The Whitby Witches 1 - The Whitby Witches

by Robin Jarvis

  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 here this 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, throwing 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.'

  10 - 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 they were 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. T'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 hoped 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.'

  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.

  'It's 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 the
n 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.