petered out into nothing more than a muddy track, I came across a driveway. It swept past two leafless weeping willows, went round a corner beside what would have been flowerbeds of roses, to a very dark house. Only a couple of windows had light behind them.
The porch was a glass extension – the kind that was popular in the eighties: large, double-glazed and square. However beyond it a depressed arch, that must have been Tudor at least, covered the entrance. Above and around that stood the oldest part of the house; a grey stone-carved frontage, with large rectangular leaded bay windows. This had been added on to later in the nineteenth century with an impressive castellated tower on the corner.
I grabbed my handbag and brought out my phone, checking the photo of the map. This had to be it. I let the engine splutter and die at the end of the drive and made out across the gravel, tucking my head down into my collar against the bitter oncoming wind. It picked up my hair and blew it around, and a spattering of raindrops mixed into the elemental battering. Above the rooftop, storm clouds were gathering and the sky had an angry look. Somewhere above me an owl hooted a warning. I felt it was best not be here long. As basic as the accommodation at the Hen and Chickens was, it was at least friendly and full of human beings; this house was foreboding and gloomy. The lit-up windows on the second floor gave it the appearance of a cross-eyed old duchess that scowled at my parka and jeans.
Inside the porch, and out of the wind, I picked my hair from my lipstick and tried to make myself presentable before pressing the bell. The sound of barking dogs broke out behind the front door. A female voice chided the animals, then I heard several bolts being scraped back. The door opened a crack and a woman in her sixties peered through.
‘Hello,’ I said brightly in my most posh voice. ‘I’m very sorry to disturb you. My name is Mercedes Asquith and I’m a writer researching the Essex witch hunts. I came across this article which mentioned a diary of Nathaniel Braybrook.’ I handed over the clipping. ‘Is it here? I’m not sure if I have the right address?’
The woman said nothing. Her eyes hovered over the scrap in my hand then fluttered back to my face. Perturbed by her silence, I went on. ‘I’m happy to come back at another time if this isn’t convenient?’
Through the vertical slit her eyes glistened.
Still no verbal response.
I blathered on. ‘The book I’m writing is due to be published next October and I’d very much like to have a look at the diaries, if that’s at all possible. Are they still here?’
Nothing.
I stalled, wondering if I was dealing with a low IQ and went on to outline the angle of my book. Best to leave any family connection out at this stage. Didn’t want to come across as nuts.
The woman interrupted me before I’d even got a quarter of the way through my spiel. ‘Yes, all right, I see. Do you mind waiting a moment please?’
It was a little abrupt but I told her ‘No, not at all,’ and the door closed. Two bolts were drawn across, then the patter of dainty footsteps disappeared into the house.
One of the dogs came back to the door and growled.
‘It’s all right mate,’ I told it. ‘I’m a friend not foe.’ But it didn’t believe me and started barking. A couple of the others joined it.
I stepped back into the porch. A little black moth skittered around the light. It looked virtually identical to the one that had landed on my wall. I thought back to that night. I was certain that moth had chosen a spot on the map that was pretty damn close to where I was actually standing now.
‘Is this where you were leading me then?’ I asked it. In response it spread its wings and took off, landing on a large spiky cactus in the corner. The place was, in fact, crammed with pot plants: on one side a rectangular wicker planter held a dozen spider plants and beside it stood a large ceramic tub from which sprouted a large money tree. To each side of the solid wood door were hanging baskets, containing an assortment of tropical plants. I was admiring them when I heard heavy footsteps coming down the