by Robin Jarvis
‘They don’t think they’re playin’,’ Cherry reminded her. ‘It’s a serious deal for them.’
‘Well, they don’t need to pretend any more. Their daughter is a proper witch.’
Cherry wasn’t so sure. She felt that Lil was being a bit blind to what was happening in her own family. Changing the subject, she tapped the Nimius with her straw.
‘So,’ she asked Verne, ‘how strong d’you reckon this wealthus-pocus is?’
‘Very,’ he answered firmly. ‘I was chased across the bridge just now by a furious cloud of money that the bank spat at me. The cashpoints vommed it out and I couldn’t get away.’
Lil started to laugh. ‘Like Winnie-the-Pooh and the honeybees?’ she cried. ‘Or money bees! I wish I’d seen that!’
‘Wasn’t funny!’ Verne protested. But his friend’s laughter was always infectious and he couldn’t help joining in.
Cherry bit her lip and tried to stay stern, but the walls were shimmering pink and gold, betraying her amusement, which made Lil laugh all the louder.
‘What if it never stops?’ Verne giggled. ‘What if the queen comes knocking – with the crown jewels in a wheelbarrow?’
They all laughed at that and were only stopped by an urgent banging on the front door. Looking at one another with shocked faces, they burst out laughing again.
The insistent, battering summons continued.
‘It better not be Her Maj,’ Cherry said, going to answer it. ‘This Biba minidress weren’t made for no curtseys – ooh la la!’
Verne turned the Nimius over in his hands. ‘Seriously,’ he groaned to Lil, ‘what am I going to do?’
In the hall Cherry gave a yell. They heard the front door smash against the wall and a tall figure came stomping into the cottage.
The face was hidden in the hood of a parka, fastened as high as the zip allowed. He wore trousers so baggy they were comical, but they were caked in mud and so were the shoes.
Striding into the parlour, the intruder took his hands from the parka’s pockets.
‘Can’t be!’ Verne gasped.
The walls and ceiling turned an angry scarlet as Cherry came storming after.
‘Just who d’you think you are, bustin’ in like this?’ she demanded.
The figure unzipped the coat and pulled the hood down, revealing his tin skull and torch-lens eyes.
‘Pardon this unseemly intrusion,’ Jack Potts apologised. ‘I could not help myself.’
The reels in his chest spun around and three oranges clunked to a stop. The ten pences that had been fed into his head earlier came gushing from the payout tray above his waist.
‘This is for you, Master Verne,’ he said, bowing formally. ‘How pleasant it is to see you again.’
And the left eye flickered.
‘But you fell to pieces with all the other impossible gadgets, months ago!’ Verne declared. ‘How can you be here now?’
‘Begging your pardon, young master,’ the automaton replied, ‘but I did not fall to pieces; that would have been most undignified. Whilst the Nimius exists, so shall I. The coins that trigger my consciousness and motion ran out, that is all. The next thing I was aware of, I found myself in a scrapyard in the early hours of this morning.’
‘Who revived you?’ Cherry asked suspiciously. ‘And why’d they wait so long?’
The chains in Jack Potts’s neck rattled and he turned his hockey-mask face towards her.
‘There was a bent coin jammed in the slot at the side of my head,’ he answered smoothly. ‘Something must have jarred me and dislodged it.’
‘So what’d you come here for?’ Cherry pressed.
‘I was created to serve the Thistlewood family, yet I was compelled to come directly to this cottage, though I knew not why.’
‘This is Cherry Cerise; it’s her cottage,’ Verne said. ‘This is Lil Wilson. And this is my dad’s steampunk butler costume that the Nimius made real. Don’t ask me how. He’s called Jack Potts.’
‘“Potts” will suffice,’ Jack Potts told them. ‘I am but a biddable domestic mechanism. I am, however, enchanted to make your acquaintance.’
‘You sure it’s safe?’ Cherry asked Verne. ‘I don’t like hotshot appliances that answer back.’
The boy chewed his lip thoughtfully. ‘He was controlled by Melchior Pyke before, so he must be free of that now. I wouldn’t touch his toast though.’
Lil found Jack Potts fascinating. She had never seen any of the ludicrous inventions on that day of the town battle because she had been possessed herself.
‘A real, actual, thinking, working robot?’ she breathed in wonder. ‘That’s so galoptious.’
‘Galoptious,’ Jack Potts repeated. ‘An archaic word, meaning splendid, delightful, delicious. Why, I am none of those things, but I thank you most humbly.’
Cherry shrugged, unimpressed. ‘I skipped being excited about whizz-bang gimmicks back when they invented the pocket calculator. The world’s gotten dumber since people stopped workin’ things out for themselves.’
She stared at Jack Potts’s soiled clothes and the kitchen utensils that formed his hands. They weren’t just spattered with dirt, there were also dark splashes of blood.
‘Do not be alarmed,’ he explained. ‘Walking the country roads last night, I encountered an unfortunate sheep that had been hit by a car. I carried it gently to the verge and remained with it until the poor animal’s suffering was over. I am most anxious to divest myself of these grubby garments and shall attend to my attire as soon as I return to the home of Master Verne, where I trust there will be a quantity of ironing to do. A stack of neatly folded, crisply pressed linen cheers the soul.’
‘How would you know?’ Cherry muttered. ‘You ain’t got one.’
‘You can’t come home!’ Verne said quickly. ‘Mum’d have you up for sale in a flash.’
‘Well, the creepy heap of yappy scrap ain’t stayin’ here,’ Cherry said flatly. ‘I don’t want that contraption rifling through my frillies and looming over me at night.’
‘Then where am I to go?’ the automaton pleaded. ‘I beg you, do not turn me away.’
‘You can stay with us,’ Lil offered brightly. ‘Dad won’t mind a bit, ’specially as he’s been doing everything around the house lately. Mum might take a bit of convincing, but it’ll probably be OK.’
The impassive mask turned to her and the torch eyes shone on her eager face.
‘That is most generous of you, Mistress Wilson. I am overwhelmed with gratitude.’
‘That still doesn’t solve my problem,’ Verne said, holding up the Nimius. ‘What am I going to do about this?’
‘There is some difficulty?’ Jack Potts asked.
‘It’s why you ended up here,’ Verne explained. ‘I pressed a symbol for wealth and now I can’t go anywhere without people chucking money at me.’
‘And you do not wish for these riches? Yes, I can see that would be most distracting.’
‘What if you could block that gadget’s mojo somehow?’ Cherry wondered. ‘Hey, Lil, you’ve been searching for a project to test your gifts. How about knitting Verne a muffler for it?’
‘I could try,’ Lil said.
‘Remember, you gotta focus on what you want the spell to achieve and recite the intention with every stitch. The simpler the chant, the better.’
‘I do not comprehend,’ Jack Potts began. ‘You speak as if you are witches.’
‘You got a problem with that, Butlerbot?’ Cherry demanded.
‘In no way. I am, after all, a consequence of the occult studies of a seventeenth-century magician and natural philosopher. But perhaps if I may examine the Nimius? I might find a more straightforward solution to Master Verne’s predicament.’
He held out his metal hands and, before Cherry could stop him, Verne passed across the most powerful object in the world.
‘The Nimius,’ Jack Potts’s metallic voice sang softly. ‘How splendid it is.’
‘Do you know how to work
it?’ Verne asked.
‘Like, is there an off button?’ Cherry said bluntly.
Jack Potts held it close to his face and the left eye flickered once more. The reels in his chest began to turn.
‘The glittering wonder-worker,’ he whispered. ‘After so many years . . .’
‘Hey!’ Cherry called. ‘Walking toaster oven – we’re speaking to you.’
The automaton twitched to attention.
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I was wondering why this symbol of the lantern remains proud. Should it not have been pressed in conjunction with the one for wealth?’
‘What?’ Verne asked. ‘I could’ve sworn they all sank back down.’
‘Evidently not, Master Verne. See, here it is. I would hazard that you erred in pressing just one motif. Your command was not specific and that is why the result has been less than satisfactory.’
‘So pressing that as well would do what? People start giving me light bulbs?’
‘I cannot be certain, but I believe that the lantern is symbolic of more than mere illumination. Perhaps if pressed in tandem with the wealth rune, it could bring to light treasures that are normally hidden.’
‘Buried treasure?’ Lil asked. ‘Like pirate gold or a stash of Saxon coins?’
‘There are many things in this world prized more highly than gold,’ Jack Potts said.
‘If that thingamajig could sniff out a pair of size four Mary Quant ankle boots in bubblegum pink,’ Cherry put in, ‘that would be awesomeness in a bun.’
‘Do you think we should try it?’ Verne asked.
Cherry wrinkled her nose. ‘I wouldn’t fiddle with that doodad any more than you already have. It’s way too strong, way too unpredictable and I don’t like the vibes it gives off.’
‘But it might stop people shoving money at me,’ Verne replied. ‘I’ll never be able to go outside again if that carries on.’
Cherry threw her hands in the air.
‘OK, go ahead. Pull out the pin and blow yourself up – but don’t let Junkyard Jeeves do it. He’s had it in his chrome-plated paws too long already.’
Verne reached to take the Nimius from Jack Potts. Cherry watched closely. Did she detect a momentary hesitation? Was the automaton reluctant to part with it?
She couldn’t be certain.
The boy traced his thumb around the lantern’s raised image and glanced over to Lil, who nodded encouragement. He pressed the symbol down. There was a click and he felt a soft tremor within.
‘Is that it?’ Lil asked after a pause.
‘It’s four hundred years old,’ Verne said. ‘Give it a – Wait! Look!’
He held the Nimius up and they saw a circular design begin to rotate and rise. Beneath it, spiralling out on a slender octagonal rod, was a round jewel with a ruby fire blazing in its heart.
There was a dazzling burst of crimson light drenching everything in a vibrant glare. Like a magical X-ray it passed through everything. Verne could see the bones in his hands and Lil was a red skeleton sitting on a transparent chaise longue, next to an upright jumble of cogs, chains and wires. Behind them he could see through into the hall. Turning, he saw Cherry Cerise as another skeleton, albeit one in a wig and sunglasses, and at her wrist the ammonites on her bracelet were shining brightly. Then he noticed around the room that Lil’s crocheted flowers were gleaming with a faint light of their own.
Another fierce pulse from the jewel and Verne could look through into the neighbouring cottage, where Mrs Gregson’s elderly bones were clutching a photograph of her late husband. Raising his eyes, Verne gazed through the ceiling over his head and stared into the room above. Locked inside a cupboard, papers and books were glowing. He wondered what they were – magical secrets of the Whitby witch?
The Nimius shook in his grasp and his thumb slipped from the lantern symbol. There was one more brilliant explosion of ruby light. A picture fell from the wall and a pan crashed to the floor in the kitchen, causing Lil’s skeleton to jump. Then the jewel retreated and the gold disc screwed back in place.
The glare faded and everyone, except Jack Potts, scrunched up their eyes.
‘We should’ve taken it up to the abbey,’ Verne said. ‘Imagine what it might’ve found there!’
‘I do not think its efforts here have been altogether fruitless,’ Jack Potts replied. He pointed to the fireplace, and Cherry swore like a fishwife as she leaped from the wicker seat.
Scarlet flames were licking up between the tiles of the hearth.
‘Get a bucket of water!’ she yelled, stamping on the unnatural fires.
Verne and Lil sprang to their feet, but Jack Potts halted them.
‘It is not a consuming fire,’ he said. ‘It is merely a marker. See how it forms a perfect rectangle. The Nimius has exposed the hiding place of an object most intriguing. We must investigate.’
‘You wanna excavate my floor?’ Cherry asked. ‘What are you, Tindiana Jones?’
‘Could be a small coffin,’ Verne said ghoulishly.
‘Or a little chest of valuables,’ Lil argued, clinging to the romantic hope of treasure.
‘It would be but the work of moments to dig out,’ Jack Potts suggested. ‘My hands are the perfect tools.’
Cherry opened her mouth to object, but before she could speak there was a rumble underneath the hearth. The flames doubled in height and the tiles began to bubble and crack.
‘Didn’t I say that gizmo was too darned strong,’ the witch muttered. ‘Stand back, guys!’
The whole fireplace was juddering. The lava lamps on the mantel shook and soot came drizzling down the chimney.
The hearth bulged and the flames roared and leaped to the ceiling. Tiles split apart and dirt and rubble went flying across the room as something punched its way free. There was a wild crackle and spitting of sparks. With a sizzling hiss, the crimson fires were quenched, leaving a mound of stones and chips of broken cement. Lying on top, covered in grime and dust, was a rectangular bundle wrapped tightly in waterproof cloth.
‘Oh Lords!’ Cherry murmured. ‘What have we got here?’
‘A most disagreeable mess,’ Jack Potts observed. ‘Forgive me, Miss Cerise, I did not anticipate so violent and chaotic a consequence. I will of course put it all in order and clean up thoroughly. Where do you keep your vacuum cleaner?’
‘Chillax,’ Cherry told him. ‘Let’s see what this thing is first.’
Carefully she reached out and passed her hand over the strange discovery. Smudges of pink light flickered across her palm as Cherry’s pale blue eyes began to shine and the walls of the parlour moved through different shades of purple.
‘Whatever it is has been in this house over a hundred years,’ she murmured slowly. ‘I can see old wrinkled hands, human and something other – aufwaders? There’s friendship there, and trust. Yeah, but that’s just the wrapping. I can’t tune in to what’s inside – it doesn’t seem to have any vibes of its own. Nothing is ever that blank. Even a flowerpot has some sort of emanation. This is so clean it could squeak.’
‘Like wiping the fingerprints off a murder weapon,’ Verne said gruesomely and he felt the torch eyes of Jack Potts turn upon him.
‘Wait,’ Cherry said. ‘There is . . . something. Oh, that’s just too wacky.’
‘What is?’ asked Lil.
Cherry half closed her eyes and concentrated harder.
‘Best way I can describe it is like lookin’ into a mirror. I keep gettin’ my colours reflected back at me. Never had that before. So bizarre.’
‘But no malevolence?’ Jack Potts enquired.
‘If there is, then it’s buried way down deep and I can’t probe so far. That in itself scares me. Detective Verne might be right.’
She leaned back and gave her hand a vigorous shake. At the same time the mysterious parcel slid on to the carpet. A corner of the cloth flapped open and an envelope slipped out.
Cherry seized it and her blue wig shifted as her eyebrows shot up.
There was
no name, no address, just a simple drawing of three ammonites.
‘Guess it must be for me,’ she said.
Using her fingernail as a paperknife, she opened the envelope, adjusted her sunglasses and removed the letter it contained.
‘Swanky,’ she said, admiring the quality embossed notepaper. There was a stylish letterhead depicting a slender woman in an evening gown, with an Airedale dog at her side, a biplane in the sky, a yacht on the sea in the distance, and the words Scribbled from the desk, dashboard, cabin or cockpit of Sylvia de Lacy.
‘Cop a load of this,’ Cherry began, and she read the letter aloud.
Whitby, 1932
Dear future darlings,
I’ve had to relocate this troublesome packet from a hidey-hole in the kitchen wall, where it looks like it had been stashed for simply yonks, and inter it under the hearth here. Some oikish bluenose has been making a pill of himself in regard to it, but Holly and I saw him off. I hope it’ll be safe in the new sanctuary, until you find it – or it finds you!
Bags of affection,
SdL
‘Who is Sylvia de Lacy?’ Verne asked.
‘Keep up, Columbo,’ Cherry said, handing the letter across. ‘She’s one of my predecessors and this changes everything.’
‘A Whitby witch?’ Lil asked.
‘You betcha, and quite a gal by all accounts. A genuine adventuress, the type they don’t make no more – and hardly ever did back then. If she vouches for this, whatever it is, that’s good enough for me.’
Verne gazed at the confident handwriting, which looked as fresh as the day it had flowed from an expensive fountain pen, and he wondered if the drawing was in any way a good representation of Sylvia de Lacy. If it was, then she was exceedingly glamorous.
‘So who was the “bluenose”?’ he asked. ‘And Holly? Was that the dog in the letterhead?’
‘No idea,’ Cherry said, starting to unwrap the bundle that was now on her knee. ‘Holly might have been her cook or parlourmaid. Sylvia was seriously loaded. This cottage was her idea of a beach hut. Apparently her Rolls Royce was always blocking Church Street. Only rich witch I ever heard of and that’s because she was born into it. Now what’s this?’
