woman was accused because Hopkins saw two rats go into her home. These, he insisted were familiars. Another poor old dear was condemned when a watcher saw a ‘fly’ come into the room, damning evidence of her communication with demonic imps.
In each case Matthew Hopkins was the chief witness. Everyone believed what he had to say, what with him being a gentleman and rather well to do. So his testimony led to huge numbers of women being sent to the gallows.
He worked his way round Essex, fanning out in a kind of horseshoe shape from his headquarters at the Thorn Inn in Mistley. I’d mapped his ‘hits’ myself in red dots on a map that hung on the living room wall next to my rococo mirror.
Once he’d ‘sorted out’ Essex he crossed the northern border into Suffolk; the same horseshoe pattern characterising his movements. He was clearly developing what the police called a ‘modus operandi’; first he would establish himself in a town, making the local inn his headquarters. From there he would gather intelligence about witchcraft in the area. Always, he would avoid larger towns. For it was there that more cultivated folk lived, and they were likely to have objected to, or at least been sceptical of, his methods.
In Suffolk the confessions started to allude to sex. Priscilla Collit, kept for three days and nights and only allowed an hour’s sleep, confessed that she had carnal copulation with the Devil, borne him two children and sunk a couple of ships into the bargain. Others, old and unstable such as Anne Cricke, admitted that the Devil had use of her body, though admitted she was not sure if they had copulated. She had no idea what ‘copulation’ meant.
In Ipswich he managed to burn someone: Old Mother Lakeland was alleged to have killed her husband by poisoning. Though witchcraft was mixed up in the accusation, the murder of a male spouse was considered to be Petty Treason, which was punishable by burning at the stake. It is said Hopkins watched in the square that day as the flames licked round her and she was burned alive.
When he entered Huntingdon he came across a man who was not convinced of his methods. This was the Reverend John Gaule who had uncovered some terrible occurrences; such as one accused ‘witch’ who, having been searched and no marks on her found, was swum. When examined again afterwards the woman was found to have been bitten on the neck and all over her lower body. The sign of a predatory sadist.
Then there was the case of old Elizabeth Chandler. This one really upset me. The poor old love was so reviled and forlorn, she had no company at all, and to help her get through the misery of her existence she gave names to two sticks that she used – one, which she used to walk, the other, which she used to stir bowls of frumenty. I could almost picture her there, sitting with her stick between her skirts. But Hopkins insisted that these inanimate lumps of wood were imps and, as his word was the law, the lonely old woman was convicted and swung.
Thank God at that point the tide started to turn. News of some of the dodgier witch hunting methods was spreading into London and worrying some of the educated sections of society. Feeling increasingly insecure, Hopkins raced back home to Manningtree.
The fate of the Witchfinder was up for discussion. Some said that he was accused of being a witch himself and swum but drowned. Others say that he floated and so was duly executed by the mob. Good. I hope he was. Probably wasn’t though. Most felt that he probably died of bog standard tuberculosis.
Such a short life, but so much damage.
And how typical of someone like that to die in the comfort of his own home. He should have been held to account for his crimes. There was no justice, I thought as I typed, ‘Matthew Hopkins, the Witchfinder General, was buried in Mistley churchyard in August 1647.’
I sat back and drained the last of my coffee. It had started to rain. Everybody outside was covered up in hats and umbrellas. I cursed the fact that I had neither.
As my eyes returned to the laptop a charge of adrenalin ripped through my stomach. For there it was, back on the screen – the message box, the words flashing: ‘He wasn’t …’