The Witch Maker by Sally Spencer

an’ all.’
    â€˜So if I say that I don’t want our Mary to have to go through the ordeal of havin’ her—’
    â€˜But even though you are the Witch Maker, there are some things you don’t have any choice about,’ Tom interrupted.
    His father’s eyes had begun to moisten over, Wilf noticed with astonishment.
    His big, strong dad – the man who carried him for miles on his back when he was a kid – was almost on the point of tears which were every bit as deep and bitter as Mary’s. It wrenched at his heart to see his father in such distress. But there was still Mary to consider – still Mary to protect.
    â€˜If my position means anythin’ at all—’ he began.
    â€˜Bein’ the Witch Maker doesn’t give you freedom,’ Tom told him. ‘I thought you’d have realized that by now.’
    â€˜Then what does it do?’
    â€˜It’s a burden. It’s a responsibility. It binds you to what
has
to be done – even more tightly than it binds the rest of us.’

Fifteen
    T hrockston was only four miles from Hallerton. Yet it would have been impossible to confuse the two, Woodend thought as he parked the Wolseley outside the Wheatsheaf Inn.
    It wasn’t just that the outward signs of the twentieth century seemed to have reached this village in a way they had never managed to reach its neighbour. It wasn’t even that the locals watched the two police officers’ arrival with frank curiosity, but without any sign of hostility. Put simply, it was obvious from the moment he and Paniatowski stepped out of the car that even the air in Throckston seemed lighter and easier to breathe – as if, unlike the air in Hallerton, it was not forced to carry on it the heavy weight of three hundred and fifty years of history.
    They took their luggage out of the boot of the Wolseley, and walked across the car park to the pub. A man sitting on the wall nodded to them, and they nodded back. The dog sitting at the man’s feet looked up and wagged its tail.
    â€˜It feels good to have got away from darkest Hallerton,’ Woodend said.
    â€˜Yes, it does,’ Paniatowski agreed heartily.
    Not that there’d been any choice in the matter. The landlord at the Black Bull had been adamant that he had no rooms available for them – or for anybody else, for that matter.
    But every pub in this part of Lancashire let out rooms, Paniatowski had protested.
    Maybe all the rest did, the landlord had replied. He wouldn’t know about that. But he did know that this one didn’t.
    How about bed and breakfast places? Paniatowski had asked. Were there any widow ladies in the village who would welcome the chance to supplement their pensions by providing accommodation for a couple of police officers?
    If there were any, the landlord told her, he didn’t know about them. And neither, it seemed, did Constable Thwaites.
    Thus, they had been forced to come to Throckston.
    And thank God they had, Woodend thought, as he pushed open the public bar door and heard the happy buzz of conversation which had been wholly absent from the public bar of the Black Bull.
    The landlord of the Wheatsheaf was a jolly, red-faced, balding man, wearing a bright check waistcoat which strained against his ample beer paunch.
    As he slid the register across the counter for Woodend to sign, he said, ‘So you’re investigatin’ that murder of the Witch Maker, are you?’
    â€˜That’s right,’ the Chief Inspector agreed.
    â€˜Well, you’ll have your work cut out for you, there’s no doubt about that,’ the landlord assured him. ‘They’re funny folk over in Hallerton. Always were, an’ always will be.’
    â€˜You seem be talkin’ from personal experience,’ Woodend said.
    â€˜
Bitter
experience,’ the landlord replied. He chuckled. ‘An’ I’m not talkin’ about the kind of bitter that