The Whitby Witches 1 - The Whitby Witches

by Robin Jarvis

  'I can't do no more in there,' Rachel said.

  Mrs Rigpath sniffed impatiently. 'Grice has been gone a while, he ought to be back with her by now. How much longer do we have to stand here?'

  Rachel sighed. 'I've been dreadin' this, you know. I'm not sure if I like that Mrs Cooper—don't know what the Madam saw in her.'

  Ayleen puffed out her chest and folded her arms. 'I'll give her three weeks,' she said dryly. 'If she hasn't shaped up by then. I'm off. I'll have enough to retire on, what with the money I was left.'

  'You're lucky—I didn't get very much.'

  'I'm not lucky,' Mrs Rigpath replied bitterly. 'Just look at me: fifty-three years old, no husband, no kiddies and no home to call me own—some luck that is.'

  Rachel had often wondered how someone with Mrs Rigpath's talent for making delicious desserts could be so utterly sour for most of the time. Such questions had to wait, however, for at that moment both women heard the sound of tyres on gravel.

  'About time,' grumbled Ayleen. 'S'pose we'd better get on with it.'

  The Bentley pulled up outside the great, grey house and Grice dutifully stepped out to open the door for its passenger. Rowena Cooper wore one of the widest smiles he had ever seen. She had been grinning on the back seat all the way from The Hawes.

  'Thank you,' the woman murmured as he helped her out. For a moment Rowena stood quite still. At last, she thought to herself, this ugly pile of stone belongs to me. With a satisfied smirk, she crossed to the front door, where her new staff were waiting to greet her.

  'Welcome, Mrs Cooper,' began Rachel cheerfully. Rowena eyed both her and Mrs Rigpath icily. 'I wish to see you all in the morning room in ten minutes' time,' she said. And with that she pushed past them and strode down the hall.

  Mrs Rigpath stared after her, open-mouthed. 'Well, I never did!' she exclaimed. 'I might not give her those three weeks' trial after all.'

  'Expect she's nervous,' said Rachel. 'Probably never had staff before.'

  Grice slammed the door of the Bentley and came indoors. 'Bad accident down by the cliffs,' he told them. 'Ambulance and police were there.'

  'What happened?' asked Rachel.

  'That Miss Droon—found her body this mornin', they did. Seems she fell off the edge some time last night.'

  'Poor soul,' said Rachel sadly. 'She was dotty about them cats of hers, wasn't she? I wonder what'll happen to them now.'

  Mrs Rigpath, however, was considering a different mystery. 'Didn't Mrs Cooper bring no luggage, then?' she asked curiously. 'Is she not stopping tonight?'

  In the morning room, Rowena positioned herself in front of the covered fireplace and glanced round. 'Somewhere here,' she whispered. 'I know it has to be here! I don't care if I have to demolish this vile place and sift through the rubble, I must have it. Somewhere in this disgusting relic, concealed for centuries from prying eyes—'

  'Excuse me, Mrs Cooper.'

  Rowena turned round, startled. 'Yes?'

  Rachel smiled at her from the doorway. 'Ten minutes have gone. Madam.'

  Rowena nodded coldly. 'Come in.'

  The three staff filed into the morning room.

  Rowena began loftily, 'What I have to say is merely this: I'm afraid that I have decided against keeping you all on. Now, I know that you were all provided for in dear Dora's will, so this news will be no real blow—I'm sure you will all manage quite admirably.'

  There was a stunned silence. Rachel stared round at the room she had spent the past few days clearing up and shook her head in disbelief. Grice rubbed his frowning forehead and muttered to himself, whilst Mrs Rigpath bristled and her chest inflated as she prepared to give vent to a tirade of abuse and a mighty dollop of her mind. Before she could let loose one single syllable, however, Rowena raised a hand and delivered another devastating piece of news.

  'Naturally I shall not expect you to remain here. You must vacate your rooms by tomorrow afternoon, at the latest. Now you may go.'

  'Tomorrow?' spluttered Rachel, and Mrs Rigpath was too shocked even to protest.

  'I believe that is reasonable,' said Rowena. 'After all, I have no contract with you to uphold. Now I think you had better start packing. Good day.'

  Later that afternoon, Rachel struggled down the stairs with her suitcases. She wasn't going to spend another minute in that house. Mrs Rigpath was still in her room, wondering where she could go, and Grice was sitting in the shed, dolefully gazing at the gleaming tools he must leave behind.

  The cellars of the old house were filled with the accumulated junk of centuries: armchairs, lampshades, picture frames, empty tea chests, bundles of newspapers bound with string, hideous jugs, cracked vases, a mouldy leather flying helmet complete with goggles, a metal gauntlet from a suit of armour, and many other bits of useless rubbish.

  A naked light-bulb glared from the vaulted ceiling, throwing stark shadows on to the walls, but Rowena had no time to notice them. With a torch in her hand, she peered into the dark corners and pulled boxes and papers roughly aside.

  Cobwebs netted her short blonde hair and the disturbed dust glued itself to the fine, sticky strands. The grime from years of neglect streaked down her face as she drew her grubby hands over her brow. Insects who had never seen the light fled in terror as the fierce torch beam shone into their dark territories. Brittle beetle backs crunched beneath Rowena's careless feet as she waded deeper into the junk mounds, swearing and shrieking with impatience.

  'Where is it?' she screamed. 'Where?'

  With unrelenting violence she flung everything aside, then began tapping the walls with the handle of her torch. For an hour she paced about the cellar, picking at the bricks with her broken fingernails and clawing at the mortar to see if there were any hidden doors or passageways.

  When she was satisfied that the walls and floors were solid and free of any secret openings, Rowena stomped up the cellar steps. 'It must be somewhere here!' she growled.

  In a wild fit of temper, she threw herself against the panelled walls of the hall and snatched down the tapestries and pictures which were hiding the damage from the break-in. She scraped her fingers down the splintered wood and peered into the space between it and the bricks beyond. But the holes were too few and too small for her to see properly.

  'If I have to demolish the vile place...' Her own words returned to haunt her and she dashed outside to the shed.

  The unquestionable kingdom of Grice was an outbuilding situated against the rear wall of the garden. It was a small stone hut, probably as old as the house itself, with one narrow window. The solid oak door was hung on rusting iron hinges and needed a good shove to open.

  Grice was still there when Rowena forced her way in. She stared at him for a moment as if she had forgotten there was anyone in the world apart from herself. And in his turn Grice stared at her: she looked as though she had been having a dust bath.

  'Axe,' she demanded. 'Give me an axe.'

  The ex-handyman had never lent his beloved tools to anyone before, but then, they didn't really belong to him any more. Garden shears, hammers and rakes hung, clean and polished, in tidy rows on the plastered walls. Every conceivable implement was there and he took a great pride in keeping them all in mint condition.

  'What fer you want an axe?' he asked slowly.

  Rowena drew herself up. 'That is none of your concern,' she snarled. 'Give it to me!'

  Grice removed the gleaming axe from its hook on the wall and passed it over in silence. Rowena snatched at it and charged back to the house. With a crazed yell she brought the axe blade crashing down into the oak panels. Fragments of splitting wood filled the air as she hewed and chopped. A mad light was in her eyes and she was consumed by the desire to destroy.

  'It will be mine!' she cried. 'It must be mine!'

  In her room, Mrs Rigpath the cook heard the terrible noise and changed her mind about not wanting to leave. 'Perhaps it is for the best after all,' she told herself. 'That Cooper woman's definitely round the twist.'
/>   Ben stared out of his bedroom window. It looked down on to Aunt Alice's little garden, where a fat blackbird was stealing the raspberries that grew against the cottage wall. Beyond, the steep grassy slope of the cliffside reared up over the rooftops, and melted into the afternoon haze.

  The boy rolled over on to his bed and glared at the primroses on the wallpaper. He was bored and in a foul mood. Ever since that night on the beach when the evil aufwader had attacked him, Ben had been forbidden to go out after dark. Of course he had complained and protested—what about Nelda and Hesper? He had an important part to play in the hunt for the moonkelp for, according to Nelda's vision, without him they would be unable to find it. Miss Boston, however, had stood firm on this; on no account was he to leave the house at night—it was far too dangerous out there now.

  So Ben had suffered indoors all this time, without even a chance to tell Nelda about her father. In the daytime he had roamed along the shore and searched on the cliff-top, but had not been able to find her. It was so unfair; they probably thought he was deliberately avoiding them.

  Miserably, Ben sucked his top lip. At first he had appealed to Jennet to help him slip out, but that had been a big mistake, for she had immediately told Aunt Alice. After that they doubled their efforts to keep him indoors at night, making sure that when he went to bed he stayed safely in his room. It was like being a prisoner when the evening fell and he hated it. He could not even go to the toilet without one of his jailers keeping an ear open.

  He pushed his hand under the pillow and fished out the ammonite he had found. Idly he turned it over in his fingers. 'Poor Nelda,' he murmured. 'She must think I don't care. What if the moonkelp has bloomed whilst I've been stuck in here? They'll never get the curse lifted if that's happened.'

  The door to his room opened and Jennet looked in. 'Aunt Alice isn't back yet,' she told him, 'so what do you want for tea?'

  Ben shrugged. 'Nothin',' he mumbled.

  'Fine by me,' his sister answered. She was fed up with his sulks—he had to learn that he could not go off on his own any more. She closed the door and went downstairs. The boy stuck his tongue out at the closed door and muttered rebelliously to himself.

  Jennet returned to the parlour where she had been reading a book on the history of Whitby. She didn't feel hungry either. It had been a sad, quiet day. They had heard the tragic news about Miss Droon the first thing that morning and Aunt Alice had wept a great deal. Nearly all her friends were gone now and Jennet felt very sorry for her. After a while. Miss Boston went round to see how Edith Wethers was taking the news and they mourned their loss together. Whitby had become a very sad place since the arrival of Rowena Cooper.

  With a sigh. Jennet sat back in the armchair and picked up the book once more. The hours passed slowly. She stifled several yawns and tried to keep awake. The book waded stodgily through names and events over the centuries, from Hilda to Scoresby, Caedmon to Cook, listing them all with dry detail. Wearily she flicked through its pages, skipping over Whitby's whaling days and a horrible account of the lifeboat disaster. A small passage told how the abbey had been damaged in the First World War by two German cruisers that opened fire on the town, but there were no pictures to enliven the dreary text and Jennet's eyelids slid down heavily. Into the subconscious murk of dreams she sank; whales burst out of the sea and exploding shellfire lit the sky.

  With a jolt. Jennet snapped awake. The light outside had failed and the parlour was filled with shadow. She looked at the grandfather clock: she had been asleep for nearly two hours.

  An empty rumble echoed through her stomach and she decided that it was time to eat. 'Ben must be starved,' she tutted as she went into the hall.

  'Do you want your tea now, Ben?' she called up the stairs. There was no reply. 'Stop sulking,' she shouted. 'I'm doing some beans on toast if you're interested.' There was still no sound. Jennet was suddenly suspicious. She ran up to his bedroom and flung open the door. It was empty.

  He must have gone out when I was asleep, she told herself. Just wait till I catch him! But she was more afraid than angry. Somewhere, Ben was alone in the dark.

  Jennet charged down the stairs, plucked her coat off the hanger and dashed out of the front door. She had no idea where Ben could be, but she ran on to the beach and called his name. Only the rush of the incoming tide answered her. The shore was empty of people, so Jennet ran over the bridge to the West Cliff and searched in all the amusement arcades. It was no good—Ben was nowhere to be found.

  The girl left the deafening roar of the amusements and sat on one of the benches at the quayside. The fishing boats bobbed on the black, calm water below and a group of gulls rode the gentle waves. Jennet watched them in despair. What if her brother had met that evil aufwader again? She raised her head to look at the floodlit ruin of the abbey and the squat shape of the church. Then she blinked and looked again; in the cemetery stood a shining white figure whose robes blazed like flames.

  Jennet rose. For a moment the legend of St Hilda flitted through her mind. Aunt Alice had told her that sometimes the bright outline of the abbess could be seen in one of the abbey windows, but this figure was in the churchyard.

  Suddenly Jennet realised that she was looking at the novice up there. Sister Bridget was deliberately standing in front of the arc lights. It did not make any sense; Jennet could not imagine why that timid, frightened woman should draw attention to herself like that.

  The distant, radiant figure stretched out her arms. The glare of the arc lights bounced off her robes and dazzled the girl far below on the quayside.

  'She's beckoning to me,' Jennet murmured in astonishment. 'She wants me to go up there. Perhaps she knows what's happened to Ben.'

  Jennet ran to the bridge and sped over it. She was excited yet afraid, knowing that the novice had left the safety of the convent that night, not to weep at the sea but to speak to her. Maybe it was a warning; perhaps Rowena had threatened her again and let slip something about Ben. Jennet tried to forget the terror she had felt the last time she had gone to that churchyard in the dark. But the image of the hound as it pounced on her was ingrained in her mind and the nearer she drew to the hundred and ninety-nine steps, the clearer that memory became.

  She hurried down Church Street where the usual well-fed tourists were wandering happily before the darkened shop windows—a last stroll to aid their digestion and tire the children. What a pleasant time they were having, blissfully unaware of the evil that haunted this picturesque town by night. Their smiling faces annoyed Jennet. They saw only what they came to see; the sinister side of Whitby did not interest them. Even if they had been disturbed by the chilling cries of the Barguest as it howled into the night, they chose to ignore it and rolled over in their cosy guesthouse beds dreaming of kippers for breakfast.

  Jennet became impatient as she squeezed between the chatting families who idly gabbed and blocked the road. If only they knew, if only they had seen those hellish eyes.

  'Excuse me,' she said, pushing through the crowd. 'Excuse me.'

  It seemed that everyone had decided to pop out that evening and dawdle about in Church Street. Jennet grew anxious. What if the novice could not wait for her?

  A particularly tight knot of people barred her way to the steps. She tried to dodge in between but it was very difficult and she was forced to push quite roughly to get by.

  'Do you mind!' snapped a woman whose heel she had just stepped on.

  Jennet ploughed on oblivious. She wormed and elbowed her way to the steps and just as she began to climb the steps, a hand caught her arm.

  'Where's the fire?' demanded a voice.

  The girl turned round, and there was Aunt Alice. The old lady looked tired, for it had been a long and dismal day for her. Those bird-like eyes were red and swollen, a testament to her grief over Tilly's death. She had spent most of the afternoon with Edith Wethers, then had gone to feed Miss Droon's ravenous cats, and had had an argument with a policeman on the way. Nobody wanted to invest
igate poor Tilly's death—to the police and Doctor Adams she was just another old woman who had missed her footing. Miss Boston had grown very angry and retorted in the doctor's face, 'That's three old women in as many weeks. Doesn't that arouse the slightest suspicion in you, for heaven's sake, you dithering old quack?' Needless to say, she was guided to the door.

  To cool her head and sort out her thoughts she had decided to walk to the cliff before returning home, and that was when she saw Jennet rampaging through the crowd like a bull elephant.

  'Whatever is the matter, Jennet dear?' she asked. 'What's the hurry and where is Benjamin?'

  Jennet was so relieved to see her that she threw her arms about the old lady's neck. 'Ben's missing,' she said quickly. 'I fell asleep and when I woke up, he had gone. I looked everywhere for him—on the beach, in the arcades—and then I saw the novice.'

  'Sister Bridget?'

  'Yes, she's up there now. She was standing right in front of the lights and I'd swear she was beckoning to me.'

  Miss Boston frowned and looked up the steps. 'Most peculiar,' she said. 'I wonder if she has changed her mind? Come, let us see if she can throw any light on Benjamin's whereabouts.'

  Together they began the long, upward climb. The full moon appeared from behind the scudding night clouds and bathed the graveyard in silver. The headstones were edged with the pale, milky light and Jennet wavered on the edge of the cemetery—it looked more ghostly there than ever before. What if the hound appeared again? She gulped and held back; to cross the path and enter that place needed more courage than she thought she possessed. But the plump figure of Aunt Alice trotted on ahead and the sight of her spurred Jennet forward.