‘Master Witchfinder,’ he began, then paused, from nervousness perhaps or uncertainty about how to proceed. He parsed the phrases in his mind before continuing. ‘Your return is most welcome. Most welcome. But the manner of your return. Your materialization from the very ether –’
Garrick cut him off. ‘Master Mason. Jeronimo, ain’t it? See how I have not forgotten your name, even after all this time.’
Woulfe nodded agreeably, though the Witchfinder had been away barely a year, which was not such a very long time for a grown man to remember another fellow’s name, ’less he be a blunderbuss altogether.
‘I see, course I do, how my arrival could cause consternation, as it were,’ continued the self-appointed Witchfinder. ‘Flash, bang and here’s Albert Garrick right back where he started from.’
The assembly nodded along with the rhythm of Garrick’s words, though more than a few were confused by his accent, which was obviously London in origin but different in some inflections from that of the petty chapmen who often passed through from the capital.
‘So what’s to set Albert Garrick apart from the other demons? Who’s to say that Master Garrick ain’t himself a class of witch or warlock, if you will, come to sow confusion and breed hatred?’ Garrick raised a rigid finger to emphasize his final point. ‘For he looks different, don’t he now? His appearance is much changed. All ghostly and pale is the Witchfinder.’ Garrick appeared agitated by a sudden thought. ‘And what if it ain’t Garrick at all,’ he said with pantomime horror, ‘but some shape-shifter come to tempt the good people of Mandrake’s Groan?’
Woulfe spoke again, seemingly the only resident with the gumption to do so. ‘We all witnessed it, Master Garrick. A thing of wonder it was, how you appeared from the mysterious fluxes, dragging those infernal beings behind. But your own argument, though sarcastic it was, I suspect, is well made. Anyone with working glaziers can see, plain as warts, that you are no longer the man you were. And it has been so peaceful here, this past year. Some diverse howlings from the fens, yes, but peace in the town. The war is over now apart from some straggling skirmishes. Even Matthew Hopkins labours no further. So in this time of rest and prosperity and, may I say, godliness, it seems a touch strange that the Almighty would send us a Witchfinder. So perhaps all is not as it appears.’
Garrick noticed that the townsfolk’s heads nodded with a greater rapidity now, especially those of the young women who had no wish to be accused of witchcraft and don the Cat’s Collar. Now Garrick was on the knife’s edge and it thrilled him. There was no danger of death, but he could be discredited and driven from here, which would be inconvenient. Now was the time to set on stage the Great Lombardi, who had thrilled the West End, setting hearts a-thumping with his fantastical presentation and feats.
‘Yes, good sir mason,’ he cried, leaping atop the long hall’s stone table so all could appreciate the nuances of his performance. ‘All is not as it appears, for this is not a time of true peace, for were it truly so, would I have been sent here? Mandrake is in the eye of the storm. There are thunderclouds behind us and more gather on the horizon. For I have seen the future and it is turbulent.’ Garrick paused and the moment was still and silent as a crypt. ‘War!’ he shouted to the rafters. ‘The king shall be free, and once more the rivers will run red with English blood. And, while Cromwell fights the king, Satan’s forces will mass unopposed.’
Woulfe had enough gumption for one more objection. ‘But all this is talk, surely. Words and blather. Surely you travel with some form of confirmation that you have been sent? An envoy could ride to Parliament perhaps.’
Garrick was surprised. ‘To Oliver Cromwell himself?’
‘He is a good and reasonable man, I have heard.’
Garrick laughed a little to himself. ‘Yes, this revisionist notion has been gaining popularity of late, but you may find Master Cromwell not as cheery a cove as advertised, and he might not appreciate the mistreatment of his ambassador.’
‘Nevertheless.’
Nevertheless, thought Garrick. This mason is a plucky one. Fearing for his daughter, no doubt. Time to silence my critics.
Garrick grasped his head as though in sudden excruciating pain, letting out a blood-curdling scream that saw the assembly shrink away from him.
‘Evil!’ he cried. ‘Evil is surrounding Mandrake!’
Evil! The cry echoed through the long hall, penetrating even to the upper storey. Women already fraught with fear broke down weeping and sobbing.
Garrick pointed a crooked finger at one of Woulfe’s leering gargoyles. ‘I see you, demon!’ he called, and at that very instant a tongue of flame issued forth from the creature’s stone mouth.
A collective Oooh rose like a mist from the hall.
This is prime stuff, thought Garrick. The punters would gladly pay five shillings for this.
‘And you, devil!’ This to the second gargoyle. ‘You cannot hide from me.’
At this, another gout of flame came from the stone creature’s mouth, aimed directly at the Witchfinder’s head, though he skipped aside to avoid its lick.
Garrick stretched to his full height. ‘This town is under my protection. The protection of Albert Garrick, Witchfinder and exorcist.’
A low moan swirled around the feet of the Puritans. It rose to become a howling screech that seemed to envelop the Witchfinder, challen
ging his power.
‘Begone!’ shouted Garrick stoutly. ‘Begone, creatures. You shall not harm these people.’
Flares of white light shot from Garrick’s hands as he battled the invisible spirits that surrounded him, and from the flares great puffs of powdery smoke rose in a broad column above the table. In seconds the smoke settled to reveal that the Witchfinder had been taken. Swallowed entirely by the powers of darkness.
But then came Garrick’s disembodied voice booming the length of the hall.
‘No! You shall not have them, witch! You shall not have me!’
And there came a mighty flash in the hearth and from the belly of it rolled Albert Garrick himself, doused in sweat and heaving of chest.
‘Stronger,’ he panted. ‘Stronger it grows.’
Even Woulfe was now convinced. ‘Tell us, Master Garrick,’ he said, helping the Witchfinder to his feet. ‘What must we do?’
Garrick disguised his grin as a grimace. ‘Thank you, good sir mason. Thank you for your trust.’ He shook off the man’s arm and turned to the stunned congregation.
First the stick and then the sugar, as his old dad had often said about training fighting dogs.
Time for the sugar.
‘Good people of Mandrake. Know that there are no witches among ye. All here are pure of heart and soul. But we must burn the cat-witch with all haste before she spreads her evil to your daughters.’
‘Burn?’ said Woulfe. ‘But hanging has always been our method. It is more humane.’
‘Burn!’ thundered Garrick. ‘She must be destroyed entirely. I have returned from the gates of hell to save this town and I will not be thwarted now by a witch fragment. One fingernail is enough to infect another. Would you have witchery spread to your own daughter, sir?’
Woulfe’s girl grabbed her father’s elbow. ‘Papa,’ she pleaded. ‘I would not be a witch. I would not.’
There was no argument left to Woulfe. Outplayed and outflanked, he was.