The Whitby Witches 2: A Warlock In Whitby Read online

  The aufwader scratched his wiry white whiskers, clicking his tongue as though there was a bad taste in his mouth. "'Tis Nelda," he said, "she's the one what bid me come and sithee."

  "Nelda!" exclaimed the boy. "But why didn't she come herself? And why come here at all? I tried to call her on the shore this morning but there was no reply."

  Tarr held up his hand. "Aye," he nodded, "she heard thee, us all did... shrikin' yer dunceful head off."

  "Then why didn't she answer?"

  The aufwader lowered his voice and shook his head sorrowfully. "Nelda were busy,' he said. "Were tasks she had to see to..." He looked the boy steadily in the eyes and came to the point at last. "This night," he said, "the moon'll be full an' round and at such times do the Bridings take place. When the tide comes high up the cliff, my granddaughter I'll wed."

  "Married?" Ben whispered in disbelief. "But... who?"

  But Tarr was staring into the sky and tutting at the lateness of the hour. "Enough," he barked, "we're a wastin' stood here. What ah wants to know... is tha comin' or not?"

  "Me?"

  "Tha's not deaf is thee? If'n tha's willin', best come along now. Bid thy sister goodnight for tha'll not be back afore dawn." And that was all he would say. The invitation had been made and that was what he had promised Nelda he would do. Leaning on his staff, Tarr hobbled down the step and walked slowly across the yard.

  "Wait!" Ben called after him. The boy turned to Jennet and hurriedly tried to explain what was happening. "I've got to go," he told her, grabbing his coat, "tell Miss Wethers I'll be back later."

  "Ben!" she shouted. "You can't go just like that! What am I supposed to tell her? She'll never believe me about those friends of yours."

  "Then pretend I've gone to bed," he said, "she won't look in—and remember to leave the latch off the door, I don't have a key!"

  Jennet stared helplessly after him. As Ben disappeared into the alley, she softly breathed, "Be careful," and closed the door.

  In Church Street, few of the houses were lit and it seemed a forbidding, cramped place where the everlasting stream of night flowed through. When Ben caught up with Tarr, the old aufwader was gazing fixedly at the ground, taking no notice of the buildings that reared up beside him. The boy was still struggling into his duffle-coat and when he eventually fastened the toggles he asked, "Why didn't Nelda mention it to me before? Who is she marrying? I thought she was still quite young."

  Tarr ground his teeth together. "Aye," he bitterly agreed, "she'm a child still, but that has'na stopped him," and he cursed under his breath. "An ill time this be, an theer ain't no one who can cure it. Hurry lad, theer's a might to get done this e'en—if'n my heart can bear the strain."

  Pausing at the few steps which led to the shore, he pointed with his staff and muttered darkly, "The omens are bad for this. An icy wind gusts in over the waters and ah done seen fish floatin' dead on the waves. Foul critters of the black deeps what have no rights comin' to these shallows, an' each one had theer eyes pecked clean out. 'Tis a warnin', ah told 'em. They ain't pleased. Aye, an' all night long the souls were a-calling up from the Gibberin' Road—weren't no cave kippin' peaceably wi' that racket goin' on. Nah, us are bein' told—this Briding ain't proper, 'tain't decent and if'n it goes ahead... well, ah dursn't dwell on what may come about. Ah'll speak no more on it!"

  Pulling the brim of his woollen hat down to meet his spiking brows, the aufwader pressed his chin into the neck of his gansey and pushed ahead. Beside him, Ben could only try and guess what was behind it all and, wrapped in this uneasy, grim silence, they vanished down the steps on to the sands, merging into the cloak of night.

  ***

  Mr Taylor, the curator of the museum gave one last glance around; everything seemed in order, there was no one left, but he ducked his head just to make sure—he had once found a tramp hiding under a display case. There was nobody lurking there tonight however, and he had already checked the other rooms. Methodically he counted through the keys on his chain until he found the one he sought. With a jingle, the inner doors were locked and he strode across the art gallery to join the last visitor who was lingering by the main entrance.

  "Takes a tidy while to see it all gets done," he explained, going through the keys once more. "Be getting a fancy alarm next month so that'll be another lot of keys I expect—put your pockets out something rotten they do. The wife's always complaining about the state of them, but you have to put up with these minor discomforts, don't you?"

  The other man smiled with benign understanding. "An unsolvable problem," he said.

  "Yes, but a necessary one. Can't be a curator without having keys, eh?" He turned the lock then tried the door to make certain. "Lovely," he beamed, "that'll keep the robbers out."

  His brief acquaintance raised his eyebrows. "Do you have much trouble with burglars?" he inquired.

  "Not usually," came the considered reply. "We did have a spot of bother a couple of months ago, mind. Some dirty thief broke in and filched one of our most interesting pieces."

  "Really? What was that? You do have some wonderful treasures in there—that storm predictor for example, absolutely marvellous."

  Mr Taylor glowed with pleasure at this compliment. "Yes," he admitted, "we're justly proud of our prognosticator, and that's what makes that theft so baffling. It wasn't anything really valuable that got nicked. Of course, when I say that I mean in money terms like the jet carvings and such, no this was something more uncanny you might say. It was the Hand of Glory that was nicked, a gruesome little exhibit but I was rather fond of it myself."

  "I don't know what the world is coming to," remarked the other.

  They walked slowly through the park and down towards the town which was now twinkling with electric light. At the foot of the hill Mr Taylor shook the man's hand and wished him well.

  "I trust you did find out what you were after?" he asked.

  "I did indeed."

  "That's a thing I'd always like to get round to doing. Tracing the family tree is a rare challenge. I'm so glad to have been of assistance, I hope you were able to make head and tail of the abbot's book—I don't usually let anyone take it out of the case but you being a historian I thought, well, why not. You know—you've wheedled more out of that old library in the one afternoon than most of the people round here do in a year."

  "Perhaps my researches were more important."

  "Mebbe. Anyway, this is where I leave you, sir."

  They shook one another by the hand once more and as the curator went his way Nathaniel said, "Thank you again—it's been a most enlightening day."

  ***

  The warm buzz of the radio diffused through the darkened front room and the faint beat of the dance band was like the distant pulse of a dying man. In the fireplace the embers were a deep cherry colour and when they crumbled, the sound of the falling ash was like an expiring sigh. Mr Roper sat in his shabby armchair, his eyes closed and his head on his chest, but he was not asleep.

  For hours he had sat there, watching as the light failed outside and listening to the fire dwindle and collapse. Slowly the shadows had mushroomed up around the chair, enclosing it in a gloomy canopy and still he had not moved. Mr Roper was lost in thought. There were so many things he still had not done, so many things left unsaid, now that it had come he found that he just wasn't ready.

  Carefully, he unclasped the hands folded over his heart and a reflected light gleamed dully between his fingers. It was a small silver frame that the fading firelight had picked out—the one that contained a photograph of his late wife.

  "Oh Margaret," he murmured, breaking the still calm, "a right mess I'm in." He pressed the glass to his lips and gave her a gentle kiss. "Won't be long now," he promised.

  The smiling face of his wife gazed blindly out at him, but the visage was stained red by the fire's glow and Mr Roper laid it close to his breast once more. The evening drew on and the hands of the ticking clock on the mantel whirled around.

 
It was late when the doorbell rang. The severe noise seemed to hack away at the peace of the front room, utterly fragmenting it. The old man looked up from the chair, it was half-past eleven. Wearily he struggled to his feet, his legs stiff and aching after being seated for so long. Taking his time, he returned the silver frame to its rightful position next to the clock and shuffled out into the hallway. A tall figure was silhouetted against the glass of the door and the old man nodded as though he had been expecting this caller.

  Opening the door, Mr Roper beheld for the first time Nathaniel Crozier. The bearded stranger was standing on the path, his hands held solemnly in front of him, precisely the same stance as that of a vicar presiding over a burial.

  "Yes?" Mr Roper began. "Can I help you?"

  Nathaniel had been examining the nearby houses, all the curtains were closed—no one had seen him approach and ring the bell. He turned and considered the pensioner, a secretive smile forming on his face.

  "Good evening to you," he purred, "would I be right in assuming you to be Arnold Roper?"

  "Who wants to know?"

  "My name is Crozier. I am a historian researching into local history..."

  The old man showed no outward sign of surprise that someone should come to see him at this late hour. But, before Nathaniel could elaborate, he shushed him. "'Taint no use, whatever you're about," he said, "Arnold were my elder brother—died in the Great War, so you're wastin' yer time."

  Nathaniel straightened, taken aback at this unexpected news. "Died," he repeated. "Did he leave an heir?"

  "Arnold were only seventeen, weren't even courtin'. Now I'm sorry but there's a tin of cocoa waiting for me and it's too parky chatting on doorsteps."

  The warlock smiled and showed all his regular teeth. "Then may I come in?" he asked. "Just for a moment."

  Mr Roper rubbed his ear indecisively. It was no use putting this off, he thought—if it must be, then get it over with. "All right," he said, "come in."

  Nathaniel stepped inside and let out a low, wicked chuckle as he closed the door behind him. "There are no lights on in this house," he observed. "Why were you sitting in the dark?"

  "'Taint always nice to see what yer talking to," his host replied pattering back down the hall.

  Nathaniel's head reared. There was a touch of insolence in that voice and he wondered if Mr Roper knew his true purpose.

  The kitchen light snapped on and the old man poured a quantity of milk into a pan. "Would you care for a cup?" he asked. "I always make it nice an' milky, guarantees a good night's sleep and keeps away the gremlins that'd otherwise disturb me. I don't like to be disturbed."

  "No," answered the warlock, wandering from room to room switching on all the lights. "That's better, now we can see what we're about and just where we stand."

  Mr Roper made no comment on this presumptuous action on the part of his guest, instead he turned the gas on and took a mug from the shelf.

  "About your brother," Nathaniel continued. "What happened to his belongings after he died?"

  The old man ignored him for the time being, occupied in spooning cocoa powder out of the tin. "Didn't have much on him," he eventually said, "only a watch my father left him, some letters and a photograph of us all."

  "I didn't mean that!" the other snapped. "What about his estate here in Whitby? Where did his effects go?"

  "Weren't rich enough to own an estate," came the stubborn and aggravating response. "Only these four walls and they passed to me after our Sammy and Harry went the same way, and after that our Mam passed on. Tough days they were, wouldn't go back to them. Memories cheat you know, there weren't never any good old days, not for the likes of ordinary folk. If I had the chance to nip back in time, I'd only do it to see my Margaret again. But then that's a pleasure I'll be having right enough one of these days, I reckon. I know when my time comes she'll be there waitin' fer me—Lord, how I loved her."

  The milk started to boil but before he could turn off the gas Nathaniel sprang forward and knocked the pan from the stove. Hot milk gushed everywhere and the pan was sent clattering over the linoleum.

  "Don't play games with me!" he commanded, grabbing the old man and spinning him round to face him.

  Throughout all this Mr Roper remained perfectly calm. He glanced at the mess on the floor and tutted. "Have to mop that up before it goes sour," he mumbled, "nothing worse than the smell of off milk."

  Nathaniel screamed and pushed him against the sink. "Shut up!" he roared. "You know what I've come for! Tell me where it is, you old fool!"

  Blinking mildly, Mr Roper's face held the expression one might show to a boasting child. "Are you so sure of yourself?" came his astonishingly cool reply.

  The bearded man's eyes were filled with fury and his face was graven like stone. Seizing the pensioner by the arm, he dragged him from the kitchen and into the parlour. "It's only a matter of time!" he said. "Do we really need to undergo this charade? You will tell me. It just depends how much pain you're willing to suffer beforehand. I applaud your defiance, I wasn't expecting anything less, but enough is enough, you've made a stand, now tell me."

  Mr Roper looked critically at his collection of salt-and-pepper pots, he was glad that he had dusted them today, for under the electric lights they were sparkling merrily. A gratified smile lit his face, yes all was in order.

  Then he turned to Nathaniel and began talking of something else. "After all this time," he sighed, "all these generations, the work of countless lifetimes... a sacred treasure passed down the centuries—it takes yer breath away don't it?"

  His eyes glazed over, staring beyond the confines of his cluttered parlour, his voice was filled with wonderment and awe, speaking softly and with reverence. "Can you imagine how ancient it is or how many of my ancestors have lived and died in its service? Through plague, plunder, war and disaster we have protected it, and in turn it has guarded us." Mr Roper lowered his misted eyes, a wan smile lighting up his face. "What a frightening responsibility it has been, and yet each of us, from the first to the last has never begrudged our duty." He laughed faintly, and shook his head. "It has been a sacred trust," he whispered, "and I'm not about to betray that merely for the likes of you."

  A madness gripped Nathaniel, he released his grip on the old man and stared wildly round the room. "Well let's see," he said breathless with anger, "what shall we start with?" He grinned maliciously then cooed, "what a magnificent collection, you must be very proud of them." Snatching a cut-glass pepper-pot he examined it closely, handling it with extreme delicacy, then with a shout hurled it against the wall where it exploded in a shower of powdered crystal.

  Mr Roper's heart quailed, this evil man could do anything he liked to him but not to his beautiful collection.

  "Please don't," he begged.

  "Didn't catch that," mocked Nathaniel, taking up another piece and smashing it the same way. "I really am most dreadfully sorry."

  "No!" sobbed the old man.

  Nathaniel then turned his attention to a glass cabinet in which at least a hundred cruet sets were displayed. With a laugh, he pulled it away from the wall and the contents went toppling down in a splintering crash.

  "Stop!"

  The warlock had lifted the set made in the shape of fireworks and was about to dash them against the fireplace but refrained from doing so. "You'll tell me?" he asked.

  Mr Roper looked desperately at the chaos and destruction around him and thought with anguish of all those lovely pieces lost forever. Ever since Ben had left, he had been preparing himself for this encounter but he never thought it would be so cruel, he had been prepared to die to keep the family secret, but to have his life destroyed before his eyes was too bitter for him to stand.

  "I'm waiting," said Nathaniel, the china rockets swinging precariously from his fingers.

  "I... I can't," the old man wept.

  Shrieking with rage, Nathaniel flung them against the tiles of the hearth then rampaged from shelf to shelf destroying everything in sigh
t. Mr Roper cried in despair as the horrendous clamour blared in his ears.

  Nathaniel wiped the sweat from his brow and dragged his fingers through his unruly hair. The devastation was over and the parlour half-demolished.

  "Damn you, Crozier," said the old man when he found his voice, "may you burn in the eternal fires."

  "Thank you," he answered, not in the least out of breath, "I'm sure I would enjoy such a temperate climate. I do so prefer hot countries, they bring out the animal in one so much more easily I find."

  "Do you think I'll tell you where it is now?" asked Mr Roper. "I'd rather die than help you."

  Nathaniel burst out laughing. "Oh I know that!" he chuckled. "That's the whole point you see—so much better to wound you first though. After all, I deserve a little enjoyment from this. I can't go around killing people just like that, where would the entertainment be in such a drab little exercise? No, I like to hurt them first, and I think I've succeeded here, wouldn't you agree?"

  "You're insane."

  "Now why is it everyone tells me that? Ever since I was small I've heard that over and over again." He made himself comfortable on the upturned display cabinet and rubbed his hands together. "Now then," he said brightly, "are you going to tell me where the second guardian is hidden?"

  "Never."

  "Well, at least you're consistent," he said but the smile had vanished from his face. "You do realise that I am going to force you to disclose its whereabouts? It will not be pleasant. Much better to tell me straight away."

  "My family's kept that holy thing safe and secure for too long," replied Mr Roper. "I've sacrificed a lot to stay here and take care of it. What right have you got to take it now?"

  "The right of conquest," answered Nathaniel coldly, "but you're wrong, you relinquished your stewardship of the guardian many years ago, when you married a barren woman. You should have had sons to take on this burden and look after you in your dotage. They would never have invited a warlock into their house. You've been a fool, Roper."