The Shadow in the Glass by JJA Harwood (any book recommendations txt) 📕

one of Cromwell’s Puritans and named her a witch? Would she be arrested? Burned at the stake? Or worse – what if she was handed over to the Inquisition? There’d never been one in England – at least, that was what she thought – but the world was so much smaller than it had been, it wouldn’t take long for her to be brought to the Continent. The Inquisition were always doing unspeakable things; she’d read about them, once, and felt so sick she’d had to close the book. If the reverend knew what she’d done, would he hand her over to the Papists?

‘Ella!’

Mrs Fielding was standing in front of her, flushed and angry. The tip of her scar was visible under the high collar of her best dress.

‘A sudden headache,’ Eleanor said, quickly. ‘I think I’d best go home.’

Mrs Fielding grabbed Eleanor by the wrist and hauled her past the lychgate. Eleanor braced herself.

Nothing happened. The reverend was watching her, but he didn’t look as if he were about to thunder fire and brimstone from a spartan pulpit. He looked bemused, and slightly too fat for his robes.

Mrs Fielding dragged Eleanor inside the church. Eleanor barely had time to remember a story she’d been told as a child – the witch had tried to enter the church and the moment she set foot inside, it collapsed around her ears – before she realized that nothing had happened.

Mrs Fielding rounded on her, mouth already open, but she faltered when she saw Eleanor’s smile.

‘I do apologize, Mrs Fielding,’ she said, relief blossoming like a flower, ‘I wasn’t quite myself. I hope I didn’t disgrace you.’

She swept into the body of the church before Mrs Fielding could say anything else and took her place in the pew. Nothing had happened. Perhaps she wasn’t as unclean as she thought.

The sermon washed over her and she settled back to listen.

The marble floor glistened under a thin veil of water. Scrubbing fiercely, Eleanor could see the reflection of her face, getting redder with every swipe. A second shape flickered in the water. She blinked, and it was gone.

Someone knocked at the front door. Eleanor eased herself upright, opened it, and saw Inspector Hatchett, monolithic in the doorway. He took off his hat when he saw her. ‘Good morning, Miss Hartley. Might I have a word?’

Lizzie. He must suspect that Eleanor had killed her. Why else would he have come to visit her a second time? Had someone overheard Lizzie and Eleanor arguing the night before she died?

It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t killed Lizzie – but of course, she had set Lizzie’s death in motion when she’d made her second wish, even though she hadn’t known what she was doing and the butcher’s boy had been the one to drown Lizzie. But the Inspector couldn’t know that, unless – Eleanor’s stomach twisted in fear. Had the black-eyed woman brought him here, as recompense for Eleanor trying to escape their bargain?

The Inspector put out a hand to steady her. ‘Are you quite well?’

‘Have you got him?’

‘I would prefer to discuss that indoors, if you please. Is there somewhere we might talk in private?’

Eleanor peered into the street. No Black Maria outside, rocking on its wheels as prisoners banged on the blacked-out windows. No burly constables lurking by the railings. Just a couple of curious beggar children and a rag-and-bone man. The Inspector wasn’t here to take her away.

She led him upstairs, listening carefully. Mrs Fielding was clattering around in the cloakroom off the entrance hall, Aoife was whistling along the second-floor corridor, and Daisy and Mrs Banbury were trapped in the kitchen with meringues and soufflés. When she was sure that they would not be found, Eleanor bundled the Inspector into the morning room.

Once, this had been Mrs Pembroke’s favourite room. She’d written her letters here, reviewed the menus, and let Eleanor sit on her knee while she settled the household accounts. Now the windows were shuttered, all the furniture was swathed in dust sheets, and her portrait stared across the room with sad, filmy eyes. Eleanor shut the door behind her and brushed the dust away from the painted face, very gently.

She lit a candle and motioned him away from the door. ‘We can speak freely here.’

He followed her over to the fireplace. ‘Now, Miss Hartley,’ he began, ‘the matter I came to question you about is somewhat … delicate. But before I do, I must ask you who you were talking about when you answered the door.’

Eleanor blinked at him, surprised. ‘The butcher’s boy, of course. I thought that was why you’d come.’

The Inspector’s mouth tightened. ‘I’m afraid not. We are searching for him, but he seems to have vanished. And now, please, to the business at hand. I must beg your pardon, but these inquiries are necessary.’

Eleanor inched out of the candlelight, feeling strangely relieved. The butcher’s boy had fled; he had killed Lizzie.

The Inspector looked visibly uncomfortable. ‘I took your advice and tried to trace the former maids working at Granborough House. It seemed a number of them had been … taken advantage of.’

‘Did you find Leah?’ Eleanor blurted, before she could stop herself. ‘Where is she staying? Can you tell me?’

‘I’m afraid I was unable to trace Miss Wallace,’ the Inspector said, and Eleanor slumped against the fireplace, all her hopes wilting. ‘However, I found some of the others and … some of them are well.’

Leah. Martha, who’d left last year when the bump had become too large to hide. Janie, who Mrs Fielding had found with her clothes in disarray. Gertrude, who’d been dolly-mopping on the side – Mr Pembroke had found out, and he had punished her for it. Worse, she thought there were more. Girls who’d been ushered out when she was still sitting on Mrs Pembroke’s knee. And now …

‘I have spoken to the housekeeper,’ the Inspector continued, ‘but she would not discuss it with me. I assume this is what you were referring to at our last