by Robin Jarvis
The button eyes opened again and the smile returned. ‘I don’t think I really understood what she was trying to tell me back then, but it was as if she were preparing me. Only now do I understand fully. I told you of the records, Miss Boston. Our files date back to 1738 and in the earliest of them – a tattered old thing it is, too – a Sister Bridget is mentioned.’
‘But surely it cannot be the same woman?’
‘I am certain that it is,’ the nun said firmly. ‘I now know the whole of her tragic story.’ She shook herself and rose from her seat. ‘Come, then,’ she said, ‘let us see if we can find her.’
She led Miss Boston out of her office and through the refectory hall, then into a corridor which smelled of floor polish. There were many doors on either side of the passage and these led to the small bare cells of the sisters.
When they reached one of the doors, the Mother Superior halted and raised her hand to knock. ‘This is the cell of Sister Bridget,’ she explained.
Miss Boston put her hands behind her back and waited for her to tap on the door. But instead the nun said, ‘Perhaps I have erred in taking her in again, but I did what I thought was best.’ She looked steadily at Aunt Alice. ‘Are we not all creatures of God?’ she asked.
‘Indeed we are,’ said Miss Boston gently, ‘and I’m sure it was the only Christian thing to do.’
The Mother Superior gave a weak laugh. ‘So now I am her guardian, like all those before me.’
Miss Boston rubbed her chin thoughtfully. ‘Do you know why she has returned?’
The small woman seemed about to speak but she checked herself. ‘That you must ask her,’ she said and raised her hand once more. She knocked and entered the room beyond.
‘Its all right, Sister,’ she said reassuringly to the figure in white who backed away, startled. ‘There’s someone here who would like a word with you, that’s all.’
The novice looked fearfully over the Mother Superior’s shoulder to see who the visitor was. When she saw that it was only an old lady, she relaxed and the hunted look left her face.
Miss Boston entered the room. It was so small that three of them were quite squashed inside it. It contained the absolute minimum of comforts: a bed, a wooden chair and a table. There was a Bible open on the table and Aunt Alice cast her eyes over the passage Sister Bridget had been reading.
‘And God created the great whales and every living and moving creature which the waters brought forth, according to their kinds, and every winged fowl according to its kind. And God saw that it was good.’
‘Shall I leave you two alone?’ asked the Mother Superior.
The novice glanced at Miss Boston curiously and then nodded.
‘Very well then, I’ll be just outside.’
The door closed.
Miss Boston smiled. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced,’ she said. ‘I know that you are called Sister Bridget. My name is Alice Boston – delighted to meet you.’
The novice did not respond. She eyed the stranger doubtfully then sat down, motioning for the old lady to do the same.
Miss Boston perched on the hard bed. The woman was obviously still very unsure of her, but then the feeling was mutual. Now that they were alone she looked at the novice with undisguised interest and realised just how strange she actually was. Those almond-shaped eyes glittered like nothing she had ever seen before and the curiously wide mouth was hardly human. But that was not all. Aunt Alice blinked and took a second look. A faint green light surrounded the woman, so pale that at first she thought it was her imagination. No, it was definitely there – for those who could see.
‘May I ask you some questions?’ she inquired politely.
There was no reply; the novice merely stared dumbly at her.
It would take more than that, however, to put Miss Boston off. She cleared her throat. ‘I think I know who you are,’ she said.
The woman made no answer.
‘I should like to know why you have come back to Whitby after all this time,’ continued the old lady, ‘and I should also like to know what Rowena Cooper has said to you.’
Again there was nothing, but the novice had tensed on hearing that name.
‘You see,’ Miss Boston carried on, ‘I believe you know who she really is and what she is looking for – she has come to Whitby to find something, hasn’t she? Would that be the same thing you are seeking? I hope you are not planning to help her.’ She leaned forward and the loose flesh under her chin quivered with passion. ‘Rowena is a dangerous woman,’ she said. ‘Two of my friends are already dead. If there is anything you can tell me which will prove her guilt, you cannot withhold it. Rowena must be stopped before anyone else perishes!’
The novice lowered her eyes. ‘I cannot help you,’ she said quietly.
‘There is no such word as “cannot”,’ Aunt Alice retorted. ‘Say what you mean, tell me that you will not! Let me hear you condemn another poor soul to Rowena’s cruelty.’
The novice shrank back from the force of the old lady’s outburst. Her whole frame shook with fear and she hid her face. ‘I cannot help you,’ she wailed.
Miss Boston regained her self control and puffed out her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ she apologised, ‘I did not mean to frighten you.’ She realised that further conversation was useless; the woman was too afraid to talk. Wearily she crossed to the door. ‘I hope you can live with yourself when all is done,’ she said.
In the corridor, the Mother Superior asked nervously, ‘Did she tell you what you wanted?’
‘No, she told me nothing.’
‘I am sorry,’ she said earnestly. ‘Perhaps it has all got out of hand. Things are not as simple as once they were. I’m terribly afraid for Sister Bridget – the danger she faces increases every day. The good Lord alone knows how she managed to return here without being discovered, the poor creature.’
Miss Boston slung her scarf around her neck. ‘I fear that there are many in danger because of her refusal to speak. I don’t know what I am to do now. There is evil at work in this town and it is steadily growing in strength.’
The Mother Superior clasped her hands together. ‘God go with you,’ she said.
Aunt Alice received the blessing gravely. ‘I believe I may need all the guidance He can give,’ she said.
She was not under the chair, nor hiding on top of the wardrobe as she sometimes did. She was not even in the airing cupboard. Miss Droon was exasperated with the bothersome animal and threw Binky down in disgust. It had happened again. Eurydice was missing.
Tilly had only nipped to the post office to have a word with Edith, but unfortunately one of the windows in the kitchen had been left open. Miss Droon knew at once that Eurydice had made a dash for it, but that did not stop her turning the house upside down just in case.
Her little sitting room was a hopeless wreck, the threadbare cushions had been yanked off the chairs, the contents of the cupboards were strewn over the carpet and the tall pile of wildlife magazines which had once towered in the corner now resembled a colourful volcano.
The rest of Miss Droon’s menagerie knew enough to get out of her way when this frenzied panic seized her. Under the table cowered a dozen felines, their squabbles momentarily forgotten. Their green and golden eyes watched the whiskered woman dart in and out until, finally, she threw herself at the cushionless couch.
From the upstairs bedroom, pathetic little mews wailed.
‘Oh, the poor darlings,’ cried Tilly, ‘how could she leave them again?’
The truth of the matter was that Eurydice would have needed the nose of a tracker dog to find out where her newest offspring were. Tilly was continually moving them. Either it was too cold in the kitchen at night or she was afraid of jealous attacks from the others if they were left unsupervised in the sitting room. The poor, bewildered kittens had seen every inch of her poky house by now and Eurydice had given up trying to discover where they had been deposited. Every time she got out of the basket to have
a drink or something to eat, Miss Droon came along and whisked it away.
Now the kittens were in the bedroom and, in her frantic search for their mother, Tilly had completely forgotten about them.
‘All God’s little fishes!’ she cried as she galumphed up the stairs to rescue the little dears from their loneliness.
The small, furry bundles huddled together in the basket when the bedroom door flew open and the Droon whirlwind gusted in. She scooped up the kittens in her arms and rubbed her furry cheeks against their little bodies.
‘There, there,’ she said dotingly, ‘don’t you worry now, Aunt Tilly’s here.’ After a few minutes of her suffocating cuddles she returned them to the basket and decided it ought to be moved downstairs once more.
The kittens peered dizzily over the side of the basket as she carried it down to the kitchen. ‘You must be starving, poor darlings,’ Miss Droon purred at them. She heated some milk in a saucepan and waited for it to cool. Then she rummaged in a drawer for an old pipette which she used to feed them in these emergencies.
It was a long, laborious business and most of the milk went everywhere except in the kittens’ mouths, but in the end they seemed satisfied enough. Her inept feeding technique had exhausted them, and one by one they fell asleep.
Miss Droon was pleased with herself. ‘That’s right, darlings,’ she whispered. ‘You get forty winks, my poppets.’
She eyed the basket uncertainly. Perhaps it would be warmer in the bedroom after all. Before she could make up her mind, she became aware of a faint scratching sound. It was coming from the front door and with a scowl Miss Droon strode into the hall – she knew exactly what that noise was.
She opened the door and sure enough, there was Eurydice.
‘You wicked thing!’ Tilly exclaimed. ‘Just where have you been?’
The three-legged cat darted between her feet and ran into the sitting room.
‘Oh no, you don’t, my girl,’ blustered Miss Droon. ‘You don’t get off that easily. I’ve looked high and low for you.’
Eurydice leapt into one of the open cupboards and curled round with her back to the world. She was carrying something in her mouth and now she put it down to have a good sniff and inspection. What an afternoon it had been; she had got no peace anywhere. Even her favourite refuge was no longer safe, for the smell of dog was strong there. Still at least she had managed to find this intriguing little titbit.
‘Got you! You little madam!’ Miss Droon’s strong hands closed about her and she pulled the cat out of the cupboard.
Eurydice mewed in protest but Miss Droon took no notice.
‘You bad girl!’ she scolded. ‘It’s time you lived up to your responsibilities. From now on, I’m going to lock you in my room with your babies.’
She began taking the squirming cat out into the hall, but then she noticed the strange object that had fallen to the floor.
‘What’s this?’ she murmured, stooping to pick it up. Eurydice’s trophy was extremely unusual. It appeared to be a weirdly shaped piece of wood and parchment that had been dipped in wax at one end and set in a small pewter holder at the other. The whole thing was very small and light. Miss Droon examined it thoughtfully. She assumed that the wooden part was a carving of some kind that had been covered in parchment, for some reason, and perhaps had held a candle. Now though, it was all a mangled mess, except for the ring of metal fixed round the base. Hammered into that were esoteric symbols and hieroglyphs that made up a bizarre pattern.
She glared accusingly at the cat under her arm. ‘Where did you find this, you naughty girl?’ she demanded. Of course there was no answer. Suddenly Tilly gave a little shriek. ‘Did you go to Mrs Cooper’s house this afternoon? Is that where you got it?’
What was she to do? The artefact was probably a valuable antique from Mrs Cooper’s shop.
‘Oh, Eurydice,’ she said, ‘just look at it – you’ve spoilt the ruddy thing.’ Miss Droon was very worried; if Rowena noticed that it was missing she might phone the police. ‘I’m an accessory to theft,’ she moaned, and visions of tall policemen knocking on her door flooded through her mind. She would have to go to court; what if they suspected her of training Eurydice especially for crime?
‘Matilda Droon, head of the cat burglars,’ she mumbled idiotically.
Eurydice wriggled to free herself and her desperate movements brought Miss Droon to her senses.
‘I must take this back to Mrs Cooper at once,’ she said to herself. ‘Maybe I could offer to pay for it. I hope it wasn’t too expensive.’
She went into the kitchen, where she stuffed the troublesome cat into the basket with her kittens.
‘I’m going to lock you in my room,’ she said as she pounded up the stairs with her precious cargo. ‘Now you just stay in there and look after your babies.’ Tilly slammed the door. ‘And behave!’ she added.
Wearing her dark blue cat-haired sweater, Miss Droon ran out of the house and made for the hundred and ninety-nine steps.
She hated toiling up the wretched things. Halfway up, she had to rest and sat on one of the benches to regain her breath. The steps were quite busy just now. People in bright anoraks swinging cameras were descending and gave the panting figure on the bench pitying looks as they passed by. It was nearly tea-time and everyone was returning to the main part of town to find a chip-shop or restaurant. Tilly watched them go by, keeping the strange little artefact tucked under her jumper where no one could see it.
When her breather was over, she hauled herself to her feet once more and resumed the uphill slog.
‘Never again,’ she spluttered, once the summit had been reached. ‘That cat will be the death of me.’
Miss Droon trotted through the graveyard and out into the car park behind the abbey. The chill of evening wrapped around her as she hurried along the lane to Rowena’s house.
The Hawes looked blank and dreary as she approached. It was a cheerless, uninviting place and she wondered how Rowena could bear to live in it. She opened the gate and crossed to the large window of the antique shop. With her hand shading her eyes as she pressed against the glass, Miss Droon stared inside.
Nothing stirred; the shop was closed. She pattered round to the kitchen door and knocked loudly, waited for a minute or so, then knocked again.
‘She must be out,’ Miss Droon muttered, disappointedly. She took a few steps back and looked up at the first-floor windows. A movement at one of them caught her attention; a net curtain was swinging back into position as though it had just been released. Was someone in, after all? Were they peeking out to see who had been knocking and stepped back suddenly when she looked up?
Miss Droon stroked her moustache. ‘Should I knock again?’ she wondered. ‘Maybe Rowena was having a nap and I’ve disturbed her.’ She knew how annoying it was to be woken up – Eurydice often jumped on her stomach in the middle of the night. ‘Yes,’ she decided, ‘I’ve come all this way up them perishing steps. She’ll just have to come down.’
She took the object out from beneath her sweater and tutted at the fluff which was now stuck to it. ‘Damn it,’ she cursed.
Expecting Mrs Cooper to open the door at any moment, Miss Droon hastily began picking off the fluff. She was none too gentle at the task, for, as Alice Boston had often said, she really was hamfisted. Then it happened. As she dug her nails into the wax to remove a stubborn hairy bundle, she pulled too hard. There was a brittle ‘snap’ and a large fragment flew over the garden fence.
‘Blast!’ she yelped. ‘What have I done?’ She brought the thing up to her face and lifted the black-rimmed spectacles off her nose to get a better look at the damage.
A wide section of parchment had been torn off, revealing more of the wooden carving beneath. Miss Droon shook her head and groaned. ‘You idiot, Matilda!’ she hissed.
But then the recrimination died in her throat. She peered closer and her eyes opened wide. Tilly nearly screamed as she recognised at last the foul thing in her hand.
> What she had assumed to be carved wood was in fact finger bones and the parchment was dried human skin. The object Eurydice had brought out of Mrs Cooper’s house was the stolen Hand of Glory!
There was very little of it left. Most of the fingers were missing and it was almost unrecognisable. With a sickening shock, Miss Droon realised that it must have been used. She remembered how Mrs Banbury-Scott’s house had been ransacked the night before her death, although no one had heard a thing – this grisly charm was the reason why.
She threw it down in disgust and glanced nervously at the kitchen door. ‘My God,’ she breathed, ‘it was Rowena!’
Tilly ran down the path and out of the gate. Her mind was in a turmoil of fright and confusion. What was she to do? Everything seemed to fall into place now. Rowena’s interest in Mrs Banbury-Scott’s house and the way she had ingratiated herself into the fat woman’s affections all snapped together. Hidden in that old house was something that Rowena was prepared to steal for. Miss Droon gasped. Not only that; Rowena had probably killed Mrs Banbury-Scott after that night of desperate searching had failed to yield what she was after.
Tilly stumbled down the lane, horrified at these sudden revelations. Rowena had even persuaded Mrs Banbury-Scott to change her will; and so she had signed her own death warrant in the process. Just what had been in those special chocolates Rowena had force-fed her with?
‘Damn, damn,’ Tilly wailed. ‘Alice was right all the time!’
At The Hawes a short figure with an evil, leering face slipped out of the kitchen and hurried after the elderly woman. She had reached the steps and was striding down them. ‘I must tell Alice,’ she wheezed to herself, ‘she’ll know what to do.’
Dusk had crept up over Whitby. There was no one about now; all had gone in search of food. In the town the cafés were alive with light and the happy chatter of contented families but the streets were deserted.
