‘Just like who?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Have you finished that tea? I’ve got to go to Parham for an eye appointment.’
‘You misunderstand my intentions –’
‘Ken! Have we got petrol in the car?’
Adam conceded defeat, drained the tea, made polite goodbyes and left under the baleful eye of Lyn.
Julia Shields almost fell through the open door of the post office as he passed.
‘Mr Flint!’ she barked at him, rustling her copy of the local newspaper. ‘Did you know about this?’
‘About …?’ He took the paper off her. “Reversal of Fortunes”, he read. “Ancient manor house used as pornographic film set”. Underneath was a condensation of Trevelyan’s article for a top-shelf magazine, leaving out anything unsuitable for a “family newspaper” but still somehow managing to be heavy on the salacious detail.
‘That little bugger,’ seethed Julia. ‘He duped me and used my tip-off to get himself a nasty little reputation in the seedy film industry. If I ever see him again I’ll …’
‘You’ve got your publicity,’ Adam pointed out.
‘And where were you when all this – filth – was going on? I thought you went there with him.’
‘Oh, I just kept watch by the wall,’ said Adam hastily. ‘Didn’t see a thing. Had no idea what he got up to in there.’
‘It’s not good enough. Not at all good enough.’
She accompanied him down the lane, brooding all the while, until they reached the lych gate.
‘I don’t know about raffles and suchlike,’ she said abruptly, her eye caught by Adam’s bright red advertising poster. ‘But what you should organise is a day trip.’
?
??A day trip?’
‘Yes, you know. Take the villagers back to the old days of the charabanc to the seaside. They’re always reminiscing about that kind of thing.’
‘An excursion?’
‘Yes. You can get them to sing a few hymns on the coach, just to keep the God angle in there. Set them loose on the candyfloss and cheap beer while you listen to the Sally Ann band on the seafront. Doesn’t that sound like a good plan?’
‘Actually … It does. I like it. Thank you, Julia.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
The screams guided his footsteps, drawing him through the darkened house towards the back.
Adam knew, even in his dream, that he was looking for Evie, to save her. If he didn’t find her soon, she faced the noose, or worse.
At the end of the passageway, candlelight issued from a half-open door, but it was no welcome glow. Instead it was a sickly yellow thing, redolent of torture and suffering. The stench of sweat and blood and burning flesh assaulted his nostrils as he put his hand on the door and, steeling himself, pushed.
The witchfinder stood with his back to him, in his hand a long red-hot poker. The oldest crone lay insensible on the floor while the other two wept in each other’s arms in a corner.
Evangeline Lillie sat, tethered to a chair with rope, her chemise torn down over her breasts, above which the witchfinder brandished his weapon.
‘Now speak, witch, or you will find those pretty dugs in close communion with my brand.’
Despite her fear, Evangeline’s chin was thrust forward, her eyes afire.
‘I have nothing to say to you,’ she spat.