The Whitby Witches Page 12

  ‘Actually, no,’ he replied. ‘The locks weren’t forced and the alarm never went off – it’s as if the thieves had a set of keys to the place.’

  ‘Oh, but they did,’ the old lady said mildly, and with that she left.

  VIII

  KNIFE AND TOOTH

  That afternoon Miss Boston was sitting in Tilly Droon’s little sitting room, a cup of tea in one hand and a half-eaten bourbon in the other.

  It was a poky little place, cluttered further by the sleeping cats which seemed to cover every available surface. There were tabbies on the chair arms, tortoiseshells under foot, and a fat marmalade specimen squatting before the fire, glaring at two black felines who were getting dangerously close. Everything was covered in hair; the carpet had long since disappeared beneath the sea of countless moults. There was precious little left of the chair backs, either, which had been used as claw sharpeners for years.

  The worst aspect of Miss Droon’s house, though, was the smell. She always swore blind that she could not detect any odour, but this opinion was challenged by her lack of human visitors. Only Aunt Alice and Mrs Joyster had ever ventured in more than once. Mrs Banbury-Scott did promise to return one day but there was always some excuse; Miss Wethers was more honest about it and refused even to peep through the letterbox.

  ‘Move over, Chunky,’ Tilly told the marmalade cat. ‘Let Inky and Jet feel the fire.’ She eased herself into a tatty armchair and slurped her tea. ‘That Cooper woman,’ Tilly said, resuming the story she had begun before pottering into the kitchen to make the tea.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Miss Boston murmured, with interest.

  ‘Well, you should have seen her face when I went over this morning to find Eurydice. Never seen anyone so put out and unpleasant.’ She chewed on a rather stale bourbon, before continuing. ‘She wouldn’t let me go and find her myself, but darted upstairs like a bullet. Anyway, five minutes later she brings Eurydice down and the poor dear was petrified. She didn’t like the woman one little bit – terrible state she was in.’

  ‘At least she’s safe now, Tilly,’ Miss Boston remarked. ‘And what was this other news you dragged me in to hear?’

  Miss Droon licked her moustache. ‘Well, it was about lunchtime and I hadn’t a tin of cat-food in the house, so I dashed out to the shop and who do you think I saw?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Kenneth Grice!’

  Miss Boston put her cup down. ‘Dora’s handyman – what is so curious about that, dear?’

  ‘Well, he stopped me. Made a point of it, he did, crossed the road especially.’

  ‘Really? How strange; he’s such a rude, gruff man as a rule. What did he say?’

  ‘Dora’s not well. Told me Doctor Adams had been to see her that morning.’

  Miss Boston shook her head. ‘But she always has some illness, or thinks she has – she likes to be fussed over. Where’s the news in that?’

  ‘But that’s just it, Alice. She isn’t faking it this time, there really is something wrong with her.’

  ‘Poor Dora. Whatever’s the matter?’

  ‘Grice said it was something to do with her heart, high blood pressure – not as strong as she was. He said the doctor was quite concerned.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ tutted Aunt Alice, ‘we shall have to go round and cheer her up. She must be feeling very low.’

  Tilly banged her fists on the chair arm in frustration and in doing so, knocked a startled tabby to the floor. ‘No, no, no,’ she cried. ‘That’s the point, you see; that’s why Grice came and spoke to me. He says Dora’s not to have any visitors for a few days – doctor’s orders. She needs complete rest. So she’d told him to tell us.’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘Thing is, though, Grice wasn’t very happy because after telling me that, he said he was to go and fetch Mrs Cooper. Seems Dora wants to see her in spite of what the doctor said.’

  ‘But that’s outrageous,’ said Miss Boston, flabbergasted. ‘Do you mean to say that she can’t see old friends like us but is quite capable of having visits from that Rowena person?’

  ‘Exactly! Grice thought it was dreadful, too – never seen him look so awkward before.’

  Miss Boston’s chins wobbled in annoyance. ‘I think we have been snubbed, Tilly dear,’ she said. ‘And I believe Dora will live to regret allowing that woman into her house.’

  The baked potato was still too hot to touch. Jennet could feel the heat from it radiate through the lining of her coat. The girl had been thinking about the previous night all day long. She could not forget that tragic figure in white pouring out her grief in the churchyard. It had had a profound effect on Jennet. She knew what it was like to suffer and grieve, but at least she had Ben. The poor woman obviously had no one. She hoped the novice would return tonight. There had to be something she could do to help. The woman might not be so frightened this time.

  The stone of the tomb slab was cold and she shifted uncomfortably. She had come armed against the pangs of hunger: in one pocket there was the baked potato and in the other, one of Aunt Alice’s forks. It was dark now and only the pubs round the harbour seemed alive, all the tourists having deserted the streets for cosier entertainments. It was going to be a cold night, there was a musty, autumn scent in the air. Jennet shivered and decided it was time to eat.

  Wisps of steam curled out of the potato as she broke its brown, papery skin with the old silver fork. It smelled delicious and she waited for a moment before digging in. It was still hot and Jennet had to suck in the cold night air to prevent her mouth being burned.

  The sea lapped against the cliff face; all was calm and the waxing moon rode above the few dim clouds that reached over the horizon. Jennet finished the last fragments of baked potato and replaced the fork in her pocket. She felt better for that and was marvellously warm inside. It was ten o’clock and she was all alone in the graveyard.

  A seabird flew overhead and was caught in the beams of the arc lights. Jennet watched it falter, then regain its balance. When she lowered her eyes, something white caught her attention.

  There she was, the sister from the convent. Just as she had done the night before, the woman crossed the cemetery and stood by the wall, where she gazed out to sea.

  Undetected, Jennet rose and began to walk over to her. She could see the woman’s shoulders shaking with emotion as the miserable weeping began; the pitiful whimpers filled her ears.

  Suddenly Jennet dropped to the ground – someone else was there. A figure dressed in black had emerged from the darkness, strode quickly over the graves and grabbed the novice by the wrist.

  Jennet scrambled behind a headstone and waited. She was confused. What was happening? And why should she feel the need to hide? It was ridiculous; she wasn’t doing anything wrong, yet she felt it would be safer if she were not observed.

  A voice drifted over the tombs to her dark sanctuary. It was a wheedling, fawning voice but one that contained a hidden power which might erupt at any moment. For some reason, Jennet was afraid. The sound of that voice made her shudder; it was ugly and menacing. She wiped her forehead and plucked up enough courage to peer round the stone.

  By the wall the white form of the novice was trying to pull away from the intruder. Her small, frightened face was screwed up in misery as she tugged to release her arm.

  Jennet reared up a little higher, for she could not quite see the other person. A little more and there: dressed in black, with her short blonde hair gleaming under the moon, was Rowena Cooper. Jennet had never met the woman before but Aunt Alice had given her a perfect description. It could be no other.

  The two women struggled with each other but Rowena was the stronger and she laughed triumphantly. ‘You don’t get away that easily, my little mule,’ she sneered.

  Jennet was fascinated. All her instincts warned her and tiny alarm signals jangled in her head, but she had to find out what was going on. Ignoring her better judgement, she crawled through the grass and drew closer.

  Ben
trudged to the bridge, yawning and stumbling. Another evening had gone by and still there was no sign of the moonkelp. He hated leaving Nelda and Hesper to continue the search without him, but what would Aunt Alice and Jennet say if he stayed out all night?

  He had enjoyed the past week. Once they had gone out in a tiny rowing boat and Hesper had told him a great many things. She had warmed to Ben and, although the threat of discovery by the rest of the tribe still caused her to panic every now and again, at other times she would chatter to him quite freely.

  The boy was learning a great deal about the fisher folk. He knew that they honoured the sea and were keepers of great mysteries. They guarded the secrets of the magic tides and had once been able to consult the Lords of the Deep, who lived in the dark, cold realm under the water. Hesper told him many old tales: of the Weathercharmers who controlled the winds and waves by singing the Song of the Moon, of the Shorebrides who rejected tribal life and became solitary coast wanderers, and of the Gullspeakers who knew the tongues of all seabirds. To Ben’s delight, she also told him of the hideous serpents and other monsters which used to inhabit the waters round Whitby.

  While Hesper was telling him of the Weathercharmers, a salty tear trickled down her nut-brown cheek. They were out in the small aufwader boat, and she stopped rowing and gazed dreamily into the distance.

  ‘Oona was the mightiest of these,’ she said. ‘It was only the womenfolk who practised the art. Very great in all lore was she and the Song of the Moon was never sung better than when it issued from her lips. Her talent excelled so that no others could compete against it and the craft was forgotten by all save she. Oona might have been a tribal elder if she had had a mind. All respected her – some were even a little afraid – but she was a gentle creature and did not crave to rule others.’ Slowly Hesper dipped the oars into the water and continued the tale sadly.

  ‘A Shorebride Oona was close to becoming, and though I was young I can remember the light in her eyes when she spoke of the moonkelp and knew that she yearned to find it. I believe she knew when and where it would bloom, but they were secrets she kept to herself. Not even I was entrusted with that knowledge.’

  ‘What happened to her?’ Ben asked. ‘It’s a pity she isn’t here now.’

  Hesper bowed her head and said no more. It was Nelda who explained to him. ‘But if Oona was here,’ she said, ‘then there would be no need to find the moonkelp. For she it was who fell in love with the fisherman and bore the halfchild. It is through her that we are all accursed.’

  Ben’s head spun with all he had learnt. He was too tired to take most of it in and his feet dragged beneath him. Crossing over the bridge, he headed down Church Street for home. When he came to the alleyway, something caught his eye. He turned round and through the gap between the houses opposite he looked down on the sands of Tate Hill Pier.

  A figure was crouching on the shore; although it was dark, it was unmistakeably an aufwader. The boy grinned. His excitement expelled all traces of weariness and he hurried over the road and sped down the steps which led to the beach.

  The aufwader had his back to him. He was dressed pretty much the same as Nelda: a woollen hat, a gansey and an old worn pair of oilskin waders. Ben could hear him muttering but could not make out the words. The tone, however, did not sound pleasant.

  He was not sure if he wanted to meet this aufwader after all. What if he had been spying on Nelda and Hesper and was going to tell the elders of the tribe? Ben might make it worse if he went right up to him and introduced himself.

  ‘Garr!’ spat the guttural voice of the stranger as a wave rushed in unexpectedly and covered his feet. Ben didn’t like the sound of him. He stopped in his tracks and prepared to turn back, but it was too late. The aufwader spun round and saw the boy.

  He was an ugly character. A great sneer scarred his face and his large ears were ragged and torn from many fights. His side-whiskers were black and wiry, framing his leering head like the legs of a huge poisonous spider, and his large dark eyes slid slyly from side to side in the shadow of scowling brows.

  Ben backed away but he could not stop staring at the creature. Even in the dim light of the street lamps, he could recognise the pattern on the gansey – it was the same as Nelda’s. This evil-looking creature was her father!

  The aufwader paced to one side, not sure if the child could see him. The sneer widened, however, when he saw Ben’s gaze follow him. He opened his wrinkled, tobacco-stained mouth and hissed, ‘A human whelp wi’ the sight, is it?’

  The black eyes glinted and as Ben looked into them he felt invisible bonds tighten round him, just as they had when he had first met Nelda. He was unable to move, caught in the aufwader snare – a restraining power which froze his tongue and turned his feet to lead. He could only watch as the foul figure crept ever closer to him.

  The creature took a sharp knife from his belt and held it up to the boy’s face. ‘Come to pry again ’ave ya, landbreed? Always poking yer nose in where it’s not wanted, in’t’cha?’ The deadly blade touched Ben’s cheek and he shuddered with fear. The aufwader cackled menacingly. ‘Ain’t no cats round ’ere fer yer to rescue, laddy.’

  Then Ben remembered his experience in The Hawes, when he had gone upstairs to find Eurydice. He was now facing the thing that had dropped from the opening to the attic.

  ‘Know what I does wi’ smart little brats like you?’ the aufwader asked, bringing his face closer to Ben’s.

  The boy tried to turn his face away from the stale breath which stank in his nostrils, but the snare held him fast.

  ‘I don’t like bein’ seen by maggots like you!’ snapped the creature. ‘And to make sure ya won’t nivver make that mistake again, I’m gonna poke them charmed little eyeballs out fer ya!’

  He clasped the handle of his knife even tighter and drew his hand back to strike. Ben tried to call out in terror but his voice was stuck in his throat.

  The glittering blade sliced down.

  ‘Deeps damn her!’ bellowed the aufwader suddenly. His blow went astray and he turned his head towards the cliff, apparently having heard something that Ben had not. His concentration was broken and the hypnotic snare destroyed.

  Ben seized his chance. He kicked the aufwader in the stomach and its knife spun through the air as the creature doubled up in agony. Grabbing a handful of sand, the boy flung it into his opponent’s gasping face. Then he scrambled back over the beach for dear life and did not stop until he was safely indoors and in a startled Aunt Alice’s arms.

  Jennet squashed herself against the headstone and listened.

  ‘I can help you,’ said the voice of Rowena Cooper.

  The novice made no reply. She tried to prise the other woman’s fingers from her wrist, without success.

  ‘I shan’t release you till the bargain is made,’ Rowena growled.

  The novice stopped struggling and eyed her suspiciously.

  ‘That’s better,’ cooed Rowena. ‘There’s nothing to fear – yet.’ She gave a sharp little laugh, then smiled, showing all her teeth. ‘I know a great many things,’ she said. ‘I know who you are and I know why you come here every night to weep and bemoan your fate.’ With her free arm she made a grand, sweeping gesture to the sea. ‘I know why you ache for the water and why you dare not go near it.’

  For the first time the novice spoke, it was a fragile voice full of fear. ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘How could you know such things?’

  Rowena’s eyes opened wide. ‘It is my business to discover secrets,’ she declared importantly; ‘forbidden knowledge has always been my passion. That is why I can help you. There are ways around your predicament, my dear. Allow me to assist in easing your burden.’ Her words were coaxing and full of promises; they seemed to reach out and subdue the will. Even hiding some distance away, Jennet felt the power of that voice as it oozed and persuaded.

  ‘Tell me what I need to know,’ Rowena’s honeyed tone continued. ‘It cannot mean anything to you now. Tell me where I m
ay find what I seek and we shall both profit by it.’

  ‘There is nothing you can give me,’ replied the novice coldly. ‘I must live with my sins.’

  Rowena showed signs of displeasure. ‘Tuh! I do not believe there is such a thing. How long will you cower like an insect in the miserable life you have chosen? I don’t think you could have picked a more pathetic role.’ She threw back her head and laughed in mockery. ‘What a fool you are! Anything could have been yours – you are unique. But what do you do? You hide yourself away all this time, hoping to escape from that which awaits you. But the years rolled on, didn’t they? You grew weary of running and so here you are at last. The wanderer has returned.’

  She twisted her lip in scorn and shook the novice’s wrist harshly. ‘Tell me what I want to know or I shall be forced to compel you.’

  ‘There is no torment you can inflict upon me which I have not already suffered a thousand times over,’ the novice answered defiantly. ‘Now let me go!’

  She pulled her arm back sharply, throwing Rowena off balance and making her tumble backwards. Released from the iron grip, the sister fled away, past the church and down the steps. Rowena picked herself up from the grass where she had fallen, her face white with rage. She marched over to the edge of the cliff and called out impatiently.

  Jennet was cold and frightened. She had understood very little of what had passed between these two, but one thing was certain – Rowena was the vilest person she had ever heard of. She just hoped she could make her way back to the steps without being seen by that awful woman. She began to wriggle along the ground as silently as she was able.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Rowena demanded angrily. ‘Why were you not here?’

  Jennet pressed herself into the grass. Surely Mrs Cooper wasn’t speaking to her? Quickly, she squirmed round to see.

  Rowena’s imposing figure was silhouetted against the night sky but she was not looking in the girl’s direction. She appeared to be having a conversation with herself, or at least that is how Jennet perceived it.