by Robin Jarvis
The Bentley pulled away once more and Ben stared after it. ‘Jen,’ he asked, ‘who was that woman, with the scar?’
‘She doesn’t have a scar, Ben,’ Jennet told him. ‘That was Mrs Cooper.’
The boy said nothing.
The Bentley disappeared around the corner. ‘I suppose they’re off to the funeral,’ said Jennet. ‘Anyway, Ben, have you decided what we are going to do?’
A wide grin split the boy’s face.
The lifeboat museum was contained in one large room. Dominating the whole length of it was one of the old rowing lifeboats and in front of this was a counter that sold souvenirs and booklets. Against the rear wall was a roll-a-penny game and beside that was a finely detailed model of a sinking ship. The mast was broken and the waves pounded over the half-submerged deck. Around the display were yellow newspaper clippings of the time which told the whole story. Ben wished he was better at reading.
Jennet was not really interested in boats, sinking or otherwise. She gazed at the souvenir counter and looked in her pockets for some change to put in the collection box. After that, she was rather bored.
Ben moved round the cases. He longed to be able to make a model ship like one of these. He loved the painstaking detail of the intricate rigging and all the tiny brass fittings, and dawdled past each and every display. Just when he thought he had finished, something else grabbed his attention.
The exhibit was like no other. It was a large stump of wood which, when Ben drew closer, he could see had been carved. But the sculpture was an alarming piece of art. Drowning men floundered amid the wooden waves whilst above them, a capsized lifeboat rode the churning sea. Ben shivered when he saw the terrified faces of the lifeboatmen and he resolved not to get into the little aufwader boat with Hesper again.
‘’Tain’t pretty, is it, lad?’ said a voice.
Ben turned round. A red-faced, stout man with white hair was standing behind him.
‘Know what that is?’ the man asked.
Ben shook his head.
‘It shows the lifeboat disaster of 1861,’ said the stranger. He crouched down to the boy’s level and pointed at the carved curling waves. ‘It were a bitter February,’ his rumbling voice went on. ‘A raw gale had been blasting in for nigh on a week. Three times the lifeboat was launched that day, battling into the storm-mad waters, defying the devil’s tempest. Three times the lifeboat returned, safe with the rescued crews of dying ships.’ The man’s eyes bored into the sculpture as he told the tale, while Ben pictured the horror of it all in his mind.
‘In the early afternoon,’ the man continued, ‘the schooner Merchant was hurled ashore. Tired from their earlier valiant efforts, the lifeboatmen doggedly launched their rescue boat for the fourth time. The gale ravaged down and the sea rose against them. Two great waves collided beneath the boat, overturning it and throwing the crew into the seething waters.’
The man put his hand on Ben’s shoulder and whispered sombrely, ‘Of the thirteen souls that set out in that lifeboat, only one came back.’
It seemed to have grown very cold and Ben rubbed his goosepimply arms. The man chuckled to himself and left the boy to shiver. Ben thought how horrible it must be to feel the freezing water fill your ears and close over your head. He drew his breath in sharply.
Jennet had been watching all of this. She smiled to herself and silently crept up behind her brother. ‘BOO!’ she shouted.
Ben jumped. ‘That’s not funny,’ he yelled. ‘Just you wait till I catch you!’
Jennet ran laughing out of the museum.
Miss Boston sat back in the pew and closed her hymn book. ‘Jerusalem’ had always been a favourite of Prudence’s. She wiped the tear from her eye and bowed her head in silent prayer.
It had been an admirable service and the church was nearly full of those wishing to pay their last respects. The vicar had paid tribute to Mrs Joyster most commendably, mentioning her involvement with the Whitby Heritage Committee and her sterling work for the Literary and Philosophical Society of the Pannett Park Museum.
Miss Boston half-closed her eyes and pondered these remarks. Yes, Prudence had been a leading light of that particular society. She had even had a set of keys to the museum, which she kept on the same ring as those to her house. The very same bunch of keys that the police had been unable to find.
The service was coming to an end and Miss Boston looked at the man sat on her right. It was the incapable nephew, a dull, colourless man of about fifty. He sat bemused and awkward on the front row next to her. He hadn’t really known Prudence and Miss Boston recalled that in her turn she had never been very fond of him.
The rustle of coats and the shuffling of feet soon followed the coffin down the aisle. Into the sunlight the congregation trailed.
Miss Boston took second place behind the nephew and after her came others of the ladies’ circle.
Miss Wethers covered her face with a handkerchief, no doubt fearing that a simple tissue would not stand up to the rigours of her grief. Miss Droon was holding on to her arm and for once the postmistress showed no signs of sneezing. Behind them came the gentle Mr Roper to whom Prudence had been so kind when his beloved Margaret had passed on. With him came the assorted worthies of Whitby: his Worship the Mayor, Doctor Adams, the curator of the Pannett Park Museum and the Chief Inspector of Police. Prudence Joyster had been held in high esteem by many.
A fitful bout of sniffling rose from the rear of the group. Out of the church came Mrs Banbury-Scott, her face hidden by a veil and a sable coat hanging from her shoulders. Her ample bosom heaved under the black drapes of her dress as she wept emotionally into a dainty square of lace. Rowena Cooper was beside her. She wore a neat suit of black silk and projected an image of serene elegance; not a trace of sorrow could be seen on her cool, dispassionate face.
The mourners gathered at the graveside and watched as the coffin was lowered into the ground.
‘Goodbye, Prudence dear,’ whispered Miss Boston softly as the vicar gave the final farewell.
Edith Wethers leaned heavily on Tilly Droon’s arm and wrung her hands. ‘It’s just like when Mother went,’ she uttered miserably.
Miss Droon stuck out her hairy chin and clenched her teeth to keep from crying.
‘Oh, oh, oh,’ whined Mrs Banbury-Scott, ‘it’s too much: I can’t bear it.’ She put a hand to her chest and her lips trembled. It had been a dreadful day for her, starting with waking up from that unpleasantly heavy sleep and discovering that her house had been vandalised. She did not feel at all well; the stress was tremendous and her face looked ill even through the thick layers of make-up.
Doctor Adams shot her a professional glance. He had warned her against coming there that afternoon; she was just not up to it.
Rowena Cooper bent her head and pretended to mourn for Prudence Joyster. She even managed to squeeze out a solitary tear. For the first time that afternoon, Miss Boston managed to get a good look at the woman. She rubbed her eyes and looked again. On Rowena’s cheek something was faintly shimmering. It was like glimpsing a fine beam of light through a very dense fog. Miss Boston squinted at the hazy blur, which seemed to be some sort of scar. She sucked her teeth and nodded to herself; that was no ordinary mark and she knew that nobody else present would be able to see it.
Rowena put her hands together – a deft, graceful movement which allowed her to discreetly check her wristwatch. It would probably not take too much longer, she thought to herself.
Miss Boston cast some earth into the grave. Edith and Tilly did the same, followed by the mayor and the other mourners. Only Mrs Banbury-Scott abstained; she did not feel capable of stooping to pick up some soil. She flapped the lapels of her sable and fanned herself with her handkerchief – why was it so warm suddenly? Beads of sweat appeared through the make-up on her forehead and the powder began to slide off her face. She found it increasingly difficult to breathe and there was an awful tightness in her breast.
‘Help!’ she croaked, throwin
g off her furs and bending double with the pain.
‘Dora!’ cried Rowena smartly. ‘What is it?’
‘Let me through, let me through,’ called Doctor Adams.
Everyone watched him ease the fat woman on to the grass, where he banged her chest with his fist. Aunt Alice shook her head in disbelief as Mrs Banbury-Scott gasped on the ground like a fish out of water. She could not bear to witness any more, and dragged her eyes away. How pale everyone had become – everyone, that is, except Rowena.
Mrs Cooper had stepped back from the main group and was studying the sky as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Aunt Alice scowled, her temper boiling. Rowena gazed down at her shoes and tutted at a smear of mud on them, before looking back to where Doctor Adams fought for Mrs Banbury-Scott’s life.
An expression of genuine concern crossed her face, but that was soon dispelled when Doctor Adams raised his head and said slowly, ‘I’m sorry, she’s gone.’
X
EURYDICE AGAIN
A week had passed since the sudden death of Mrs Banbury-Scott. Surprisingly enough, her demise aroused less emotion than that of Prudence Joyster; business seemed to get in the way of grief. The numerous civic bodies of which she had been a member missed her donations more than herself and the dead woman’s lawyers were kept very busy sorting through her affairs. Mrs Banbury-Scott had no relatives, so the bulk of her estate was to be divided between the various charities she had been fond of. Grice, her handyman and chauffeur, was left a small amount of money in her will, as were her cook and Rachel Turner, the maid. What surprised most people, though, was the revelation that she had left her house and its entire contents to Rowena Cooper.
As soon as she heard this outrageous news, Miss Boston stormed furiously over to Doctor Adams’ surgery, demanding he investigate the cause of death more fully. The doctor chased the old woman out of the building. Mrs Banbury-Scott had died of a heart attack, he shouted at her. There was absolutely nothing suspicious about it whatsoever, considering her age, weight and lack of exercise. But Aunt Alice was undeterred. She strode straight to the police station, announced that Dora had been murdered and asked what were they going to do about it. The police were kind but suggested that she went home and had a nice cup of tea.
The grandfather clock ticked dully in the corner of the parlour. Miss Boston gave it a withering glance and drummed her fingers on the chair arm. It had been a very trying day and she had been sorely tempted to knock the policeman’s helmet off. It was a pity that he had not been wearing one.
She felt useless. First Prudence and now Dora – she was sure that Rowena had had a hand in both deaths. ‘Oh, if only I had proof of some sort,’ she grumbled. ‘But where am I to get it?’
Miss Boston rose and took a book down from one of the shelves; the diary of Howard Joyster. Once again she attempted to read the regimented handwriting and once again she was forced to put it down after several minutes. What a dull, humourless man he had been.
She sat glum and despondent. Perhaps Doctor Adams and the police were right, and she was a silly old woman who ought to mind her own business and not go stirring up trouble. The children had gone out for the day as the past week had been so wet and bleak that they had been forced to stay indoors. She could have done with their company right now. The house was extremely quiet and she could almost feel the silence settle, in layer upon stifling layer.
‘How empty it is without those two,’ she said to herself. ‘I’ve never noticed it before. Strange to think that only a few weeks ago they were not a part of my life and now they belong here more than I do, in some ways.’ The silence was beginning to get on her nerves.
It was quiet as the grave – but that comparison jolted the old lady out of the dismal humour she had been wallowing in.
Pulling herself up smartly, she said, ‘Come on, Alice, apply yourself ! Don’t give in because everyone else tells you to.’ She threw on her hat and cloak once more and strode determinedly out of the front door.
The office of the Mother Superior was rather like that of a headmistress. It was a small room, painted an antiseptic green, containing a wide desk with neat piles of paper arranged on one half and a black wartime telephone dominating the other. An old bakelite radio nestled in one corner beside a large potted plant and on the sill of the tiny window stood a plaster figure of Our Lady.
‘Please sit down,’ the Mother Superior said kindly. She was a small woman, in her late sixties, with button-like eyes that peered through her spectacles with the keenest interest at whomever or whatever she was addressing. The strength of her faith was indomitable. To her, the cares of the world were there to be conquered, her chief weapon for this was often humour. She was one of those rare people with an intense zest for life and she inspired the same in those around her.
Sitting behind the desk, she studied the old lady opposite with benign interest. ‘What can I do for you, Miss Boston?’ her warm voice asked. ‘Is it something spiritual or do you want to offer your services for the jumble sale tomorrow afternoon?’
Aunt Alice settled herself into the seat provided. ‘Er, no, not exactly,’ she said.
The little black buttons peeked through the lenses curiously. For a moment she seemed confused but then her expression changed and she smiled with glee. ‘Marvellous!’ she cried. ‘At long last. I always knew you would take the veil one day. What a glorious nun you will make!’ she clapped her hands together, then said soberly, ‘You have left it rather late, though.’
Miss Boston was never sure when the Mother Superior was joking; she really had a most disconcerting sense of humour sometimes. ‘That isn’t what I came for either,’ she stammered with embarrassment.
The Mother Superior waved an apologetic hand at her. ‘Forgive me,’ she chuckled, ‘couldn’t resist it. Now, tell me what I can do for you.’
‘I was wondering if I might have a word with one of the novices here,’ Miss Boston asked.
‘But of course,’ the Mother Superior replied. ‘That is, if I can find her. Which one is it? If it was Sister Clare or Sister Agnes you were after I’m afraid you will be disappointed, they are visiting the sick in hospital this afternoon.’
Miss Boston gave an awkward cough. This was the difficult part – she had no idea who Jennet had seen on the cliff. ‘No, I don’t think it was either of those two,’ she said slowly.
The Mother Superior smiled at her patiently. ‘Then who? Surely not Sister Frances – nobody ever wants to talk to her, not even me.’
But Miss Boston was in no mood for this whimsey today. ‘I believe you have a novice staying with you who is not of your order,’ she said. ‘Would I be right in assuming she has not been here very long?’
‘I find time a very difficult thing at my age,’ the Mother Superior breathed wistfully. ‘Before I know where I am the year seems to get pulled from under me. I had no idea it was nearly September – it seems only last week we were celebrating Easter.’ She laughed and thumped her hands on the desk. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to help with the jumble sale? The white-elephant stall still has no one to organise it and Sister Frances refuses point-blank to abandon her tombola in favour of the dreadful thing.’
Miss Boston watched her in surprise. Why was she avoiding the question? She asked it again.
The Mother Superior could not ignore it this time. ‘Not been here very long?’ she repeated. ‘I don’t think there is . . .’
‘You must be mistaken,’ snapped Aunt Alice, with force. What was the woman hiding? Did she know something of this business?
All the merriment left the nun’s face; it was useless to pretend any longer. She pushed herself away from the desk and looked at the old lady warily. ‘Yes . . . there is one newly come amongst us,’ she answered in a cautious voice. ‘Sister Bridget.’
‘May I speak with her?’ Miss Boston asked.
There was a pause and the small woman frowned as she solemnly considered the matter. She had not expected this. She had hop
ed her guest would have gone undetected; what if it all reached the ears of the bishop? The Mother Superior looked up to the window as if for inspiration, then, with her hands laced together, she stared at Aunt Alice and said softly, ‘Of course, I cannot forbid you to see Sister Bridget if that is what you wish, but may I know what the matter concerns?’
This was difficult. Miss Boston could hardly tell her what she suspected – and yet maybe the Mother Superior knew more about it than she did. ‘Shall I just say that it is of the gravest importance,’ she said. ‘I hope I shall not have to go to a higher authority.’
A look of understanding passed between them and the other sighed. ‘How much do you know of this?’
‘A little,’ answered Miss Boston, ‘but I have also guessed a great deal.’
The nun laid her hands on the table. ‘Let me explain before you confront her,’ she said. ‘Sister Bridget is a timid, frightened creature. I took her in because she needed my help – she has always needed our help.’
‘Always? Has she been here before?’
‘Sister Bridget once lived in this convent, though long before I came here.’
‘But you’ve been here for forty years!’ Miss Boston exclaimed.
‘Yes,’ smiled the small woman, ‘but our records mention her.’ She gazed up at the window again and the soft light fell on her face. ‘I recall that the previous Mother Superior warned me – very insistent she was – and sat me down in this same office to tell me. What an earful I had that day; she was a tough old bird but she had the heart of a saint and I have never forgotten what she said to me.’
She closed her eyes and repeated, word for word, what she had been told all those years ago. ‘There are many wonders in this world, glories and miracles abound, yet there are also the unfortunate ones: the sick, the poor and those who need our help. Surely these souls deserve our greatest love and care. It is your sworn duty to give mercy and protection to any creature, however strange the circumstance.’
