When Ian arrived at the inn with the files, Vincent was the only one present in the lobby, holding a cup-to-go filled with lukewarm tea.
“Take a look,” Ian said, handing over a copy of the records. “This Owens woman clearly wasn’t your average village resident.” In a world where more than ninety percent of the women were illiterate, Hannah had signed her name, and not with an X, but with a lovely flourish of letters, all well formed and quite readable. Those women who could read were usually members of the court where they might have access to tutors and libraries, but Hannah was clearly living in poverty. Before the time of her trial, she had resided in the cottage where the library now stood, but it had been taken from her by the town council to repay her victims for the witchery they had allegedly suffered at her hands.
Ian had been ridiculously eager to show off his findings to Sally, and felt disappointment rising within him. “Aren’t we missing some people?” He meant Sally of course, but he didn’t want to show his hand, although in all likelihood the old man had the sight and was one of those individuals who could always recognize a lie.
“Oh, they’re already gone. I’ve been left to meet you and let you know we don’t need you.”
Flustered, Ian blurted, “I’m here because Sally needs me.”
“Apparently not. It turns out Kylie is with that Lockland fellow. They’ve gone in search of her. They’ve got the address of a house he’s been renting on the High Street, number twenty-three.”
“Fuck.” Ian stormed out of the inn, with Vincent following. “They should have waited. I know that little prick, and he’s more dangerous than you’d think.”
“You try stopping my sister. And just so you know, he doesn’t stand a chance up against her,” Vincent responded, but Ian was no longer listening. He’d noticed Matt Poole parked in the lot, dozing in his van.
“I’ve got to have this, Matt.” Ian was already opening the driver’s door so that Matt awoke with a start.
“Have what?” For a moment Matt thought he was being robbed, and fortunately he recognized Ian before he reached for the hammer he kept under the seat just in case some drunken tourist got the idea to skip out before paying his fare. Ian’s mother, Margaret, had brought Matt’s sister, Lisa, back to health after things had gone wrong with her first pregnancy. Nowadays, Matt’s sister had two grown boys, and on the first of May, the day she might have lost her child if not for Margaret, she always brought Margaret Wright a Sticky Fingers Cake, made of fudge and rose truffle.
“Hand over your keys. There’s nobody in need of a cab now anyway. Come on,” Ian urged when Matt stared, wide-eyed. “It’s important.”
“This cab’s my bread and butter,” Matt complained. “You were always a wild driver.”
“That was years ago, Matt. Come on.”
“I don’t know why I do these things,” Matt grumbled as he gave over the keys. But the truth was there were no customers, and Matt could now sit out on the porch of the inn and take a nap, hoping Ian was a better driver than he was when he was young and there had been several accidents that had involved drink and trees.
Ian was still a fast driver, and Vincent twice suggested slowing down. They pulled over once they reached the dodgy end of the High Street, where the houses were in ill repair. The thickets were so deep around the house, with thorny vines climbing over the porch and the roof, that it took a moment before Sally and Gillian could be seen at the door. There had been no answer to their knocking, and Sally was doing her best to open the lock with a hairpin, to no avail. Franny had made her way into the tiny, neglected yard, where a single lilac bush grew. She was peering through the window into the parlor, her hands up to the dusty windowpanes as she attempted to look inside. The glass was too cloudy to see through, but she could sense the ill will within the house, the darkly flickering remnants of left-handed magic. Vincent came up beside her. “This doesn’t look good.” He took note of two dead little house sparrows in the grass wrapped in twine.