ST MARY’S INSTITUTE OF HISTORICAL RESEARCH INCIDENT REPORT

Competition entry by Alex Minns

Report filed by Dr Eva Cheer (History Dept)

Jump: Manningtree, 1647.

Objectives: determine the events of Matthew Hopkins’ demise which are as yet undetermined. (Request lodged to have them remain officially undetermined in the records.)

We took up residence in a farm not far from the centre of Manningtree three months before the return of Hopkins and established ourselves in the area as a family from Wales. Why Mr Katz had to say Wales when we met our neighbours I do not know. I cannot do a Welsh accent. Neither can he. Mr Lake, who had assumed the role of my brother travelling with my husband and I, decided at this point to adopt the persona of a man who was mute to save him the same embarrassment.

The first three months were boring. Which in my eyes meant everything was going well. Mr Katz on the other hand, decided that life needed a little more action, which is how the arranged cock fighting match came about. I take no responsibility for that man’s injuries and I honestly hope those peck marks scar. Serves him right for taking part in the cock fight against ten birds. I would like to record my reservations about Mr Katz’ sanity and the prudence of assigning him to security on outgoing missions. Not just because of his judgement, but also because he was so easily bested by ten cocks. I pray that this was hazing for my first mission as, on all previous missions I have been on as team member, whilst I have seen questionable behaviour, I have never had to deal with such sheer bloody-minded determination to ruin the mission. Also, can I state that the nickname going around St Mary’s of Eva Has-no-cheer is unprofessional and mean. I know the word unprofessional may be considered a badge of honour at St Mary’s but it is bringing back memories from high school which are quite painful.

I feel that you are probably wanting me to get to the point. I know as mission leader I assume full responsibility but I just want to state this was not my fault.

Matthew Hopkins returned to Manningtree, to the Thorne Inn that he bought three years previously. I had been worried about visiting the inn too often but Mr Katz put forth a worthy argument that we needed eyes on Hopkins as much as possible. I made friends with some of the serving girls who worked there but it was clear they were very uneasy about their employer’s return. None of them dared say a word against him for fear of accusations being levied against them. There were whispers around the area; in fact no-one seemed happy about his reappearance. Many had family members who had fallen foul of the witch trials Hopkins has instigated. We all heard stories of the delight he took in his work and how he covered his own misdeeds by accusing all women who crossed him. I’ll admit, it was hard to observe the man dispassionately. I knew my colleagues were similarly horrified by the man’s actions but to be a woman in his presence was quite honestly terrifying. More than once he passed me on the road and I admit shamefully I held my breath for fear of any perceived wrong.

Our mission dragged on. Hopkins finished writing his Discovery of Witches and Mr Lake was long past regretting his decision to live as a mute. (He most certainly made up for his silence in the evenings when we whiled away the hours playing I-Spy and charades by firelight.) As for Mr Katz and myself, we had been there long enough to divest ourselves of the Welsh accents and could say we had started to sound like we were natives. Thankfully Hopkins had never heard the accents; he would have thought we were talking in tongues straight away.

It was one of our charades evenings that precipitated the disastrous events. In our defence, we never expected Hopkins to be spying on us.

We were in the middle of charades when my colleagues decided to play a prank on me. Mr Katz was doing a convincing rendition of Norman Bates when he lunged for Mr Lake and stabbed him in the chest. The scream I let out could have woken the dead. I only stopped when I heard Mr Lake laughing as hard as Mr Katz. He threw the knife at me. Instinctively, I grabbed for it, yelping when the blade caught my palm. I waited for the pain to register but it never did. I was aware of the existence of lady prickers that worked with Hopkins but I did not expect my team to bring their own fake knives with retractable blades. I was just about to curse them when we saw Hopkins staring into our window his face white with shock.

All three of us trailed out after him. “Wench! You have the devil in you!”

“No, it’s not real. See!” (In hindsight, maybe I shouldn’t have waved a knife at him.)

“Begone, evil witch! I shall summon the magistrate!”

Deciding we had to stop him before we sparked a new wave of witch trials, we chased him through woods. Hopkins knew we were following and lay in wait for us. As we passed his position, he leapt out and grabbed me round the waist. He was a young man, nothing like the film at all, and he lifted me off the ground. “Confess!”

“Hopkins put her down!”

“She has bespelled you all! I heard how she speaks as if you are subservient!”

“That’s true.”

“I’m in charge!”

“Pete!”

“He speaks! Her foul magics rendered you mute! I shall prove it.” It took me a few seconds to realise where we were: the pond, which I would say is more like a lake. He was taking me for a swim. I was damned either way; swim and he would burn me at the stake, drown and I was just as dead.

The next few moments were a blur. According to Mr Katz, I did in fact sound possessed as I cursed Hopkins and called him all sorts of names that were not period accurate. Then, Mr Katz was flying towards us and we all went tumbling. We had been too close to the water and we plunged under the surface. Hopkins still had hold of my dress which was soaking with water and getting heavy. It was pitch black and I had no idea which way was up. Hopkins was still grabbing at me and I was wasting air trying to fight him.

I’m afraid I was overcome by panic and asphyxiation at this point. I barely remember Mr Katz grabbing my arm and pulling me to safety. My heel broke when climbing my way up the bank and not from being thrust into a part of Hopkins’ anatomy to escape, I swear.

We sat on the shore waiting for Hopkins to appear for an hour.

He never surfaced.

On the positive side, we know he wasn’t a witch. And we also know how he died. So all in all, mission successful.

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