Witch Hunt

By Linda Jones

Who was Alice? and why had she cursed the Fletchers to the effect that no first-born has inherited Springfield for over three hundred years?

​

Dorcas Meadows has personal reasons for solving the mystery-not

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookTrail Publishing
• Release date: Feb 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781637670477

Linda Jones

Born in London during the second world war, Linda was saved from their bomb-damaged house during an air-raid by her quick thinking aunt. Possibly from the shracknel scatches, she developed a rare blood disorder which led to her spending parts of her childhood in hospital. Being restricted to genteel activities allowed her to indulge in her passion for literature and develop great skills with handicrafts. At the age of 17, Linda met Derek, a handsome young policeman, the intended blind date for her best friend. Her friend was unwell on that evening and the relationship between Linda and Derek blossomed. They married a couple of years later and had two daughters. Derek left the police force and they jointly embarked on careers in the care profession. After seventeen years as a care home manager and with their children grown up, Linda was able to devote more time to the activities that she enjoyed; this included enroling on a writers' course which unleashed her literary skill. Having several short stories and articles published inspired Linda to write The Angel. Linda is now retired and lives in Gloucester with Derek, her still very handsome husband. She remains very active within the community and is assistant District Commisioner for the Brownie Guides.

Book preview

Linda_Jones_-Witch_Hunt_Front_Cover.jpg

Copyright © 2021 by Linda Jones

Paperback: 978-1-63767-048-4

eBook: 978-1-63767-047-7

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of nonfiction.

Ordering Information:

BookTrail Agency

8838 Sleepy Hollow Rd.

Kansas City, MO 64114

Printed in the United States of America

For my family with thanks for their encouragement and support. A special ‘thank you’ to Jenny for doing all the fiddly bits on the computer.

Chapter 1

Gloucestershire, 1990

Without any conscious intention, Dorcas eased her red Metro into the lay-by and cut the engine. She sat for a moment wondering why she had done so. The road ahead was clear. The car had been running perfectly.

She tilted her head and gazed at the elder hedge, its creamy saucers of flowers sifting the spring sunshine. As the breeze parted the branches, she caught a glimpse of a sheep-dotted pasture rising to the brow of a hill. It was a common enough sight in the Cotswold countryside, but Dorcas had a strong urge to see what lay beyond the hill. She gave herself a shake. This was no time for sightseeing. She was on her way to an interview with Sir Daniel Fletcher who wanted a research assistant.

Nevertheless, she left the car and walked back along the lane to where she had noticed a gate. The soft ground was churned up by tyres and hooves, and Dorcas picked her way through the worst of the puddles, uncaring of the damage to her smart, high-heeled shoes. She was a small girl, and the gate was heavy, but she managed to open it wide enough to squeeze through.

The view from the hilltop took her breath away. A patchwork of fields dropped gently away to a small, sparkling river which the spring rains had overflowed in places to form water meadows. To her left, where the valley narrowed, the slopes were covered by woodlands just hazed with new green growth.

But it was the house which captured her. A house she had never seen before but just knew it was Springfield. It was shaped like a wide ‘H’, the centre bar being thickly covered in ivy through which twinkled narrow, pointed windows. The wings on either side were of mellow stone and of a later date, probably Tudor, with groups of elegant twisted chimneys.

Dorcas stood for several minutes as tears blurred her vision and ran unheeded down her cheeks. She didn’t feel the sharp wind which flattened her dress against her slim body or teased her dark red hair from its carefully constructed pleat. She was not normally fanciful, but she felt something—a mixture of relief, satisfaction, and a heart-bursting tenderness! Only when a cloud covered the sun and sent a dark shadow racing across the valley did she break shivering from her trance.

Shaking her head impatiently, Dorcas turned and started back to the car. The descent was more difficult than the climb, and for the first time, she noticed the sheep gazing at her with foolish, vacant expressions. She was now feeling rather silly herself. Whatever had come over her? She was going to be late for her interview. She had mud on her shoes, grass stains on her skirt, and her hair was a mess. Was it worth turning up, she asked herself?

Then the image of the house flashed into her mind, and she knew that she would get this job if she had to beg for it on her knees.

At close quarters, Springfield proved to be rather larger than Dorcas had thought. The avenue of elms had been replaced by trees she could not identify, and the carriage sweep was gravelled and bordered by neat flower beds. The gravel continued round to the stables at the rear. To the left, the tops of glass houses could be seen above the kitchen garden wall.

Dorcas parked at the front of the house and mounted the three shallow steps to the massive, nail-studded door. The oak was black with age and scarred in many places. She ran the tip of one finger along the deep crescent gouged by the frightened horse’s hoof.

As soon as the thought entered her mind, Dorcas snatched back her hand as though it had been burnt. She was shivering violently, and cold perspiration broke out on her brow. Before she had herself under control, the door opened and a plump, elderly man helped her over the threshold. ‘You all right, miss? ‘Ere sit down. You look proper poorly.’ He guided her to a deep, hooded porters’ chair and promised to be back in a jiffy.

Dorcas buried her face in her hands. Whatever was wrong with her? Was she sickening for something? Flu? Insanity? She was usually as fit as a flea, but this was the second shivering fit. And why did she feel she knew every inch of this house that she had never seen before?

A touch on her shoulder made Dorcas lift her head to stare straight into the concerned grey eyes of another elderly man. This one was tall and smartly dressed. His hair was thick and grey, but his neat beard suggested it had once been much darker. He placed a large hand on her shoulder and spoke gently. ‘Arthur said you were unwell. It is Miss Meadows, isn’t it?’

Dorcas nodded dumbly.

‘I’m Daniel Fletcher,’ he continued. ‘Do you want to lie down?’

‘No! Oh no!’ replied Dorcas swiftly, embarrassment overcoming all else. ‘I . . . I’m so sorry. Whatever must you think of me?’

‘Good, good. I think we might be more comfortable in the drawing room. Arthur will bring you some tea . . . or perhaps coffee?’

‘Tea, please,’ murmured Dorcas, allowing herself to be shepherded along a wide corridor and into a large, sunny room overlooking a terrace. Two enormous Chesterfield sofas flanked the fireplace where a large log burned gently on a thick bed of white ashes. Around the room stood groups of chairs or small tables like islands in a sea of thick green carpet and display cases nestled comfortably in alcoves. Twenty people could have occupied the room without any sense of crowding, but it was homely rather than daunting.

They had barely seated themselves on opposite sofas before Arthur returned with the tea tray. Besides the silver pot and accessories, he had thoughtfully added a decanter of brandy and a glass. ‘Only one glass?’ queried Sir Daniel mildly.

‘You get yours after dinner as usual,’ replied his henchman, pouring the tea into eggshell thin cups.

‘Would you like your brandy in your tea, miss? The Colonel says it’s an abomination, but ladies often prefer it that way.’

‘Thank you, no. I’ll have it in a glass—a small one.’

‘Nicely brought up, too,’ remarked Arthur to no-one in particular only to be told to keep his opinions to himself by Sir Daniel.

The air of restrained affection between the two men immediately put Dorcas at her ease, and she was able to accept the small measure of spirit with most of her normal poise. Unabashed by the recent rebuke, Arthur grinned at his employer before leaving the room, taking the decanter with him.

Sir Daniel chuckled. ‘He’s incorrigible, but I can’t imagine the place without him. He was evacuated here from London during the war and made himself so useful we have never let him return.’

Over the rims of their cups, Dorcas and Sir Daniel assessed each other—and liked what they saw.

Dorcas had abandoned the attempt to tidy her hair, and it rioted in waves around her pale, heart-shaped face. Green eyes that changed colour as quickly as the sea smiled back as she acknowledged Sir Daniel’s scrutiny.

There was nothing offensive in his regard, just a great deal of genuine appreciation.

‘You’ll do,’ he said, suddenly. Dorcas stared at him in surprise.

‘For the job,’ he confirmed. ‘When can you start?’

Dorcas floundered in a welter of confusion. Somehow she had got the job—without any idea of what it entailed or how she would cope with it. Sir Daniel didn’t look mad, and she was fast reaching a point where nothing that happened today should surprise her.

Much as she ached to stay there Dorcas was forced to protest. ‘Sir Daniel,’ she began, ‘you haven’t interviewed me. You don’t know anything about me and I don’t know anything about historical research.’

‘Neither does Miles,’ he replied calmly. ‘You can learn together.’

Dorcas let that pass and said, somewhat feebly, that she didn’t know what to do.

‘There, there,’ he said. ‘If it makes you feel better, you can tell me what you think I ought to know.’

Dorcas launched into speech, but not the well-rehearsed recital of ‘A’ levels, typing speeds, and work experience, prepared to sway a wavering employer. After several uninterrupted minutes, she realized she had explained not only about noticing his advert in the paper her aunt had left in the car and the bookshop where she had worked burning down, but also her impulse to climb the hill to see a house she should not have known was there. And there was the curious conviction that a horse had kicked a dent in the front door. ‘And now I come to think of it the elm trees have gone,’ she finished breathlessly.

Sir Daniel regarded her seriously for a moment before asking, ‘Do you often have feelings like this?’

‘No, never,’ Dorcas assured him. ‘My father says I was born practical. I never had imaginary friends or believed in fairies. I always had to know how things worked and apparently asked the most embarrassing questions all the time.’

‘How would you feel about a witch’s curse?’

‘Curse? Voodoo? I think those sorts of things only work if the subject believes they will. It makes them vulnerable to accidents and sometimes even suicide.’

‘Yes. I quite agree. I knew you were the right one. I was summing up men when you were playing ring-a-roses, and I’m not often wrong. You have strengthened my wavering conviction already. Now let me explain.’

Sir Daniel began his explanation by saying that he had only recently inherited Springfield from his brother. ‘He was killed in a road accident with his only son. My son was with them.’

Dorcas made an automatic gesture of sympathy, but Sir Daniel raised his hand to stop her voicing her thoughts.

‘He wasn’t killed, thank God. But he was smashed up and spent many weeks in hospital. We have him home now, but he is confined to a wheelchair and needs regular treatment. Although he would be the last person to admit it, he also suffers a lot of pain.’ Pain was also evident in the old gentleman’s voice—the pain a loving parent feels when a child is suffering and one cannot do anything to alleviate it. He fell silent, gazing out of the window behind her without apparently seeing anything of interest. Age had done little to diminish his handsome features; it only added a quiet dignity. Dorcas would have guessed at a military background without the clue of his title.

She sat quietly and waited for him to rejoin her, which he did presently with a determined shrug of his shoulders and a brusquer tone. ‘The point is, my dear, there is supposed to be a curse on my family that no firstborn can inherit. My brother was quite neurotic about. I’ve always had an open mind—up till now.’ His voice dwindled again, and he had to clear his throat to say, ‘Miles is my only child. I now find myself wondering if he is doomed to predecease me. And as I won’t see sixty again that doesn’t give him a very good innings.’

He got up stiffly and beckoned Dorcas over to an illuminated family tree on one of the walls. ‘You see,’ he said, tracing the sequence of names with his finger, ‘not one firstborn heir in three hundred and fifty years.’

Dorcas studied the chart, trying, against all reason, to find a fault in his reading. But where the eldest son had inherited, there was always at least one older sister. And even these branches of the family did not appear to have survived to the present day. Sir Daniel and his son Miles were the last of the line.

She didn’t know what to say. She hated platitudes.

Sir Daniel placed a fatherly arm across her shoulders and steered her away.

‘You mustn’t think we have had a miserable existence,’ he assured her. ‘Many of my ancestors lived to extreme old age. Wars accounted for some losses, but that applied to many families. We have travelled the world, made—and lost—a couple of fortunes and, on the whole, enjoyed happy marriages.’

‘But you are worried.’ Dorcas made it a statement, not a question. ‘I’m going to sell Springfield just as soon as all the formalities are complete. I tell myself I don’t believe in the curse, but I’m not prepared to take any chances.’

‘Is that why you want the family history written now?’

‘Partly, but that was really Miles’s idea. I think he is hoping to change my mind about selling.’

‘And you want to be convinced, don’t you?’ Dorcas asked.

He laughed. ‘Yes. I was born in this house although I doubt if I have actually lived in it for more than ten years all told. Miles, however, has spent most of his life here and loves the place, I might almost say fervently.’

‘I can understand that,’ Dorcas put in. ‘It has certainly cast a spell on me. Oh . . . what am I saying! I don’t believe in spells, curses, or whatever. Sir Daniel,’ she said turning to face him, ‘I do want this job. I don’t know what it entails, but I promise I will do everything I can to find a flaw, a forgotten son—would one on the wrong side of the blanket count?—just something to prove that Miles is no more in danger than any of us are.’

Sir Daniel had started to smile at her determination but sobered again suddenly.

‘That isn’t quite true unfortunately. The accident injured his back, and the surgeons want to operate again at some future date. At the moment he still has some use in lower limbs. If the operation goes wrong, he could be completely paralysed. And if that were to happen, I don’t know how he would face the future.’

A thought occurred to Dorcas. ‘You said writing the history was Miles’s idea, and I think you mentioned that he knows nothing about research either. Does that mean I would actually be working with him, not you?’

Sir Daniel’s ready chuckle sounded again. ‘I may have misled you a little. Miles is pretty good at research, but it tends to be up to date, new inventions, and what not. It’s the history bit that’s dodgy. But I’ll let him sort that out himself.’

‘Don’t you think he ought to interview me too? He may not want me.’

‘Not much chance of that. It’s only his back that’s hurt,’ he replied with a twinkle.

Dorcas accepted the compliment implied by his sweeping glance rather than the words. Her mirror told her that she was well above average in the beauty stakes, a fact she accepted without undue vanity. She was rather more inclined to be proud of her achievements but felt no need to deny the gifts she was born with. The one feature which really set her apart was the unusual colour of her hair. There was nothing carroty about it, neither were her brows and eyelashes sparse as so often with redheads. There was a depth of colour that Titian came close to, but it went further into the spectrum of darkness. It was also blessed with natural waves, a mane some women would kill for!

‘Seriously,’ she laughed. ‘If we are to work together, I really do think he should have the final word.’

‘Unfortunately, he is at the hospital today for treatment. And when he gets back, he is usually pretty worn out. You told me you are free to start at any time, no notice to work or anything, so let’s say you come on Monday for a trial period. You have nothing to lose. If you don’t want to see it through, I’ll understand.’

That was a gauntlet thrown down to Dorcas’s spirit. Once she started on something she would stick to it to the bitter end. A true and beloved friend had even termed it ‘mule stubbornness’ where more tactful tutors had named it ‘dogged determination’.

‘Oh, I won’t give up on you. And even if in the end I can’t solve your problem, which it is rather presumptuous of me to even think I can, you will have the best researched history that I can humanly manage.’

‘Good girl,’ Sir Daniel said approvingly. ‘Now, down to the practical bits.’

The practicalities included a salary and conditions of service to delight even the most mercenary of souls although Dorcas would willingly have settled for much less. Something deep inside, acknowledged but not understood, told her that this was meant to be.

Chapter 2

Dorcas spent a busy weekend tying up the loose ends of her life in Oxford. She cancelled a few outstanding appointments and informed anyone who needed to know of her new address. Sir Daniel had told her to have her mail and telephone calls redirected, but that seemed a little premature at this stage. Although she had stated her determination to see this job through, a little quiet reflection had made her realise that it really did depend on how she got on with Miles Fletcher. They would be living and working in the same house. Admittedly, it was large enough for them not to be tripping over each other, but it did constitute a fairly intimate environment.

Although Dorcas had no phobias about physical handicap, she had no first-hand experience of dealing with someone in a wheelchair. How much awareness to show or help to offer could be major pitfalls. She was very energetic and enjoyed regular swimming and badminton. How would she feel if these activities were suddenly cut off? Would she resent seeing other people dashing around and having to ask for things to be done for her?

Dorcas rented her small flat, on the top floor of a Victorian house in Summertown, from an old school friend and her husband who lived on the lower floors. After collecting together any perishables from her fridge, she took them down to Gerry who had invited her for lunch.

Geraldine Davies was a restless, bubbly blonde whose effervescent manner hid a sharp, analytical mind. She listened to Dorcas’s concerns before saying, confidently, ‘You’ll cope. You have a knack of dealing with difficult customers.’

‘I don’t know that he will be difficult,’ Dorcas replied fairly. ‘It’s more a question of not knowing how I should react.’

‘Rapport,’ Gerry chipped in. ‘You never tread on people’s corns, so to speak.’ Then she looked Dorcas straight in the eye and demanded, ‘Now what are you hiding?’

‘Hiding?’ Dorcas queried, innocently. ‘I’ve told you more about this job than anyone else.’

‘Hmm . . .’ Gerry replied. In her job as a probation officer, Gerry had become adept at spotting prevarication. ‘Now, Miss Meadows, we’ll have the truth and nothing but the truth.’

Dorcas tried to keep her expression blank, but Gerry knew her too well. She didn’t want to think about odd sensations of déjà vu which were so out of character. And the less said about witches’ curses the better!

‘Well?’ Gerry prompted.

Dorcas sighed and gave in. Her friend listened with hardly any interruptions until she sank back in her chair, strangely relieved to have someone share her confusion.

‘ESP,’ declared Gerry.

‘Does ESP suddenly crop up? I rather think people who know things have always had the gift. Gift! Ha! I tell you when I touched that door, it was like an electric shock!’

‘Yes, but think back, Dorcas. You are always sympathetic. You know when to ask a question or ignore a comment. It could be called tact, but isn’t that just a way of indicating that one person is in tune with the feelings of another?’

‘That’s all very well with people but a house, I ask you!’

Dorcas had lain awake for hours mulling over their conversation. There was a lot of truth in Gerry’s assessment. She did always seem to pick up on how other people were feeling or know how to defuse a tense situation. As for feelings of familiarity, didn’t everyone have a story of a house that felt just right or, occasionally, one that gave them the creeps? She had just never given it any thought before. She wasn’t sure she liked the thought of being different, but it was probably as close as they would get to a logical explanation. But as there was nothing she could do about it, she resolved to stop worrying and take things as she found them, hoping that once she was installed at Springfield everything would fall into place.

Dorcas arrived at Springfield shortly after nine