The Devil’s Paintbox

by Robin Jarvis

  ‘What’s that for?’ he asked slowly.

  ‘You and I both know the answer to that, Kojak,’ Cherry answered grimly. ‘It’s gonna be a beacon to tell the Lords of the Deep that Mister Dark has fulfilled his side of the deal. And I reckon yours truly has got a ringside seat.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Tell him.’

  Jack Potts nodded. ‘The final requirement is the sacrifice of Miss Cerise,’ he said. ‘To achieve his goals, Mister Dark must burn the last of the Whitby witches.’

  ‘Then you’ve got to get away!’ the boy urged her. ‘You could get past the barricade easily if you wanted to. Don’t stay here! They’ll get you!’

  Cherry smiled. He had given no thought to his own safety.

  ‘My place is here,’ she said. ‘This town is under my watch. I can’t abandon it and betray all those sisters who went before me. Besides, those finks and flakes won’t find it so easy to cart me over there. I still got a few tricks up my polyester blouse.’

  She led them out of sight of the bustling pier and they set off to reach the Thistlewoods’ home by a longer way round. Sally had almost completely disappeared: only a faint and broken outline of her little form and the indistinct impressions left in the sand by her paws remained.

  The phantom Westie halted and began to growl. A bark followed, but it dwindled on the air as the manifestation finally melted away.

  ‘Good girl, Sal,’ Verne murmured in farewell.

  Cherry looked around them. What had Sally sensed? Then she glanced up at the cliff.

  At the top of the 199 steps, now swept clean of sand, two Rottweilers were beginning to descend side by side, with Catesby flying above their heads.

  ‘Change of plan,’ she told Verne. ‘You and Mr Meccano go see if you can get the Nimius to do its thang. Here, take the paintbox – it should stick with Lil.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ the boy asked.

  Cherry grinned at him. ‘Just call me Minnie. I got me a date with a mouse.’

  Passing the automaton the watercolours, she pulled Verne close, as if hugging him, but it was so she could whisper.

  ‘Be careful of Potts. He’s up to something.’

  With that, she hurried in the direction of her own cottage.

  ‘Shall we proceed at pace?’ the butler said. ‘I know just how vicious those hounds are and I do not believe my unappetising, meat-free appearance would prevent them from tearing my limbs off.’

  Verne agreed and they ran through the dunes.

  They reached the West Cliff without meeting another soul and Verne was relieved that there was no sign of the Carmine Swarm. He wondered how the other emergency centres in Whitby were faring. How many people were still left alive in this tormented town?

  At the high sandbank that was heaped against the buildings of Pier Road, he and Jack Potts crept along stealthily. They were uncomfortably close to where Cassandra’s followers trailed down from the Royal Hotel, with yet more wood for the beacon.

  They waited until there was a gap, when no one was approaching or heading to the pier, then hastened up the bank and clambered through Verne’s bedroom window.

  The boy placed Lil’s statue on his chest of drawers and flopped on to the bed, worn out by stress and exertion. Jack Potts deposited the paintbox next to it.

  ‘Do you still keep the Nimius in the same place, Master Verne?’ he enquired.

  ‘Yes, be careful!’

  The robot had slid the top drawer open. The gold of the Nimius shone up into his hockey-mask face. Next to it was another figurine.

  ‘I see you keep your mother in amongst your socks also,’ he observed. ‘I hope they are clean.’

  ‘Don’t touch her,’ the boy said, jumping up to lift Noreen out and place her alongside Lil. ‘It was the safest place I could think of earlier.’

  ‘Most sensible.’

  Verne removed the Nimius. He always caught his breath when he saw it.

  ‘You really know how to work this?’ he asked. ‘And it’ll get them back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Or rather, yes. I do know the intricacies of its operation, but no, we cannot restore both Lil and Madam Thistlewood. The transformation will take many hours for just one of them. If you attempt to change both, it might not succeed at all. We are attempting to reverse the power of the Lords of the Deep and Dark, a Herculean challenge even for the Nimius. So you must choose.’

  ‘Choose?’

  ‘Who will you try to bring back? Mistress Lil, or your mother?’

  Verne sat on the bed, aghast.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ he uttered. ‘It’s not fair!’

  ‘Fairness has nothing to do with it. You must be rational. The decision might have devastating consequences.’

  Verne gazed at the porcelain features of his mother and screwed his face up. He knew what he had to do, but it felt like a terrible betrayal.

  ‘Lil,’ he said, hating himself. ‘Bring Lil back. If there’s the slightest chance of getting through to Cassandra . . .’

  ‘So be it. If you would kindly return Madam Thistlewood to the drawer and position Mistress Lil in the centre there.’

  Verne did as he instructed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ he said, tucking her back into his socks.

  ‘Very good,’ the butler said. ‘Now, may I operate the Nimius?’

  ‘I thought you were going to show me how to use it?’

  ‘And so I shall, once I have set the metamorphosis in motion. There is little time. It is a lengthy process.’

  He held out a metal hand.

  Remembering Cherry’s warning, Verne hesitated.

  ‘Can I really trust you?’ he asked.

  The torch eyes shone upon him.

  ‘The ruler of the Nimius should not falter or doubt, Master Verne. I have sworn to serve and obey and protect you. The time of greatest peril is not yet upon us. We must have faith in one another or all hope is lost. Please?’

  The boy took a deep breath and passed the Nimius over.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Jack Potts’s dexterous fingers pressed one symbol then another and he tipped the Nimius on its end. Then he pushed one of the ornate, curling fronds aside and quarter-turned the small wheel that lay beneath.

  The Nimius shuddered in his metal hands and a gold-rimmed emerald lens hinged out. Jack Potts held it in front of Lil’s figurine and the jewel began to shine. Slender green rays went flickering over the porcelain, glimmering over every curve. The room burst with splashes of light that spun around until the walls curved inwards and streaked into formless, dazzling blurs.

  Verne squinted in the glare. Only Jack Potts and the Nimius, the chest of drawers and the figurine seemed real and solid.

  Then he heard a voice, distorted and warped by distance and time. One moment it was remote and faint, then it seemed to rush close by.

  ‘That’s Lil!’ he yelled. ‘She’s crying!’

  ‘Call her!’ Jack Potts commanded.

  ‘Lil! Lil, where are you? I’m here, it’s Verne! Lil!’

  ‘Call her name!’

  ‘Lil Wilson!’

  ‘Her full name! Or she shall be lost to you forever!’

  ‘You never said that might happen!’

  ‘Her full name!’

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘Do you want her to dissolve in the bleak isolation of non-existence?’

  ‘Lilith Morgana Hawthorn Blossom Minerva Tempestra Wilhelmina Wilson!’

  A terrified scream cut through the whirling lights. There was a flash and the room stopped spinning.

  Verne lurched forward as if brakes had been applied to the bed.

  ‘She screamed!’ he shouted accusingly. ‘I heard her!’

  Jack Potts waited until the emerald lens slid back inside the Nimius, then sat beside him.

  ‘What you heard was the moment earlier today when the paintbox transformed her,’ he reassured him. ‘The reverse
transmutation has commenced; she is in no pain, but it will take time.’

  Verne stared at the figurine. It looked the same as before.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Let me instruct you in the peerless functions of this most marvellous instrument, then you shall not need to ask.’

  ‘There’s got to be something it can do to sort out this nightmare. Show me.’

  The automaton handed the golden treasure back to him.

  ‘You see the image of the sun, just above the centre? Apply your thumb lightly, whilst simultaneously touching the skull inscribed with the spirals of Fate, just to the left there, with your middle finger.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Now tip it twice towards you.’

  ‘Something moved inside! I felt it! The scroll with Nimius written on it has risen up!’

  ‘Press it, Master Verne.’

  The boy was so excited he obeyed without thinking.

  The Nimius trembled in his grasp. The topmost dial twisted round and rose on a telescopic spindle, disclosing a blue jewel.

  ‘What’s it doing?’ he asked. ‘What did I just do?’

  ‘The sun is the giver of life and power. The skull is death, naturally.’

  ‘Whose death?’

  ‘Yours, Master Verne.’

  The blue jewel flared and sapphire lightning crackled from its heart. Verne shrieked in pain as jagged forces zigzagged round his body and discharged into his head.

  The agonised cry died in his throat and he slumped on to the pillows.

  The jewel retreated back inside the Nimius and Jack Potts took it from the boy’s hands.

  His eyes shone around the room. Finding Verne’s rucksack, he put the Nimius inside. Then he opened the box of watercolours and removed the final pigment to examine the image stamped on the surface. It showed primitive spears and a shield.

  ‘Warrior Blue,’ he said. ‘Most apposite. The time of slaughter approaches.’

  Closing the lid, he added the paintbox to the bag and stared out of the window.

  ‘Now Jack Potts must wait,’ he said quietly, ‘for his appointment with Mister Dark.’

  The day progressed. Many of the pier’s old iron railings had been ripped out and, as evening fell, were replaced by an avenue of flaming torches. A small altar had been made from a section of the hotel bar. Tall candles were positioned at either end and incense was burning in a brass bowl. Cassandra Wilson swaggered down the pier in a gown of soft oxblood leather with a scarlet and gold cloak. Her hair was sculpted into a severe Mohican coxcomb and tribal slashes of black and red make-up sliced across her face. She placed a tumbler of water on the altar, and a ritual dagger, then smiled unpleasantly.

  Three smaller bonfires had been built along that wide causeway, but the towering beacon at the far end was most impressive. It was almost as tall as the lighthouse. When lit, the flames would be seen for many miles.

  Following her, in ceremonial procession, were eleven privileged followers she had chosen to be in her coven. They were also draped in long velvet cloaks, with hoods concealing their faces. Keeping a respectful distance, the rest of the crowd from the hotel watched and admired their High Priestess.

  As she circled the great beacon, Cassandra swept the cloak around her melodramatically. The throne had been built into the bonfire, facing out to sea. Soon the last self-proclaimed witch of Whitby would be seated there. Cassandra smiled to think of the flames consuming Cherry Cerise.

  Trawling her coven behind her, she returned to the crowd.

  ‘This night!’ she proclaimed. ‘I shall bring an end to our suffering. These torments have been visited upon this town because of one who lives amongst us. Her evil must be ripped out. We shall appease the ancient gods and purify our land by a great burning. She and her wickedness shall be banished with fire – as will those who have helped her.’

  The crowd parted and two bound figures were led roughly on to the pier.

  Dennis and Clarke Thistlewood were bruised and limping. They were dragged to one of the smaller pyres, hoisted on to the top and tied to the central stake.

  Clarke was almost unconscious, but his father was defiant. He glared at the High Priestess with eyes that were so swollen and bruised he could not open them fully.

  ‘Cass!’ he yelled. ‘Don’t do this. We were at school together. I was best man at your wedding. What’s happened to you? This is insane! Stop this!’

  She walked past him without a flicker of recognition.

  ‘At least let Clarke go! You’re his godmother! Cass! Cass!’

  Drums started pounding and the audience began swaying in time.

  ‘We have dwelt in the shadow of wickedness,’ Cassandra declared. ‘And allowed corruption to fester. We gave asylum to the outsider and behold where that arrogance and folly has brought us. The cancer we nurtured spread even to my own daughter. But one has come amongst us to show the way; he will lead us to deliverance!’

  ‘Deliver us, deliver us, deliver us,’ the crowd chanted.

  ‘Whitby must be purged and made clean. Come, Queller! Guide us: we, your humble disciples, call upon you.’

  ‘Queller, Queller, Queller,’ the crowd repeated.

  A chill wind blew in from the east. The torch flames bent before it and Cassandra’s cloak billowed. The quarantine flag flapped wildly.

  The people ceased chanting and they murmured in fear. A mewling cry sounded from the dunes behind and there was a scramble as the frightened audience sprang apart.

  Two Rottweilers lumbered on to the pier, with Catesby perched upon one muscular back. Striding after, wrapped in tendrils of black mist, came the handsome Queller.

  Cassandra welcomed him with outstretched arms and she tore the choker from her neck, disclosing a raw and angry-looking wound.

  ‘Kiss me,’ she begged. ‘Let my hot blood be upon your cold lips.’

  The dashing face smiled at her. ‘Later, my juicy confection,’ he said. ‘First we must purify this accursed town.’

  ‘We are still waiting on those you said would come.’

  ‘They will be here,’ he promised. ‘All is unfolding in accordance with my design.’

  Whispers of consternation rippled through the throng.

  Queller grinned. ‘And here is punctuality itself,’ he announced.

  Dennis Thistlewood turned his head to see this new arrival and his split lip bled again when he cried out.

  Jack Potts emerged from the astonished crowd. Both eyes were flickering. Verne’s rucksack was strapped to his back and the eleven-year-old’s body was in his arms.

  ‘Master Dark,’ his metallic voice called. ‘I am here at the time appointed. I bring the child who dared keep the Nimius from you.’

  ‘Dead?’ Queller asked.

  ‘Upon the path,’ the robot replied.

  ‘Tie the little pig to the other pyre,’ Cassandra ordered.

  Two members of her coven stepped forward to take Verne and they lifted him on to the waiting bonfire.

  ‘What of the girl?’ Queller asked.

  Jack Potts removed the rucksack and reached inside. His metal hands scattered broken china fragments.

  ‘And here,’ he said, ‘is the box of watercolours.’

  He passed it to Cassandra who stroked it reverently and placed it on the altar.

  Jack Potts took out the last thing in the rucksack.

  The firelight danced and flared over the sumptuously decorated Nimius and the assembled followers voiced their admiration. It seemed to shine with a light of its own.

  Queller gazed at it. ‘The marvel of marvels. Melchior Pyke’s unrivalled accomplishment. Soon it shall be mine.’

  ‘You are the rightful guardian and master,’ Jack Potts declared. ‘The Nimius belongs unto you, Master Dark.’

  ‘And what of you?’ the phantom asked, his piercing eyes glittering. ‘The mechanical man with such refined scruples and sensibilities, and the strict piety of a Puritan? How many times have I sensed your resolve and
loyalty waver these past days? Are you now of one mind?’

  ‘Most assuredly so.’

  While they were talking, Catesby had been flicking his ears, and his whiskers quivered. He rose into the air and flew silently between the flaming torches. With a thrust of his wings, he plummeted down and swooped over the sand. There was the briefest of struggles, then he came racing back and deposited a small furry bundle on the ground at Queller’s feet.

  ‘They say the nicest gifts are in small parcels,’ the phantom said, peering down.

  A mouse with pale blue eyes stared back at him.

  ‘You disappoint me, Miss Cerise,’ Queller addressed it. ‘Sending a mouse on a witch’s errand? There is nothing here you could hope to learn by spying that I would not have gladly told you in person. Come and join us. Such a warm reception awaits.’

  The mouse closed its eyes and covered its face with its tiny paws.

  Queller signalled to Catesby. The cat pounced, then chewed and crunched the small bones with relish.

  ‘Mister Potts,’ Queller commanded. ‘In case our guest of honour proves reluctant, go fetch her. Midnight is nigh and I would conclude my part of the contract as soon as I may.’

  The automaton bowed low and placed the Nimius upon the altar, next to the paintbox. ‘As you desire.’

  Marching from the pier, Jack Potts headed over the sand to the East Cliff.

  ‘I would be gone from this blighted sewer,’ Queller uttered, leering round in disdain. ‘Clad in a new, untwisted body.’

  The drums beat faster and the violin and flute joined in.

  Cherry Cerise stared sorrowfully at the empty cage and ran her fingers down the bars.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ziggy,’ she grieved. ‘You was the best private eye a gal could ever wish for.’

  She gazed into her full-length mirror. She had put extra effort into her appearance that night and she waited for her escort to arrive.

  The window slid open and Jack Potts dropped into the room.

  ‘It is time,’ he said.

  ‘So, Pottsy, you feeling all pleased with yourself now your little game is payin’ off ? You really had us fooled.’