Witch Hunt. Syd Moore
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smile that wrinkled up the sides of his eyes. Out of the context of the publishing house and out of that suit, he could easily have been an actor or an academic, or, because his build was tall and fairly broad across the shoulders, maybe a young farmer. There was a slap-happy aura about him that immediately put me at ease.
And he was rather attractive too.
We shook hands. His was a firm super-confident grip, his eyes incredibly sparkly.
‘Do come in, Miss Asquith.’ He pulled a chair out and helped me into it. Well-spoken but not intimidating, his body language communicated both bonhomie and impeccable manners. He thanked Delphine and asked her to fetch some coffee, ‘if it is no trouble. Otherwise,’ he said, ‘I’ll hit the canteen.’ Delphine assented with a nod and so Felix slipped round to the other side of his desk and plopped into a high-backed chair. I saw him steal a glance that swept over me from the top of my head downwards, taking in bust size, hips, and legs. For a nanosecond he lost his self-possession, as if surprised by some aspect – I didn’t know what. Was it the vintage dress? Knee-high boots? Leather jacket? Perhaps he’d expected me to rock up in a suit. Well, tough, I thought, that ain’t ever gonna happen. Anyway, it was fleeting: Felix Knight mastered himself so quickly the blunder was barely perceptible.
‘Well,’ he said brightly. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you at
last.’
At last! He only introduced himself yesterday. But then again, the handover from Emma had probably occurred a couple of weeks ago. It was only I, the author, who had learned of Portillion’s plans twenty-four hours ago.
I told him I too was pleased to make his acquaintance and made myself comfortable in a jazzy chrome and leather chair.
The offices of Portillion Publishing were kitted out with an array of gizmos and screens, all carefully selected to compliment the vast oak bookshelves displaying some of Portillion’s top-selling authors.
‘I’m sorry that Emma had to take off so quickly,’ he said once he was seated back behind his desk. I watched him casually cross his legs, his large right hand smoothing over a wrinkle of fabric around the kneecap. He coughed and smiled. ‘These things tend to move rapidly once decided. However let me assure you I am very impressed by your proposal and can’t wait to read the first instalment.’ I liked the way his tongue lingered over the ‘r’s in a breathy maybe Irish, though more likely American style. Unlike other media types I’d encountered who aped the linguistic idiosyncrasies of the Super Power to evoke a cool cosmopolitan image, Felix’s accent sounded genuine. I guessed he was well travelled.
‘That’s great, thanks, Mr Knight.’ I nodded vigorously to match his level of enthusiasm.
He swung his chair and placed his hands on the desk. ‘Oh please,’ he said, lowering eyes and voice simultaneously. ‘It’s Felix.’
Bloody hell – was he flirting? No. Couldn’t be. Not on a first date. I noted my Freudian slip and corrected ‘date’ to ‘meeting’. It must just be that old public school charm offensive.
‘And actually, my friends call me Sadie,’ I said, and squeezed in a little self-conscious grin.
He stroked the skin behind his jaw and regarded me with a grin. ‘So, formalities over – how have you been, Sadie?’
It threw me a little. Was this publishing getting-to-know-you-speak? Or had he heard about my recent loss?
‘Well,’ I squigged myself forwards onto the edge of my seat, so that I could sit up straight and suck in my stomach. ‘I’m very pleased about the publishing deal. It’s come at a good time. You see, my mother passed away a couple of weeks ago …’
‘Oh I’m sorry,’ he said and assumed a concerned bearing; eyes down, head cocked to one side. I’d seen it before. It’s what people did. Felix went a step further and clasped his hands, his eyebrows pointed towards his nose. It was a sincere expression. ‘Was it sudden or … ?’
‘She’d been ill. But well, you’re never prepared for it, are you, no matter how expected?’
He glanced away and back again quickly. ‘Condolences to you and your family. That can’t have been easy …’
‘Thank you, I said and moved on. I wasn’t comfortable with this. I didn’t want to start my new career with negativity. ‘So, as you see, I’m ready to get on with the book right away.’
‘And I am certainly not going to stop you,’ he said, and his face began to shine again. ‘Shall we clear up the formalities and head off for a bite to eat? I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.’ He sat back and touched his stomach. It looked as hard as a board.
‘Starving Marvin, as they say in South Park,’ I said and immediately regretted the crass pop culture reference.
‘Quite,’ said Mr Knight. He reached for a document at the side of his desk. ‘We’re all quite enamoured of your colloquial style. You don’t come across writing like that very often. Wondered if you’d speak like it too. So often you get authors who write in one way and speak in quite a different manner. But you seem to be the genuine article.’
What was that meant to mean? Genuinely working-class? Genuinely Essex? I didn’t want to risk offence by asking for clarification so simply smiled. Felix did too – that wide gleaming grin (no overbite, white pearls verging on perfect), displaying zero visible dental work, evidence of good, strong, well-nourished stock.
He selected a pen and pushed the wad of papers towards me. ‘Let’s get your signature down here. Then we can release the funds.’
The restaurant was Spanish, full of little round tables. Across the walls hung strings of what I first thought were tacky plastic garlic bulbs and chillies, but then realised were the real McCoy.
After signing the contract Delphine popped in to let us know our taxi had arrived and since arriving at the restaurant our conversation had spun away from work into taste in food. It was only after we’d knocked back our first glass of wine that we got down to nitty-gritty book talk.
I explained that I’d already written an introduction about the factors that led up to the witch hunts, then, developing my original proposition, outlined the fact I was planning on setting the work out in three sections: the hunts up to 1644; the Hopkins campaign of terror; and then the decline of prosecutions up to the last known arrest of Helen Duncan, aka ‘Hellish Nell’, who went down for witchcraft in 1944, if you can believe that. Hers was an odd case. She was convicted of fraudulent ‘spiritual’ activity after one particularly informative séance in which she gave out classified information about military deaths. I had to include it. Felix was fascinated. Or at least, he gave the impression of being utterly absorbed; the eyes zoomed in on my face, his mouth set into a line. His expression was neutral, listening, but there was a shadow of a wrinkle across his forehead which betrayed intense concentration.
Enjoying the attention, I went on to explain I had pretty much sketched out the first section and was now focusing on Matthew Hopkins.
‘I don’t know a great deal about him other than what you’ve précised in your synopsis.’ Felix leant forwards across the table expectantly then reached out and refilled my glass. ‘Please do go on. You’ll have to excuse my ignorance on the subject.’
As it was fresh in my mind, I took him through an overview of that particularly nasty witch hunter who had made such an impact on my county.
‘What do you think his motive was? Power? Greed?’ Felix asked as the tapas arrived on the table. I took a modest forkful of meatballs, but didn’t start on them.
‘Of course: they’re your basic tools of capitalism at a time when that economic system was emerging.’ I took a breath. The final cadence of my sentence made me sound way too preachy. I moderated my voice and glanced at Felix.
He didn’t seem to mind and nodded me on, eyebrows higher, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips.
‘I mean,’