the cases had broken out.
You could tell Essex people had migrated to New England by the names they gave the places they lived in, attempting to replicate a better life in the New World; Danbury, Chelmsford, Colchester, Billerica.
And there was Wenham. Hopkins’ birthplace. About five miles north of Salem. The same distance as Great Wenham was from Manningtree. The geographical similarity was spooky. Even the rivers that separated Great Wenham and Manningtree, and Wenham and Salem, would have been about the same width.
The hangings from 1647 to 1692, the year Salem erupted and the whole thing went nutsville, were dotted about the place.
But these were the tip of the iceberg, the end of the line – the executions. I started pulling in other accusations and trials.
There were a huge amount. And other executions too – I’d missed John and Joan Carrington, a husband and wife both executed for witchcraft.
I picked up a blue pen and started drawing small crosses where there had been accusations.
After two hours my back hurt and my neck had a serious crick in it. I sat on my haunches and viewed the map. I hadn’t finished marking them all down, yet I could see a pattern was emerging.
There were two outbreaks. One was more of a line situated in Connecticut, spreading down to New Haven. The crosses spread out to Fairfield in the west and then east as far as Old Lyme. The shape resembled an upside down ‘Y’. At its centre was a huge cluster. That town’s name was Hartford.
‘Hartford, Hartford,’ I repeated to myself. ‘That sounds familiar.’
I went back to my laptop and googled it. The witch craze in those parts lasted from 1647 to 1662. As far as I could make out they had at least eighteen accusations, in Hartford. And hangings too.
But there was something else about that name. I took my folder of research from my filing cabinet and flicked through it keeping my eyes peeled for the place name. Then I found it – when Stearne had been in Huntingdonshire he had pulled in the witches to be examined by magistrates in Hartford, UK.
Stearne had gone inland, while Hopkins had taken the coastal route.
I flicked over to the east coast. The first Hopkins-type witch hunt had occurred in Boston. Where the ships from England docked. There was a dense fan of blue crosses there.
Something dropped from the ceiling onto the map. I flinched, remembering the liquid that had landed on my face only two nights ago. But I had no need to be afraid, it was only another moth. It skittered across the paper lightly, settled for a moment on Boston, then spread its wings and took off to my left. I watched it zigzag through the air and land on the mirror. It turned itself around, launched into the air and landed on the map of the south-east that I had pinned on the chimneybreast.
Strange. That was just where the last one had gone. Was there something attracting it?
I was about to go to it and see if there was anything behind the map that might be luring the little critters, but I stopped. From my perspective on the floor I could see the pattern of crosses I’d mapped out weeks ago – all the known cases of Hopkins and Stearne spreading out in little arc shapes.
I looked back down at New England and began to smile. On my American map, dotted in red, was the same shape – a bloody horseshoe.
Bastard.
There was no way that Stearne accompanied Hopkins out there. He had died in 1671 and was buried in Lawshall near Bury St Edmunds.
But what if Hopkins had met someone on the journey over? Someone who shared his zeal.
I regarded the area around Boston. Could it possibly be the same MO?
I knew it was late but I needed to know now. Right now. And there was one person who might be able to tell me. I dialled his number.
‘Hi Joe.’ I registered the sound of music in the background. ‘What are you up to? You off duty?’
‘Sadie! I’ve been meaning to call but we’ve all been bombarded with overtime. Just finished up at the snooker hall.’
I bit my tongue and hedged my bets. ‘Listen – I’ve got something I need to bounce off you. Would you mind coming over?’
He broke off and shushed some unseen gathering. I could imagine him there, jovial, flapping down their attention but loving the interest it provoked. ‘Okay. You all right? Is it