already knew.
It wasn’t. Amelia was on a roll.
‘Now look at this part.’ She removed another A4 sheet from the pile on the tabletop and handed it to me. ‘Read it out.’
She had highlighted another section that referred to stories of some of the witches (Elizabeth Clarke, Anne West) and their imps. I read them out, then went on to this: ‘They are of ill fame in these parts; and I have heard, that it was Time for Hopkins …’ As I read the last part of text my voice wobbled and I fell silent, taking in the next sentence. Had I read this before? I wasn’t sure. I glanced at Amelia. She was radiant, nodding her head vigorously.
‘Go on. Finish the sentence.’
I read it out loud. ‘… and I have heard, that it was Time for Hopkins to leave the Country when he did, for the People grew very angry at his Discoveries.’
We held each other’s gaze for a moment longer.
‘What are you suggesting?’ I said. ‘That he fled abroad? I’m sure there’s no truth in it. There’s a record of his burial in the churchyard at Mistley. Here.’
‘Yes, that’s interesting though. Don’t you think? People hated him that’s true. Some thought he was in league with the Devil himself. Some said he was lynched by the mob. Others that he was tried as a witch.’
I was following her. ‘Yes, but that’s all rumour of course.’
‘Well, witches weren’t allowed to be buried in sacred ground were they? If Hopkins came back to Manningtree, which seems to be the accepted idea, then there were still relatives of those he killed living there. It wasn’t a big place back then. Don’t you think that they’d try to get him buried elsewhere?’
‘I don’t know. That’s conjecture. The entry in the parish register is incontrovertible.’
Amelia’s face gleamed. ‘Do you know who wrote that?’ She emphasised the ‘who’.
I cocked my head to one side and regarded her. It was obvious. ‘What do you mean? Who entered the burial in the register? The parish priest.’
‘It was indeed. A certain Johannes Thomas Witham. Or, as he referred to himself – John Witham.’
I couldn’t see where this was going but went with her train of thought. ‘Okay?’
‘Who was on his second wife – Mary. His first, Mistress Free-Gift Witham, died in December 1633.’
She was leading me now. ‘And?’
Amelia’s brow dropped. A ‘humph’ pushed out through her lips. Downwards curves appeared at the corners of her mouth. It was a similar expression of muted irritation that my mum used to wear. Immediately I regretted my impatience.
‘Sorry, do go on.’
She angled her head towards the document. ‘Well, here we have the second wife. Witham, of course, was her married name. Before that she had been Mary or Marie Hopkins.’
‘Oh.’ Now I was beginning to catch her drift. ‘Oh! You reckon that was Matthew Hopkins’ mother? Previously married to James Hopkins?’
Amelia shrugged. ‘Could be. It never occurred to me as relevant before. But Sunday, when I was looking at it, it struck me as odd. Look.’ She took another sheet from the pile and spread it in front of me. It was a sketchy family tree. ‘See here: James Hopkins died around 1634, a year after Parson Witham’s first wife. His second wife, Mary Witham, was certainly the mother of “John Hopkins” who was also buried in Mistley Churchyard in 1641. The entry reads 1641 Dec 24 John son of Mary Hopkins (wife of Mr Witham, parson). Also, from what we know, the Hopkins named their sons after the disciples: Thomas, Matthew, James. Why not John?’ The dates are all about the right time. Mary Hopkins and Parson Witham must have known of each other. Great Wenham, where the Hopkins family lived, is just across the water in Suffolk, only five miles away as the crow flies. Both Mary’s and Witham’s spouses die within a short time of each other. On one side of the Stour you have a bereaved Minister and on the other a bereaved Minister’s wife. They’ve both got children. One batch without a mother, the other without a father. A quick practical marriage would have addressed their mutual material and practical needs. Ergo they unite the households and move to Manningtree or Mistley. Witham becomes stepfather to a teenage Matthew Hopkins. Who knows, the parson may have even played a part in supporting young Hopkins’ prosecution of Devil-worshipping witches.’
‘Yes,’ I said, picturing a thin tight-lipped man smiling down at a similarly sickly-looking youth. ‘It makes sense.’
Amelia rubbed