I said it with as much levity as I could manage, although bitterness gripped my heart as I explained the situation to him. Typically, he chose to search for a kindly explanation.

“Perhaps he thought it for the best? If, as you say, the estate was indebted, there was a risk you would be thrown into a debtors’ prison the moment you reached your majority, then it was surely a kindness on his part.”

I shook my head vehemently. “There is more to it, I know it,” I said. “Why was he was so willing to believe that my father, his best friend, was guilty of such a crime? What had he been told? Who had told him?”

“Perhaps you should ask him.”

“I intend to do just that, when I am ready. But first I have some other matters to attend to.”

I found Sarah Blundy late that evening after a long wait; I had thought of going to her abode, but decided that I could not face mother and daughter together, and so stood at the end of the alley for upward of an hour before she emerged.

I do not mind admitting that my heart was beating fast as I approached, and that the wait had put me in a foul temper. “Miss Blundy,” I said as I walked up behind her.

She spun round quickly and took a few steps backward, her eyes instantly blazing with the most vicious hatred. “Keep away from me,” she spat, her mouth curled up in an ugly snarl.

“I must talk with you.”

“I have nothing to say to you, nor you to me. Now leave me in peace.”

“I cannot. I must talk to you. Please, I beg you, hear me out.”

She shook her head and made to turn away and continue her journey. Much as I hated to do so, I ran round in front of her to block her path, and assumed the most supplicatory of expressions.

“Miss Blundy, I beseech you. Listen to me.”

Perhaps my expression was more convincing than I thought, for she stopped and, assuming a look of defiance—mingled, I was glad to see, with some fear—waited.

“Well? I am listening. Speak, then leave me in peace.”

I took a deep breath before 1 could bring myself to utter the words. “I have come to beg your pardon.”

“What?”

“I have come to beg your pardon,” I repeated. “I apologize.”

Still she said nothing.

“Do you accept my apology?”

“Should I do so?”

“You must. I insist upon it.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You will not refuse. You cannot refuse.”

“I can easily do so.”

“Why?” I cried. “How dare you talk to me in this way? I have come here as a gentleman, though I had no need to do so, and abased myself to acknowledge my fault, and yet you dare to refuse me?”

“You may have been born a gentleman; that is your misfortune. But your actions are those of one far lower than any man I have ever known. You violated me, although I gave you no cause to do so. You then spread foul and malicious rumors about me, so I am dismissed from my place, and jeered at in the streets, and called whore. You have taken my good name, and all you offer in return is your apology, said with no meaning and less sincerity. If you felt it in your soul, I could accept easily, but you do not.”

“How do you know?”

“I see your soul,” she said, her voice suddenly dropping to a whisper which chilled my blood. “I know what it is and what is its shape. 1 can feel it hiss in the night and taste its coldness in the day. I hear it burning, and I touch its hate.”

Did I, or anyone else, need a franker confession? The calm way she confessed to her power frightened me mightily, and I did my best to summon the contrition she wanted. But she was right on one score—I felt little; her devils made her see true.

“You are making me suffer,” I said in desperation. “It must stop.”

“Whatever you suffer is less than you deserve until you have a change of heart.”

She smiled, and my breath caught in my throat as I saw the look on her face, for it confirmed everything I had feared. It was the clearest admission of guilt that any court of law ever heard, and I was only sorry that there was no one else around to witness that moment. The girl saw that I had understood, for she pitched up her face and let out a peal of laughter.

“Leave me be, Jack Prestcott, lest worse befall you. You cannot undo what has been done; it is too late for that, but the good Lord punishes those who transgress and will not repent.”

“You dare speak of the Lord? How can you even utter His name?” I shouted in horror at the blasphemy. “What are you to do with Him? Talk of your own master, you fornicating witch.”

Straightaway, her eyes flashed with the darkest anger, and she stepped forward and struck me on the face, grabbing my wrist and pulling my face to her own. “Never,” she hissed in a dark voice which seemed more like that of a familiar than her own, “never talk to me like that again.”

Then she pushed me away, her breast heaving with emotion, while I too was winded by the shock of the assault. Then, lifting her finger at me in a warning, she walked off, leaving me trembling in the middle of the empty street.

Less than an hour later, I was seized by a powerful griping of the guts which left me curled up on the floor, vomiting out my stomach so violently I could not even cry out in pain. She had renewed her attack.

I could not talk to Thomas about this matter; he could not give me any help at all. I doubt that he even believed in spirits; certainly he was of the opinion that the only proper response was prayer. But I knew that this would be insufficient; I needed a powerful counter-magic fast, and there was no means of getting it. What was I to do, run after Blundy and ask her if she wouldn’t mind pissing in the bottle Greatorex had given me? Unlikely to be successful; nor did I feel like breaking into her cottage and ransacking it for the charm the Irishman said she must be using against me.

I must point out one thing here, which is that my account of my talk with Blundy is accurate in every single detail; it could hardly be other, for her words were engraved on my mind for years after. I say this, because it contained confirmation of everything I knew, and justification of everything that occurred thereafter. There is no room for doubt or misinterpretation—she threatened me with worse and she could hardly do me harm in any other way except through her magic. I do not need to persuade or assert on this matter—she admitted it quite freely when she had no need to do so, and it was only a matter of time before she made good on her promise. From that moment I knew that I was engaged in a battle which would end in the destruction of one or the other. I say this plainly, for it must be understood that I had no choice in what I did—I was desperate.

Instead of Thomas, I went to see Dr. Grove, for I knew that he still believed in the power of exorcism. He had once lectured us about this, when he had heard of an affair of sorcery in nearby Kineton when I was about fifteen. He warned sternly about dabbling with the devil and that evening, most strangely and generously, led us in prayer for the souls of those suspected of compacting with darkness. He told us that the invincibility of the Lord can so easily turn back Satan’s powers, if it is genuinely desired by those who have delivered themselves into His arms, and it was one of his major contentions with the Puritans that, by disparaging the rite of exorcism, they not only lowered the priesthood in the eyes of the population (who continued to believe in spirits whatever their ministers said) but also removed a potent weapon in the never-ending battle.

Apart from catching a glimpse in the distance when once I was walking down the High Street a few months earlier, I hadn’t cast eyes on him for nearly three years and I was surprised when I entered his presence once more. Fate had been kind to him. Whereas I remembered a man barely enough fed, with threadbare clothes a size too big for him and a mournful expression on his face, now here before me was a roly-poly character evidently too eager to make up for lost time in the matter of food and drink. I liked Thomas and wanted only the best for him but I felt then he was wrong in thinking Grove unqualified for the parish of Easton Parva. I could see him already, rolling down to the church after a good dinner and bottle of wine, to lecture his parishioners on the virtues of moderation. How they would love him, as well, for everyone likes a character to fit the part life has allotted him. The parish, I felt, would be a happier place with Grove as its leader than with Thomas, even if it would be less mindful of the awesome fear of the Lord’s chastisement.