I wondered why the Spook was suddenly so interested in our work again. For weeks he had just sat in the garden or in the library, dreaming. The heart seemed to have gone out of him. Mostly, he’d just left me to it, not even asking who’d come for help or what their problem was.
It had been hard work dealing with the dark alone – there had been more spook’s business in the last week than normally came to us in a month. It seemed that it was becoming more active. Perhaps it was something to do with the approach of Halloween and the coming ritual?
‘No, he didn’t journey through the night,’ I replied. ‘He lives locally – south of the village. It’s only half an hour away at most. He’s accused someone of using dark magic against him. He claims she’s a witch.’
‘Who made the complaint?’
‘A man called Briggs. He lives at number three Norcotts Lane.’
‘I’ll come with you, lad,’ said the Spook, nodding his head. ‘It’ll give us a chance to talk things through.’
I smiled at him. It was good to see him taking an interest in the trade once more.
Within the hour we had left the house and garden and were walking across the fields. I was carrying both bags.
It was just like old times!
THE SUN WAS shining and there was hardly a cloud in the sky. It was warm for late autumn, but that wouldn’t last. In the County, more often than not, we had rain and winds blustering in from the west. By November the wet weather would really have set in.
At first the Spook seemed to be enjoying the walk, but after about ten minutes his expression became grim. I wondered if his knees were bothering him. He’d started to complain about them more frequently, claiming that too many chilly and wet County winters had destroyed the joints. But today’s warmer, drier weather should have been making him feel better.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked. ‘Do you want to slow down a bit?’
‘Nay, lad, this pace is fine. I’m just thinking things through, that’s all.’
So it was the thoughts in his head that gave him that grim expression. I wondered what was bothering him.
We continued in silence until we came to a row of three small terraced houses set on the edge of a large grassy meadow, fronted by a low hawthorn hedge. They had been built many years earlier for farm labourers and their families, but were now in a bad state of repair. The windows of the middle one were boarded up and the small front gardens of all three were unkempt and overgrown.
Only the nearest house had a number – a crude 3, carved high on the top left-hand corner of the front door.
‘Well, lad, you go and talk to Mr Briggs and I’ll go for a little walk. See you in about five minutes!’
To my astonishment, the Spook headed off along the row and disappeared round the corner of the last house. His manner had seemed almost flippant. This wasn’t like him at all. I felt disappointed. My master of old would have been eager to sort out the problem. After all, this was spook’s business – I thought that was why he’d decided to join me.
I walked up to the front door of the house and rapped on it three times. Within moments I heard footsteps approaching and the door was eased open. A scowling face peered out at me. Then it opened fully to reveal the old man I’d talked to earlier at the crossroads. He had a bald head, a large red bulbous nose and a fierce, angry face.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Briggs,’ I said.
‘Where’s Gregory?’ he demanded. ‘When I spoke to you earlier, I told you quite clearly that I wanted your master to deal with the situation, not a stripling still wet behind the ears.’
‘He’s sent me in his place,’ I told him politely. ‘I’ve been working alone for weeks now and getting each job completed successfully. I know exactly what I’m doing and I’m capable of sorting out your problem. But first you need to tell me a little more about it.’
‘There’s nothing more to tell,’ he cried, his face contorting with rage. ‘The old witch used a spell to stop my chickens laying. When I went to complain, she just laughed in my face, and the day afterwards my dog dropped stone dead right in front of me!’
I couldn’t just accept what he said without looking into it more closely. I had to be sure that he really was a victim of witchcraft. The Spook had taught me that there were four categories of witch: the Benign, the Malevolent, the Falsely Accused and the Unaware. The first were usually healers; the second was the largest category – those who used dark magic to increase their power and hurt people; the fourth were extremely rare – those who used magic without knowing that they were doing so. But it was the third category I had to consider here. Anybody could accuse a person of witchcraft. An innocent person couldn’t be made to suffer because of someone’s mistaken belief. I had to be sure.
‘Did this happen recently?’
‘Yes – this week.’
‘And when did your dog die?’
‘Are your ears made out of cloth? This week, as I told you!’
‘But which day?’
‘Yesterday evening. I came to see you at first light.’
‘Could I see the dog, please?’ I asked.
It was a reasonable request, but Mr Briggs didn’t seem to be a reasonable man.
‘Don’t be daft! I buried it, didn’t I?’ he exclaimed.
‘Even so, we might have to dig it up,’ I warned him. ‘How old was it?’
I’d no intention of digging up a dead dog, but I needed to prod him for information.
‘It was witchcraft! Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said?’
I was being polite, but he wasn’t, and I was starting to get annoyed.
‘How old was your dog?’ I persisted.
‘Sixteen years, but it was fit and healthy.’
‘That’s old for most types of dog. It could have died of natural causes . . . Where does the woman whom you accuse live?’ I took a slow, deep breath to keep myself calm.
‘There!’ he shouted, jabbing his finger at the only other occupied house. ‘That’s where you’ll find her. She calls herself Beth, but no doubt she goes by another name after dark.’
Then, his face red with anger, he went back inside and slammed the door in my face.
What he’d said was nonsense. Some people believed that the witches in a coven had special secret names for each other, but it was just superstition.