The Whitby Witches

by Robin Jarvis

  At this point Nelda interrupted. ‘It was decided that we should withdraw from your world, Ben,’ she said. ‘The tribe elders asked the advice of the Lords of the Deep and so the prime laws were made.’ A frown crossed her face as she wondered how much he needed to know.

  ‘If he is to aid us the child must be told all!’ Hesper muttered gravely.

  Nelda swallowed and resumed the tale. ‘For many years my people obeyed the strict rules of the elders and Man forgot us, or we were consigned to stories for the amusement of children. All was well and we prospered, but not as quickly as you. How crowded became the harbour and how tall became your ships. Yet you knew nothing of the sea; though you girdled the world, still you learnt nought. You were ignorant of the mysteries which lie in the deeps, of the Lords who could end everything if they so wished. Yes, your kind grew strong but your might was used for bloodshed and conquest, as you slaughtered all who dared to oppose you. Our forefathers were glad indeed that they had retreated from your race.’

  ‘Until that fateful day,’ Hesper broke in, ‘that day which all rue now.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Ben, overawed.

  ‘The two races mingled,’ Nelda answered darkly. ‘A fisherman with the same sight you possess took to wife one of our kind and a child was born.’

  ‘A creature that did not belong in either world,’ said Hesper sadly. ‘The moment it breathed its first breath, the Lords of the Deep were aware of it and knew the laws which they had made had been broken. When the fisherman next set sail to cast his nets they rose against him and dragged his boat under the waves. On hearing this, the child’s mother became mad with grief. She threw herself off this very cliff and was dashed to pieces on the rocks below.’

  ‘There is more,’ said Nelda. ‘Cheated of their revenge, the Lords vented their wrath on all women of our race. We were cursed and the fate of our kind was sealed.’

  ‘What did they do?’ ventured Ben.

  ‘Our doom is a grim one,’ said Hesper tearfully. ‘Nelda’s mother was one of the many who have fallen victim to it.’

  Ben did not like to ask any more questions, but it was Nelda herself who explained. ‘The curse of the Deep Ones is thus, Ben: they condemned every female of our kind to die in childbirth. A bitter vengeance it is, that destroys love.’

  Hesper laid her hand gently on Nelda’s arm. ‘Now you see why we are doomed, for we cannot prosper and our future is bleak. Our tribes dwindled in number, and now only one remains. A time will come when the last black boat blazes over the sea – but who will make it and oversee its departure, I wonder?’

  Ben stared miserably at the ground. It was a horrible story and one he wished he had not heard.

  ‘Do not grieve yet,’ Nelda cried, ‘for there is hope, although before this night I had not believed in it myself. Only my aunt had faith and so it is right that she should tell you of it.’

  A dreamy look stole over Hesper’s face. ‘The moonkelp,’ she murmured longingly. ‘That which haunts my waking hours and invades my sleep – the moonkelp. For most of my life I have suffered ridicule because of my faith in it. It appears in one of our many legends, the saga of Irl in the darkness. I heard that story by the fireside when I was younger than Nelda. Oona was a great teller of tales. Very wise she was – in many ways, save the one. All my weed and shell lore I learnt under her guidance. She too believed in the moonkelp, the treasure of the Deep Ones that was stolen by Irl from their dark, cold realm. Only once in nine hundred years does it bloom and then for one night only, when the moon is brightest in the sky. It was Oona’s favourite tale and mine also.’

  ‘But how does that help?’ said Ben, shaking his head in confusion.

  ‘Because whoever finds the lost treasure of the Lords of the Deep may ask of them anything that is in their power to give,’ blurted out Nelda. ‘Do you not see? If we can discover it we could ask them to lift the curse.’

  ‘I see,’ Ben whistled. ‘But how can I help?’

  ‘Just how you are involved I am not certain,’ Nelda told him excitedly. ‘But for an instant back then I saw the moonkelp and . . . and you were holding it, human child!’

  VI

  CREAM CAKES AND DEATH

  The following few days were extremely busy. Ben secretly met Nelda and Hesper and together they searched the shallows for the moonkelp. Jennet began to wonder what he found to do between tea and supper, but all inquiries, yielded no clues. She even offered to go with him, but these suggestions were always firmly refused. Jennet was mystified but too tired to press him any further, for she had not been sleeping at all well lately. An animal was howling in the night, keeping her awake. It was a horrible sound and she shivered in her bed, remembering the legend of the Barguest which was supposed to roam the midnight streets.

  Jennet would have talked about it to Aunt Alice but the old woman seemed to be having problems of her own. After she had swept the ladies’ circle out of her parlour on the night of the seance, Miss Boston had been confident that such an action would quickly be forgiven. However, some of the others were not inclined to forget the incident so readily.

  Mrs Joyster did not harbour a grudge; she dismissed the whole affair in her usual military manner. She had no time for such petty grudges and greeted Miss Boston cordially when they next met in the street. Miss Droon was another who forgot the whole affair, although her motives were totally different. She was far too busy fussing round Eurydice and the kittens to harbour any ill feelings, especially as Eurydice was already showing signs of restlessness and lack of interest in her offspring.

  No, it was Mrs Banbury-Scott and Miss Wethers who were snubbing Aunt Alice. Mrs Banbury-Scott swore never to set foot in that house again, for she had had to suffer the indignity of walking home that night: her chauffeur had driven the Bentley back to the rambling old house for a quick bite of supper. Miss Wethers, the postmistress, was also in a twist with herself about Alice’s behaviour. The furthest she came to showing her annoyance, though, was a pert and aloof manner when Miss Boston ventured into the post office for her pension. But for dithery Edith, that was a pretty powerful declaration of annoyance.

  Aunt Alice felt her position as leader of the circle was under threat. Things would no doubt calm down eventually and they could all settle back into the routine of visiting one another for an afternoon cup of tea. That is what she had hoped – until the arrival of Rowena Cooper.

  Speculation raged over the best china during the next few days. How could the newcomer bear to live in that terrible damp mess of a house? Surely there was a mountain of work for decorators and builders to do, yet the word was that none of the local contractors had been approached. The whole thing was very intriguing and fuelled the gossips for some time.

  Miss Boston rammed the old shapeless hat on to her head and threw the sage-green cloak over her shoulders. ‘I’ll see her today, by God!’ she fumed passionately.

  Everybody, it seemed, had met the confounded Mrs Cooper except her. For some reason she always missed the wretched woman, and what a fuss they all made over her. It seemed the newcomer was a paragon in every respect: she had already made large donations to the church fund and the hospital appeal, and everyone she met described her as a warm and sincere individual. Even Aunt Alice’s neighbour, the disagreeable Mrs Gregson, had succumbed to Mrs Cooper’s charms. It was maddening to hear all these tales second-hand, without actually having met the heroine of them. More than that, it was becoming positively embarrassing, as though some conspiracy was at work to deny her access to this marvel.

  With the front door slamming behind her, Miss Boston crossed the yard and strode determinedly into Church Street, a bloodhound expression on her face.

  ‘Morning, Alice,’ Mrs Joyster saluted briskly.

  Miss Boston shook herself out of her thoughts and returned the greeting. ‘Hello, Prudence,’ she said, ‘might I have a word?’ If there was anyone in Whitby who would give her an unbiased opinion, it was Prudence Joyster. She led her asid
e, out of the hustle and bustle of the tourists, and came straight to the point. ‘Prudence, dear, what do you make of this Cooper woman?’ she demanded.

  Mrs Joyster clasped her handbag with both hands and clicked her heels together, as though brought to attention by some superior officer. ‘Don’t really know, Alice, to tell you the truth,’ she replied. ‘Only saw her the once yesterday and that was brief.’ She knitted her brows as though trying to remember. ‘There was something . . .’ she began slowly. ‘No, it’s gone – sorry.’

  Miss Boston sighed. ‘Pity,’ she said.

  Mrs Joyster glanced at her watch and scowled at the time. ‘Expect I’ll remember this afternoon,’ she said. ‘Must dash now – lots to do before then.’

  ‘This afternoon?’ echoed Miss Boston. ‘And what is happening then?’

  Prudence was already marching away. ‘The ladies’ circle,’ she called. ‘We’ve all been invited to Mrs Cooper’s for tea.’

  Aunt Alice’s mouth dropped open. So this Mrs Cooper had asked the circle – her circle – to tea, without inviting her. This was tantamount to a slap in the face and she would be a laughing stock in the town. Was this woman deliberately trying to provoke her? With her jaw set and all her chins trembling, Aunt Alice stormed back to her cottage.

  ‘Damn the creature!’ she yelled, as the front door smashed into the frame once more. Even though she had not yet met Mrs Cooper, she had built up a violent dislike towards her. ‘The audacity,’ she raged, ‘the sheer –’

  An envelope on the floor suddenly caught her eye; it must have been stuck in the letter-box and her slamming of the door had sent it fluttering on to the carpet.

  The letter was addressed to her but she did not recognise the confident, flowing script. Curiously, she opened the envelope and raised her eyebrows as she read its contents.

  Dearest Miss Boston,

  I hope you will not think this letter intrusive, but I have heard so many interesting and curious things about you and as yet we have not been introduced. You must be the one person I have not met. Everybody is so welcoming in this amusing little town of yours, I feel quite at home already. Would you do me the honour of joining myself and a few friends for tea this afternoon, say a quarter to four?

  Sincerely yours

  Rowena Cooper

  ‘Good gracious,’ muttered Miss Boston in surprise, ‘a most peculiar invitation, to be sure.’ She read it again and exclaimed, ‘What does she mean, “interesting and curious things”? She makes me sound like a pet monkey.’ The more she studied the letter the more incredulous she became. ‘The “few friends” must be the rest of the ladies’ circle, yet she mentions them as though they were strangers to me.’ Aunt Alice crushed the piece of paper in her hands. ‘I’ve a good mind not to go! That will show her – tiresome woman!’

  At half past three, Miss Boston’s cloaked figure trundled up Abbey Lane. The desire to see Mrs Cooper for herself and the knowledge that her absence would be grist to the mills of certain tongues, had conquered her resolve not to go.

  The dark bulk of The Hawes reared before her and the old lady held her breath in astonishment. It could have been a different house, so drastic was the change. The jungle of weeds and nettles had been transformed into a neat garden and the ground-floor window, which only last week was boarded up, had been replaced and now bore the words ‘Cooper’s Antiques’, in large red and gold letters. Miss Boston peered through it and blinked in bewilderment. Inside, all looked immaculate; various well-polished tables and chairs, old paintings and silverware were on display. She could not understand how Mrs Cooper had managed it all in such a short time.

  ‘Alice,’ an awkward voice called. It was Edith Wethers, waving half-heartedly from the rear of the house. ‘This way,’ she mumbled into her tissue. It was the most Miss Wethers had said to her since the seance.

  Miss Boston trotted down the path to the kitchen, where she noticed that the door had been replaced too. Edith shuffled back inside. ‘Rowena’s busy with the tea upstairs,’ she explained dutifully, ‘so she sent me down to guide you in – the front’s for business only. This way.’

  Aunt Alice stepped over the shining linoleum; the kitchen was dazzlingly unreal. Pans of decreasing size gleamed from hooks on the wall and everything was spotless.

  ‘Except for this, all the ground floor is the shop and Rowena lives upstairs,’ Miss Wethers prattled as she led her into the hall.

  Miss Boston shuddered as she followed Edith up the stairs. There was something creepy about the place; everything was in order and yet . . .

  They had reached the landing and Miss Wethers pushed open the door of what had once been a bedroom. ‘Here she is, Rowena,’ the postmistress declared. ‘Alice Boston.’

  The old lady entered the room. It had been tastefully furnished to serve as a parlour and sitting on the plush armchairs were all the ladies’ circle – and Rowena Cooper.

  She was a striking woman, tall and slim, with short, strawberry-blonde hair and pale, almost translucent skin. Late forties to early fifties, Aunt Alice guessed. She wore a loose purple sweater with black slacks, her feet were bare and the toenails painted a garish pillar-box red.

  ‘Delighted,’ Mrs Cooper cooed, rising from her seat and stretching out her arms theatrically. ‘At last we meet. I feel we shall be such friends, you and I.’

  Aunt Alice managed a smile, although she instantly disliked this gushing woman. ‘That would be . . . lovely,’ she found herself saying.

  ‘Marvellous,’ breathed Mrs Cooper. She pressed her hands together as though in prayer, then placed her two forefingers between her teeth as she studied Miss Boston. ‘You’re such a darling antique,’ she said, with a laugh in her voice.

  The old lady stared at her incredulously. Nobody had ever called her that before. She unwrapped her scarf. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she asked.

  Mrs Cooper rushed forward, her bare feet padding over the swirling blue carpet. ‘Do let me take your things,’ she begged. ‘What a quaint cloak! I had no idea people still wore these – how funny and twee.’

  Miss Boston looked round at her friends for support. Prudence leaned back in her chair and shook her head with disgust – she hated silly women. Tilly Droon was on the sofa next to Mrs Banbury-Scott, absorbed in a book on the psychology of cats which Mrs Cooper had lent her. Mrs Banbury-Scott was still ignoring Aunt Alice and pointedly diverted her attention towards a mouth-watering array of goodies on the coffee table. Her fat ringed fingers hovered over the meringues, but swooped down on the cream cakes and snatched up a chocolate eclair. Edith Wethers sidled past Rowena, drinking in her words as she squeezed by, and sat as far away from the cat-haired Miss Droon as she could manage.

  ‘You must call me Rowena,’ Mrs Cooper oozed to Miss Boston as she hung up the old lady’s hat and cloak, ‘and I shall call you Alice. Do sit down and have some tea.’ Her voice was level and precise, breaking into little girlish laughs now and then which, to Miss Boston’s ears, sounded false and strangely chilling. Nevertheless, she did as she was bid and took up the cup provided.

  ‘Dora was just telling me about her delicious house,’ Rowena drooled in an envious tone. ‘Do continue, please. I long to know everything there is to know.’ There were no seats free, so she sat on the arm of the sofa and rested her chin on her hand, whilst playing with an amethyst ring on her finger.

  Mrs Banbury-Scott patted the corners of her mouth and gave a little amused cough. ‘My Bobo left it to me,’ she said thickly, as her voice was still clogged with chocolate. ‘He was my second hubby, you know. It had been in his family for years, one of the oldest round here.’

  Rowena shivered ecstatically. ‘Sounds gorgeous. How I’ve always wanted a house like that – you must invite me round to see it some time.’

  Miss Boston let the flow of conversation wash over her. She drank her tea quietly and exchanged despairing glances with Prudence; both longed for the ordeal to be over. Rowena and Mrs Banbury-Scott dominated the talk, the one sham
elessly flattering the other.

  ‘You must tell me who does your hair,’ Rowena treacled. ‘That peach tint suits you so well.’

  Mrs Banbury-Scott fluttered her false eyelashes and giggled coyly as she reached for another eclair.

  ‘Do you like the chocolate on those?’ Rowena asked. ‘I must admit I’m a real chocoholic too. Sometimes I think I’ve got cocoa in my veins instead of blood.’ She waved her fingers excitedly and cried. ‘Don’t move, I must let you have one of these. Excuse me a moment, everyone.’ Mrs Cooper slipped out of the room.

  When she had gone Miss Boston let out a great sigh. ‘Preposterous!’ she snorted indignantly.

  Miss Wethers sniffed and turned her head to one side. ‘Well, I think she’s very nice,’ she observed acidly.

  ‘So warm, so friendly,’ added Mrs Banbury-Scott. ‘What do you think, Tilly?’

  Miss Droon dragged her eyes away from the book and peered at them over her thick glasses. ‘Seems pleasant enough,’ she replied mildly. ‘Done wonders with this place.’

  Prudence was staring into space. There it was again, that strange feeling. Try as she might she could not define her suspicions, but in the back of her mind, a little whisper of disquiet was nagging at her.

  ‘Here we are.’ Rowena came bursting back into the room, carrying a small gold cardboard box. ‘I have a friend in Belgium,’ she explained, ‘who sends me these, knowing my passion for them.’

  She handed the box to Mrs Banbury-Scott. The fat pig-woman took it greedily and peered inside.

  ‘Handmade chocolates,’ Rowena informed the others. ‘Frightfully expensive but absolutely heavenly. Do help yourselves.’ She hesitated and looked at Mrs Joyster. ‘Prudy, I do believe you are staring. Is there something the matter?’