The driver wasn’t talkative, so I relished the silence, concentrating on the questions I wanted to ask the vicar and hoping he’d have the information I needed. Reverend Hargreaves was in the graveyard when I arrived, standing before a weathered headstone, his head bowed. I waited till he was finished and had walked away before approaching. I had expected someone older, gray-haired, shoulders stooped with age, but Jonah Hargreaves was around my age, with slightly thinning light-brown hair and warm brown eyes. He wore glasses with thick tortoiseshell frames and a well-fitted black suit with fashionably narrow trouser legs. If not for his dog collar, I might have taken him for a hipster.
“Hello,” he greeted me enthusiastically. “Barbara tells me you have some questions about Alys Bailey.”
“Yes. I was told you were the resident historian.”
The vicar’s lean cheeks went pink with pleasure. “Had it not been the Church, it would have been history for me. It’s my dream to write a book on local history. Maybe someday, when I have the time,” he said, smiling wistfully.
I wondered if vicars were very busy these days, given low church attendance, but then I’d also heard that one vicar had to tend to the flocks of several parishes since there weren’t as many young people applying to the seminaries as in previous generations.
“I split my time between three parishes,” Reverend Hargreaves informed me, confirming my suspicions, “but I live here in Bamford Green. Shall we talk at the rectory? My wife can make us a cup of tea.”
“Of course. Lead the way.”
I followed him to a charming Victorian vicarage a short walk from the church. Mrs. Hargreaves wore skinny jeans and a fitted top and sported a trendy haircut and artfully applied blond streaks. She greeted me warmly and was dispatched to make the tea while the vicar invited me into the front room, which was warmed by sunlight streaming through exquisite stained-glass windows.
“The Victorians loved stained glass,” Reverend Hargreaves said, noting my awe. “Breathtaking, aren’t they? This is my favorite room in the house.” It was a beautiful room with several built-in bookcases, a thick Turkish carpet, and comfortable, well-worn sofas and wingchairs. There were several walnut tables, their surfaces covered with books, magazines, and vases filled with fresh flowers, and a fireplace that would make the room warm and cozy in the winter.
“They are stunning,” I agreed, admiring the glorious panes. “As is the room. If this was my house, I’d spend all my time here.”
I settled on the floral sofa while the vicar sat across from me in a matching wingchair, crossing his legs. The room smelled pleasantly of lemon polish and scones.
“So, Alys Bailey,” he said, his expression thoughtful. “Do you mind if we backtrack a bit? It’s important to understand the context.”
“Of course. Anything you can tell me will be a great help.” I pulled out my notepad and pen, ready to take notes.
“As I’m sure you know, when Queen Elizabeth I died in 1603, her successor was James IV of Scotland, who became James I of England.” I nodded, urging him to continue. “It was thanks to him that Alys Bailey was put to death.”
The vicar stopped speaking and smiled as his wife entered the room, carrying a laden tray. She set it on the coffee table and beamed first at her husband, then at me, before pouring each of us a cup of tea and offering slices of homemade cake. I was still full, having breakfasted not that long ago, but homemade cakes were a weakness of mine, so I accepted with alacrity. The cake was moist and delicious, the tea strong and hot. Even if I learned little of interest, I wasn’t going to leave disappointed.
The vicar took a delicate sip of tea and continued. “James I was obsessed with witchcraft. So much so that he even wrote a book about it. Daemonologie, it was called, and it was first published a few years before he took the English throne. The book was, in essence, a dissertation comparing various types of divination that were the result of practicing the dark arts. He felt it was his duty to educate the public on this very real threat and openly encouraged witch hunting. He sets the tone right at the beginning.”
Jonah Hargreaves held up a finger, asking me to bear with him, and walked over to a bookcase crammed with so many books, they barely fit and were wedged in every which way to make the most of the space. He found what he was looking for, held up the book to show me the title, then opened it to the first page of text. Here, read this,” he said. “It’s truly mind-blowing.” I accepted the book and quickly read the passage he’d indicated.
“The fearefull aboundinge at this time in this countrie, of these detestable slaves of the Devil, the Witches or enchanters, hath moved me (beloved reader) to dispatch in post, this following treatise of mine to resolve the doubting both that such assaults of Satan are most certainly practised, and that the instrument thereof merits most severely to be punished.”
I shut the book and handed it back to Jonah Hargreaves, who pushed it back into the narrow space he’d pulled it from before returning to me. His eyes were bright with academic fervor. “James was so consumed with the subject, he even alluded to vampires and werewolves. That’s right,” he said triumphantly when he saw my
