wasn’t going anywhere without seeing those pages.
‘Of course, have a look and let us know. There’s rather a lot of them. You might have to come back tomorrow.’
I was delighted and nodded vigorously at Harry who stood up. ‘Here, let me show you where they’re kept.’
He led me through the snuffling dogginess of the snug into the large hallway. I watched him walk with his chin up, almost as if it was a gesture of defiance against the older parts of the building that whistled and shrieked. Harry trudged along a wide gallery, then held aside an old tapestry that concealed a narrow hallway. At the end of this he opened a door.
‘The study,’ he said. ‘This is where the fire broke out. Don’t worry, it’s all fixed up now.’
‘Gosh,’ I said, taking in the room as Harry flicked on the lights. ‘Thank you.’
It was smallish, with a large window at the far end draped in heavy red velvet curtains. The wall opposite me was lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. In between the gaps were dozens of framed pictures; some were certificates, others miniatures, sketches and ancient documents. In the middle was an oak writing desk, its legs labouring under the weight of a huge, borderline-antique, computer. The Phelps were obviously not technically minded. There was a leather writing square, with a blotter on one side and over that, a reading light.
‘What a lovely reading room. Is the transcript in here?’
Harry nodded, picked up a pair of spectacles that lay on the corner of the desk and went to a section of the bookshelves over by the window.
‘The Braybrook diaries come in at volume seventeen,’ he said and put the glasses on to read the spines. ‘He indexed everything.’ He selected several leather notebooks and carried them over to me, putting the pile on one side of the desk. Then he switched on the reading light, picked up the first volume. Opening it on the desk, he fingered a number of pages, and pointed to a section.
‘Start here, if you want.’ Then he quietly switched off the main lights and exited the room.
I sat in the chair and stared at the book, illuminated in a circle of white.
With a tingle in my fingertips I began to read.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Nathaniel Braybrook had lived in a turbulent time. An educated man, he was the only son of a well-to-do merchant based in London. Despite the unpredictable nature of business, fortune had shone on the Braybrooks, enabling them to come through the bloody Civil War largely unscathed, if not a little worse off.
It appeared Braybrook had links to the wool trade in Chelmsford that necessitated some travel between there and his family home in Epping, and it was on one of these journeys in 1644 that Braybrook witnessed the execution of the witches. His account lent me no new understanding of the trial, describing the process as I had read it so many times before in pamphlets. But there was one line that drew my attention. Braybrook, it seemed was a religious dissenter, traumatised by the unspeakable acts of violence that were part and parcel of everyday life during the Civil War. He supported neither the royal cause nor the extremism of the Puritans. In fact, I read in Alexander Phelps’s notes that Braybrook was later to become part of the religious movement that grew into the Quakers. The man obviously had a conscience, which informed his later actions.
Writing up the hangings he recorded this: ‘The haste with which the deed was done was ungodly. I did sight the wretch who confess’d passed off. How much of the covenant she did freely declare amongst some there is great doubt. Her being fore known as a Christian in her village.’
This had to be a reference to Rebecca. An incident that I had ‘seen’ myself – Rebecca being ‘passed off’? I flinched as the sight of Anne West’s scalp skittered across my mindscape. Such brutal times, so harsh and inhumane. If only Rebecca had known that there was someone in the crowd who was not so full of blind hate.
The transcript went on to describe Braybrook’s hasty retreat from the scene and his journey home. The next wedge of pages testified to his daily life, seasonal observations and rumours from London about the King. There was a mention of the Suffolk trials: ‘This Witchfinder and his man, Stearne, have inflict’d such greate pain and agonie on many who were innocent but for loss of