needed horehound and pennyroyal and thyme for young Jane Butcher who was near her time. It would be a long and painful birth if she was any judge. The child in her belly was huge – the babe taking after its father, John Butcher, a large man whose two earlier wives had both died in child bed. Why didn’t he choose a woman with broad hips and meaty thighs like his own? Why did he pick such little child-wives with such narrow bones? She shook her head sadly. Jane was terribly afraid. And with reason. Liza passed on amongst her plants. She needed hyssop and blackberry leaves for her neighbour’s sore throat and a poultice for Sir Harbottle Grimstone’s cowman who had a cut on his hand which was swollen and yellow with undischarged pus. She sighed. They paid well, her customers, and she was happy to help them with their pain, but sometimes she wished there was someone who would help her. Someone to bring her warm soothing possets in the evening, someone to help her change her old woollen gown when the ache in her arms made her cry as she tried to pull it over her head, someone who would take over the garden for her before it ran riot for the last time and took her by the throat and strangled her. She gave a hoarse chuckle at the thought. As long as the plants survived she supposed it was all right. They didn’t need to be as neat as they were when she had first planted out her little medicinal garden. And they would probably outlive her. And Sarah came when she could with a basket of food or a warm shawl or a jug of ale. Sarah, daughter of the manor, her suckling child, the little girl who had replaced her own dead baby at her breast. She pulled her small shears out of her pocket and snipped and cut and tugged at the leaves until the basket was overflowing.
The cat had followed her. It stopped near a patch of catnip and threw itself headfirst into the clump, rolling ecstatically amongst the aromatic leaves and she chuckled again.
On a shelf in the cottage she kept the utensils of her trade meticulously neat. Pestle and mortar, bowls, scoops and jugs, all washed and drained and clean. Baskets and bags of dried herbs hung on hooks from the ceiling beams and boxes were stacked carefully on a table in the corner. She set her basket of fresh pickings down on the table and went to check the fire. The iron pot of water hanging over the coals was nearly boiling.
Jane Butcher’s medicine first.
She worked on for a long time, conscious that the beam of sunlight coming through the kitchen door was moving steadily across the floor. Soon the sun would move round into the south and her kitchen would be shadowy again and cool. Squinting at the jug in her hand she tried to work faster. Once the sun had gone it was harder to see what she was doing and more and more often the thick black tinctures which came from her pots would spill across the scrubbed oak of her table.
Once she stopped and stared at the door, listening. Had that been someone at the gate? She could hear the high-pitched alarm call of a mother bird telling her young to hide low in the nest – a cry understood and acted on by every other bird in the garden. Perhaps it was the old cat which was causing such consternation. His roll in the catnip might have rejuvenated him enough to stalk a bird but somehow she doubted it. She frowned. Her hearing was still acute even if her eyes were growing dim. In the silence of the garden she could hear menace. Slowly putting down her jug and spoon she hobbled to the door and stood looking out. There was no one to be seen. The lane was empty. There was no sign of the cat. But somewhere something was wrong.
Then she saw him, the man standing half hidden in the shade of the old pear tree in the hedge and she recognised him. It was one of Hopkins’s servants. She stared at him for a moment, puzzled. Why was he watching her? Seeing her turn towards him he drew back into the shadows and she saw him clench his fists into the sign against the evil eye before he turned and fled, and in spite of the warmth of the sun across her shoulders and the scents of the herbs around her she suddenly smelled the cold breath of fear.
Pulling her MG into the car park near the Co-op Emma crawled slowly between tightly packed rows of cars trying to find a space. ‘Better to park there and walk up to the shop,’ the house agent had said. ‘There’s no parking along the High Street here and not much anywhere on a Saturday.’
How right he was. The place was teeming. Someone backed out in front of her and she turned into the space with relief. She was exhausted. It had been a two-hour drive from London – a drive starting with a row with Piers …
‘I’m sorry. I told you yesterday, I am not going off on some wild goose chase to see a cottage I don’t want in a county I don’t like on a weekend I want to stay at home!’
He had been furious when she confessed she had rung the agent that morning at nine a.m.
‘Yes, you’re right. It is Liza’s.’ The young man’s voice had been hoarse, as though he had a bad cold. ‘Yes, it is still on the market. There’s been a lot of interest, but no one has made a definite offer yet. Yes, you could view it today.’
‘Liza’s.’ She had repeated the name to herself as she hung up. ‘Liza’s Cottage.’
Will Fortingale, the young man at the estate agent’s, did indeed have a bad cold. His nose was red and swollen and he was clutching a large handkerchief as he opened the filing cabinet and pulled out a folder of particulars and a bunch of keys.
‘Do you know how to find it?’ He withdrew a couple of stapled sheets of A4 and handed them to her.
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘Right. Well. It’s not occupied, so they won’t mind you looking round it on your own. You don’t want me to go with you?’ He glanced up anxiously and she saw the relief in his eyes as she shook her head. He had summed her up as she walked through the door. He could always tell a serious buyer and Emma Dickson wasn’t a serious buyer. There was no point in trying too hard with this sale, especially as he was feeling so damn rotten.
She waited whilst he scribbled down some instructions for her, found and photocopied a local map, handed her the keys, then she was out in the street again.
She did not remember Manningtree at all. She stood outside the agent’s shop and stared round in delight. It was a pretty town, the centre consisting as far as she could see of little more than the narrow, busy main road in which she was standing with a couple of other streets crossing it at right angles. She squinted at the map in her hand. She was standing on the corner of Church Street. South Street ran parallel with it fifty yards or so along. All were hung with flower baskets – old houses and shops alike decorated with fuchsia and geraniums, lobelia and ivy. She pressed back against the wall as a car swept by and hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should have a cup of coffee somewhere before going on to see the house. She had left home without having any breakfast, and she had been on the road so long she was feeling quite weak. Besides, she was, she realised, suddenly a little apprehensive about finally going inside the house whose keys were clutched in her hand. The whole enterprise had acquired an emotional overload which had begun to alarm her.
She could see a coffee house from where she was standing outside an empty shop, its windows whitewashed, a For Sale notice hanging from the jettied storey above the front door. As she stood hesitating the door opened and a man came out. Talking hard and looking over his shoulder back into the shop he cannoned into her violently, nearly knocking her off her feet.
‘Oh my God, I’m sorry!’ He grabbed her arm and steadied her as she staggered into the gutter, the cottage keys flying out of her hand. ‘Oh shit! Let me get those. Have I hurt you? Come and sit down a minute.’
Before she knew it she had been drawn through the door into the empty shop and pushed into a folding canvas chair.
‘I’m OK, honestly.’ She had finally got her breath back enough to speak.
‘No you’re not, look at your foot!’
She looked down at her sandalled feet. Below her pink jeans her ankle looked a bit swollen and was already distinctly black. ‘It’s not