the witch begged, at the last, or wept? Had their heart misgiven them as they drove the blow home, or did their hand never falter?

  But it was the one question he could never ask, never discuss. It was the rule: outside the masked anonymity of the meetings, all hands were clean of blood. And he was not a Brother yet.

  He turned to go.

  ‘Wait.’ William put out a hand to stop him and he paused. His uncle dug in his pocket and pulled out two gold sovereigns. He held them out to Luke. ‘Take these.’

  ‘No!’ Luke was shocked. ‘No, I can’t. I don’t need it.’

  ‘Take them.’ His uncle pressed the coins into his limp hand and Luke stood, feeling the dense weight of gold in his palm, growing warm against his skin. ‘I’d rather you had money if you need it. There’s not much I can do to help, but this I can do. Apart from that, you’re on your own, lad.’

  Luke nodded and pocketed the coins reluctantly, feeling the truth of his uncle’s words sink into his skin and bone. Apart from that, you’re on your own.

  He had never felt so alone.

  Then he turned and walked into the rain.

  ‘Who’re you?’ The man looking down at Luke was no taller than him, but he stood at the top of the flight of stone steps and Luke was at the bottom. Luke had the feeling that even if they’d been on level ground, something about his mud-spattered boots and rain-soaked coat would have left him at a disadvantage. The rain had stopped, but only a few minutes before, and his hair still dripped down his nose and the back of his neck. He looked up at the tall, white house towering above him, at the huge black door with its brass knocker, and then storey after storey of long windows glittering with raindrops.

  ‘I’m Luke L—’ he stumbled, and bit his lip. Dammit. The very first thing to come from his lips, and he’d nearly slipped up already. ‘Luke Welling. Fred Welling’s cousin. I’ve come to look after the horses.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The man at the top of the steps looked down his nose. ‘I’m Mr James, the butler. You’ll be reporting to me.’

  Luke said nothing, but nodded, and shifted his heavy carpet-bag from one hand to another. It felt like it had absorbed several pints of rainwater on the walk across London.

  It had been a long walk, from Spitalfields to Knightsbridge, through the City, along Fleet Street, buzzing with newspaper men, a cut through Covent Garden, full of the debris of the morning market, and then Piccadilly, flash as you like, full of swells and nobs admiring the windows full of fancy fabric and furniture, books and hats – anything you could think of, London could sell you, from gutter pickings to the finest French wines.

  And then, at last, Knightsbridge, tucked beneath the green jewel of Hyde Park, a great white oasis of pristine houses so tall and fine, and so different from the grey, crumbling, sooty slums of Spitalfields that he could hardly bear to look at them. Even the rain had stopped as he came into Osborne Crescent, as if this part of London even had different skies.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ Mr James snorted. ‘What kind of manners did they teach you in Spitalfields? “Yes, Mr James”, is what you’ll reply when you’re told something.’

  ‘Yes, Mr James.’

  ‘You’ll sleep over the stable at the back of the house and take your meals in the kitchen. You go round by the mews, horses or not. Do not under any circumstances use the front door – it’s the back entrance only for you, understood? Muddy boots get left at the kitchen door, and you’ll be expected to wash at the pump before you come in from the yard. Mrs Ramsbottom won’t take kindly to horse muck being traipsed over her clean tiles. Dinner is in one hour.’

  Luke nodded and then, recollecting himself, said ‘Yes, Mr James.’ He eased the carpet-bag back into his other hand, wishing he could set it down, but something told him putting his wet bag on the whitewashed steps would be badly received.

  Mr James nodded stiffly, then he looked Luke up and down, taking in his rain-soaked boots and clothes.

  ‘You walked from Spitalfields?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, yes, Mr James.’

  ‘Hmph.’ He seemed to soften
slightly. ‘Well, you’ll be glad of dinner, I dare say. I’ll call Becky to show you to your quarters.’

  ‘There’s no gas to the stable block.’ Becky’s voice floated ahead as Luke trudged wearily after her and up the stairs above the stable and carriage house. ‘So it’s candles. And you’ve not to waste them. Mrs Ramsbottom will count ’em, and if you go over more than what’s reasonable she’ll tell Mr James to dock it from your wages.’

  ‘What’s reasonable?’ Luke asked.

  Becky shrugged.

  ‘That depends. She had a soft spot for Fred. He got away with murder.’

  She’d have a hard time docking his wages anyway, Luke reflected, as Becky opened the door to the little room above the stable block. It was small and low ceilinged, barely more than a whitewashed attic, but it looked clean.

  ‘The servants’ lavvy is by the back door. You’ll have to wash at the pump in the yard, but Fred used to beg Mrs Ramsbottom for a can of hot water in winter. Pick your moment though. The bed’s clean; I changed the sheets myself. I can’t speak for the rest – he wasn’t exactly a model housekeeper, your cousin.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Luke let his carpet-bag slip to the floor with a squelching thud. Becky looked at him appraisingly from under her lashes as he peeled off his coat, taking him in from his travel-stained boots to his rain-drenched hair. His shirt was so wet it was plastered to his chest.

  ‘Your afternoon off’s Wednesday.’ She twined a curl of sandy hair around her finger, where it had escaped from beneath her cap. ‘Same as mine.’

  ‘Right.’ Luke turned to peer out of the narrow sooty window, across the smoke-stained chimney stacks of the stable mews.

  ‘What’s happened to your shoulder?’ Becky asked curiously from behind him. Luke glanced reflexively and then bit his lip. The dressing stood out clear beneath the wet material.

  ‘None of your business,’ he said curtly.

  ‘Well!’ Becky gave a little huff of annoyance. ‘Some’d say a civil question deserves a civil answer. Dinner’s in three-quarters of an hour. Don’t be late.’ And with that, she turned on her heel, her apron strings fluttering as she stalked down the stairs.